Beatrice sat on the bed in her robe, her back straight, as if every one of her gestures had been rehearsed in advance. A single thought spun in her mind: faster.
I wonder if she'll notice I'm no longer just a log under the sheets? Beatrice thought, feeling a strange mix of excitement and irritation. She was already mentally preparing for the scene to come, to listen patiently to all the "Your Majesty"s, just to get dressed faster... just to get to him faster.
The creak of the door and the silence of the room burst like a bubble. Everything happened almost like clockwork. The maid, that very same one, froze at the threshold: a basin of warm water in her hands, a dreadful mixture of fear and reverence on her face.
-Your... Your Majesty? You... you have awakened?- The words spilled out in a whisper.
Beatrice nodded, as if this were all perfectly normal, though her heart was pounding. She pulled the robe closer around herself, trying to look "queenly." In her mind, she repeated the diary notes: speak less, nod more.
-Yes. Alive and fully aware, - she said shortly.- Come here.
The maid stepped closer, still clutching the basin tightly.
-Your Majesty, may I... call the physician and Lady Arna? You must be examined and...-she faltered, glancing at the nightgown - and dressed properly.
Of course. Queens aren't outpatients at a day hospital. Flashed through Beatrice's mind. She nodded:
-Go. Quickly, please.
The maid froze for a second longer, as if afraid her Queen might vanish again if she blinked. Yet she overcame her fear, abruptly placed the basin down, curtsied so hastily that her cap shifted sideways, and nearly ran out of the room.
The corridor outside filled with hurried voices:
-Fetch the physician!
-Inform the lord steward!
-Wake Lady Arna!
Minutes dragged thickly. Beatrice caught herself tapping her heel against the marble tiles, an old office habit when waiting for an elevator. Calm down. If you want to see the child, you'll have to follow the protocol.
The door swung open again. First came a stout, ruddy-cheeked, silver-haired physician in a dark blue doublet, his eyes gleaming with professional excitement. Behind him followed Lady Arna, a stately woman of about forty, and two lady's maids burdened with boxes of ribbons and laces.
-Your Majesty! -the physician bowed so deeply he disappeared from view for a moment. - By the mercy of the heavens, the Queen is with us once more. May I examine Your Majesty's health? I need to touch you, check your pulse and pupils.
Pulse? What, no suggestion for an ECG? Beatrice mused dryly but offered her wrist. Hopefully my hands aren't ice-cold, otherwise they'll decide a corpse has risen. The physician counted her heartbeat, asked her to open her eyes, and shone a tiny candle into them. Pity they hadn't invented flashlights yet. He nodded:
-Vital strength has returned. It is a miracle.
Vital strength? Amusing, how they translate "still breathing, somehow."
Meanwhile, Lady Arna was already unfolding a silk gown.
-No tight corsets today,-Beatrice said firmly, catching the glance of a maid. -Something lighter: a traveling bodice, a loose skirt. And without ten layers of undergarments.
Lady Arna froze. Her brows crept upward, her lips tightened. She did not protest, but her surprise was obvious: the Queen had never argued over her clothing before.
Get used to it, dear.
-As you wish, Your Majesty. A light reception gown will suit you well.- She turned to the young maid. -Miren, put these away, please.
Ah, so that's your name. Good to know.
While the maids deftly stripped her of the robe and laced a ribbon through a short corset, the physician whispered:
-It is proper to notify His Majesty.
-Fine,- Beatrice replied curtly. -But first to Prince Laer. I must visit the child.
Lady Arna finally tightened the last lace. A light mantilla settled over Beatrice's shoulders, dignified enough to signal her status but not tight across her chest. Formal enough and at last, she could breathe properly.
-Ready,- announced Lady Arna. -Shall we curl your hair?
-Not today.-Time. Time!
She looked at Miren, who was already grabbing a travel cloak, catching Beatrice's gaze: To the small garden? Beatrice nodded - her heart skipping a beat.
I'm about to see the child. Not mine - but mine. What will I say to the nurse? What will I say to him? A baby, he won't care about my voice or my scent. Just let my hands not tremble when I hold him. Just let me not cry.
-Lead the way,- she said aloud, noticing how steady her voice sounded.
The door. The corridor. Steps across marble. A row of ancestral portraits brushed by in her peripheral vision. Like walking through a museum. At the turn, the sharp scent of rose oil spun her head, and her heart thudded louder.
Breathe. You can do this. You survived to reach this door.
She clutched the cloak tighter over her chest. Just don't stop.