Chapter 6 – The Silence Between Pages
The seventeenth morning began with the wool already in place.
I woke, the thin blanket pulled to my chin. My knees were fine now — no ache, just the memory of pressure. I sat up, swung my legs down, felt the balance in my shorter frame, the dress brushing my ankles. My feet touched the cold floor, and I moved without thinking.
I washed my face, the water cold against my skin. I dressed, buttoning the dress quickly. I made the bed, pulling the blanket tight at the corners. I wiped the table with the cloth, moving in small, careful circles. I prepared the tea with less herb and the same tiny spoon of honey, stirring it slowly until the honey dissolved.
I was setting the cup on the tray when the door opened.
She entered.
She stopped at the table, drank the tea, opened her book.
"Come closer."
I stepped forward. She checked the gloves.
"Kneel."
I knelt, placing the wool under my knees.
The stone was cold, but the wool made it bearable.
She read.
I knelt.
There was no pain.
Between pages the silence stretched longer than yesterday. I listened to the pages turning, to the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth, to the soft shift of her gown as she turned. The room felt larger in that quiet, as if the walls had moved back a little.
I kept my breathing even, in through my nose, out through my mouth, slow and steady. I noticed how the air smelled faintly of ink and old paper. I noticed how the light from the window fell across the floor in a pale rectangle, and how that rectangle moved a few inches while she read.
She turned a page.
"You are very still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
The silence between pages grew a little more. I could hear the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the corridor, a sound I hadn't noticed before.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady, no sway at all.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly, smoothing the edges with my palm, placing it exactly where I would find it tomorrow.
The order had been the same.
But today the silence between the pages felt longer.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees felt normal.
My body had learned.
I closed my eyes.
---
The eighteenth morning the wool was under my knees before she entered.
I woke, went through the routine: wash, dress, make the bed, wipe the table, prepare the tea with less herb and the same spoon of honey.
She entered, drank the tea, opened her book.
"Come closer."
I stepped forward. She checked the gloves.
"Kneel."
I knelt on the wool.
There was no pain.
The silence between pages stretched even more. I could hear the distant clink of dishes from the corridor, the muffled footsteps of someone passing by, the soft exhale as she turned a page.
I kept my breathing even. I noticed the way the light on the wall had shifted further across the floor. I noticed the faint scent of wax from the candles.
She turned a page.
"You are very still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
The silence between pages grew a little more. I could feel the wool under my knees, the weight of my body, the straight line of my spine.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the silence between the pages was longer.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees felt normal.
My body had learned.
I closed my eyes.
---
The nineteenth morning the wool was under my knees before she entered.
I woke, went through the routine.
She entered, drank the tea, opened her book.
"Come closer."
I stepped forward. She checked the gloves.
"Kneel."
I knelt on the wool.
There was no pain.
The silence between pages was long enough that I could count my breaths — in… out… in… out… — twenty times without losing my posture. I could hear the faint creak of the wooden chair as she shifted.
I noticed the smell of the old paper more clearly. I noticed the coolness of the air on my cheeks.
She turned a page.
"You are very still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
The silence between pages grew a little more. I could hear the distant sound of a door closing somewhere far away.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the silence between the pages was longer still.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees felt normal.
My body had learned.
I closed my eyes.
---
The twentieth morning the wool was under my knees before she entered.
I woke, went through the routine.
She entered, drank the tea, opened her book.
"Come closer."
I stepped forward. She checked the gloves.
"Kneel."
I knelt on the wool.
There was no pain.
The silence between pages had become a space where I could think. I noticed the way the light shifted on the wall, moving slowly as the sun moved across the sky. I noticed the faint smell of the wool itself, earthy and warm.
I kept my breathing even. I counted my breaths — thirty times — without shifting my weight or moving my hands.
She turned a page.
"You are very still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
The silence between pages grew a little more. I could hear the faint scratch of the pen she sometimes used to mark a page.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the silence between the pages was the longest it had been.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees felt normal.
My body had learned.
I closed my eyes.
---
The twenty-first morning the wool was under my knees before she entered.
I woke, went through the routine.
She entered, drank the tea, opened her book.
"Come closer."
I stepped forward. She checked the gloves.
"Kneel."
I knelt on the wool.
There was no pain.
The silence between pages was the longest yet. It was long enough that I could hear my own heartbeat, slow and steady, beneath the sound of the pages turning.
I noticed the way the light on the wall had moved almost a hand's width. I noticed the faint warmth of the sun on my face.
I kept my breathing even. I counted my breaths — forty times — without moving.
She turned a page.
"You are very still," she said.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good."
She continued reading.
I knelt longer.
The silence between pages grew a little more. I could hear the faint rustle of the pages, the quiet of the room, the steadiness of my own body.
When she closed the book, she said, "Stand."
I stood. My legs were steady.
"Go and rest."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I went to the cot.
She left.
I sat and folded the wool neatly.
The order had been the same.
But today the silence between the pages was the longest yet.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My knees felt normal.
My body had learned.
I closed my eyes.