And just like that, my mood shifts.
Mist is jealous of what she thinks my status is in Midas’s life. I know that now, and I knew that before, but seeing her belly puts things in perspective. Because...how would I feel if I were in her shoes?
This isn’t a normal pregnancy. Mist is going to be giving birth to the child of a king. A king, who, other than keeping her as his royal saddle, doesn’t hold any real care for her.
She’s probably afraid. Of pregnancy in general, of giving birth, of what will happen to her afterward. She will have no control, and I, more than anyone else in the world, understand that.
Mist is going to have Midas’s baby. The man who just struck me, hurt me, left bruises over my body. Sympathy, like a heavy, wet raincloud, drizzles over my mood, saturating it in sorrow for the woman sitting across from me.
It could’ve been me. I could’ve been the one carrying his child, and then what would I have done?
I’d never have been able to get away from him.
Mist’s life has been irrevocably changed forever. She’s now shackled with the master manipulator and reigning narcissist, a man who just showed me he’s not above hurting someone physically.
She thinks Midas’s attention is a good thing. It’s not. It’s more toxic than the jealousy she’s stewing in.
I don’t mean to be staring at her belly all this time while these thoughts flood through me, but I’m so in my head that I don’t notice her glare until Mist slams her teacup down. I drop my gaze to my lap.
“When is Polly coming to visit me next?” Mist asks, clearly unimpressed with her current company.
“You’re lucky she was here a couple of days ago. She can’t be bothered to get out of bed most days.”
I look over at the sudden quiet and notice something passing between the two of them, the irritation from earlier seeming to lessen just a bit. “She needs to stop taking dew.”
“Why don’t you try telling her that?” Rissa lobs back.
Mist grits her teeth before her hand moves to grab a lump of yarn I hadn’t noticed. She puts it on her lap and starts to fiddle with it while shaking her head. “I know dew is a delicacy here in Fifth, but I don’t like it. It makes her...”
Rissa fills in the gap. “Sloppy. Uncaring. Addicted to fucking and nothing else, while emptied of every single thought from her head.”
Mist’s lips pinch, fingers digging harder into the yarn. “Yes.”
I’m certainly not a big fan of Polly, but I don’t like the thought of her or any of the other saddles being addicted to that stuff.
“It’s disgusting how they treat saddles here,” Rissa says, pink growing in her cheeks as though anger is blooming there. “And that drug is just making everyone worse.”
Weighty silence descends between them, only disturbed when Mist begins to knit. The click click click of the needles tapping against each other is the only noise in the room for a few minutes until Rissa sets down her teacup and says, “Polly did mention you were still getting sick in the mornings.”
Mist shrugs. “The servants bring me ginger tea. I’m managing.” She curses under her breath, yanking out the loops she made, a line of frustration drawn between her black brows.
She struggles for a minute before I say, “I could help you knit that.”
Her dark brown eyes surge up, fingers pausing. “Excuse me?”
I tip my head at the yarn she’s currently tangling. “Knitting. I could help if you’d like.”
Disdain drips from her expression. “I don’t want you touching any of my baby’s things.”
The offer drops like a lead weight, and I swallow uncomfortably. “Alright.”
She keeps at it, practically stabbing with the needles, getting more and more frustrated with every sloppy loop. “How do you even know how to knit?” she demands.
“You learn a lot of things to occupy yourself when you’re forced to be sequestered every day of your life.” I speak with more sadness than I mean to, but I can’t help it.
Knitting, sewing, embroidering, harping, reading, napping, drinking. Mindless, pointless things to take up my time. So many days spent without purpose, without joy or heart or life. I may as well have been a statue, should’ve turned myself solid gold and saved Midas the trouble.
“What happened to your face?”