Some favored the warmth of fire, while others preferred the certainty of ice. As a born ruler, I've always made sure to utilize both. Fire was reserved for family and relationships, while ice was reserved for politics and the crown. It was a delicate balance, dangerous, but necessary in the life of a queen.

Now, lying curled up with Francis' pillow still on our bed, I found myself devoid of both fire and ice. I was empty; there was no warmth or certainty to heal my heart. I was simply a lost queen with a meaningless crown.

"Mary? Dear, open up," Catherine called from outside the door.

Francis put her up to it: I was sure. I hadn't eaten all day. If it weren't for Catherine's persistence, I had no doubt he would have forced the door open himself by now. But he hasn't—though I still wasn't certain that he wasn't camped outside my room, waiting, while I refused to eat or speak to anyone.

"Dear, being in that room isn't good for you now. You need to heal and be the Queen," she said in a voice that was far more comforting than her usual tenor.

My silence was a louder answer than words: I tried and I failed. It terrified me more than the thought of the impending war and the assasination attempts by my cousin.What if I couldn't heal? What if I was this way forever?

"Mary, I'm coming in," Catherine warned slowly. She was giving me a gift: time to speak, respond, to refuse her.

But it was a kind gift I could not accept. So I ignored her, pulling Francis' pillow closer to my chest, inhaling his soothing scent. You're safe, you're safe, I chanted to myself.

I heard the sound of guards pulling open the door to the chambers, but I didn't look. Instead, I remained curled up in a ball on Francis' side of the bed, imagining warmth and safety. In moments like this, I doubted whether I actually blamed Francis for the "attack," or whether it was a lie to protect me from the truth: I blamed myself.

"Mary?"

Catherine's footsteps carried across the room, but I wouldn't move. I didn't care to.

When she finally reached my side of the bed, the right side, she let out a small gasp and asked, "Is that Francis' pillow?"

My head turned towards her, filled with perplexment. "I can assure you it's not mine."

"I see . . ." she trailed off, staring at the pillow as if it was a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," I suddenly said. Painfully, I released the pillow from my grasp and sat up. "Francis must want his pillow back to sleep on."

"No!" She said too quickly. My eyes raised with confusion. "No," she continued in a calmer voice. "I think Francis would want you to keep it with you. It will make him feel better."

My eyes widened with alarm.

"Better? Is he ill?"

"No, no, child. Francis is alright. His sole malady is his concern for you."

My head bowed under the weight of my guilt, and I sighed.

"I wish he wouldn't worry so much, but perhaps it's caused by own doing. I think I was too harsh yesterday. The things I said . . ." I trailed off in a small voice.

"The things you said were honest. You told him how you felt. There's nothing wrong with that, Mary. Honesty can do a king some good. I should know."

She placed her hand over mine, and as soon she made the mistake, I could read the realization and regret in her eyes. I sharply flinched away from the contact and wrapped my arms tightly around my torso.

"Oh, Mary," she whispered as the tears began to swell in my eyes.

"Don't," I whispered, looking anywhere but her face. "Please," I begged as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

"Space hasn't done you any good has it?" Catherine commented gently, placing a hand on the mattress.

I stared forward with dull eyes. "Being alone makes me think about it more," I admitted. "This room in particular." I looked towards the floor by my bedside. Once again, pain ripped through my chest, and my heart quickened its beat. "I can still see their faces, his face."

Catherine sucked in a sharp breath.

"I can't remember their voices, though. Anything my memories produce is a garbled mess, gibberish." A tear dripped down my cheek, onto my palms that were now tightly clasped together like a rope. "But when I looked into his eyes . . ." I winced, "I knew what he was going to do."

My chest heaved, in and out, as I struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern. My body was choking on the stress of my emotions as if they were an illness.

For once in her life, Catherine didn't speak. She continued to watch me, not with sympathy, but understanding.

"How did you do this?" I cried desperately. I wrapped my hands around my knees and pulled them closely to my chest. "I remember all of it. I can still feel all of it."

"And you will," Catherine said softly. "But the memories will fade with time, and you will feel better, Mary."

"I don't think so," I said in a broken whisper. I released a harsh breath."The worst part was when they clamped a hand over my mouth and pinned me down with their bodies.

"I kicked, and I screamed, and I fought, but it wasn't enough. They didn't care," I said. "They slammed my head against the floor—and in that moment, I wished for nothing more than unconsciousness so I wouldn't have to remember what came next."

"My goodness," Catherine cursed under her breath.

"Before, I thought I blamed Francis because he wasn't there, but now, being in this room . . . I realize the truth. The person I blame is myself."

"Mary?" Catherine said with concern when my eyes unfocused.

"This is my fault." I gasped. Black spots danced across my vision and my heart thudded much too quickly in my chest.

"Mary, look at me."

My head turned towards Catherine's blurred figure, just as my ears started ringing.

"Guards!"

"This is all my fault," I whispered as my vision went black.

The last thing I heard before I collapsed was the sound of my head hitting the mattress and Catherine shouting.

AN: This scene gutted me. Anyone else? I feel like here, Catherine isn't actually a terrible person here.