She wouldn’t like that.
So I stand, sweeping her up into my arms. I cradle her against my shoulder and push through the sea of bodies to the door. Vanessa stands just inside it, arms crossed.
As I pass her, I growl, “Party’s over.”
I bring Sarah straight to our room.
Our room.
And I’m grateful it’s on the third floor, tucked in the corner of the castle—far away from everything and everyone. Sarah’s limp in my arms, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my lips against her forehead. Her glasses are askew, so I take them off. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, rocking her in my arms. Her skin feels cold, so I hold her tighter.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
And I am. More sorry than I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s really saying something.
This is my fault. I brought her here. If it weren’t for me, Sarah never would have heard of Hannibal Lancaster. She’d be in her simple little apartment, in her tiny town, with her books and her friends, surrounded by people who love her, who would never, ever hurt her. She would be happy . . . she would be safe.
If it weren’t for me.
“I’m so sorry.”
With an awful, scraping gasp, she comes awake, arms thrashing—fighting.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” I keep hold of her, smoothing her hair. “You’re all right, it’s me. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”
She stops fighting and hiccups. “H . . . Henry?”
I keep rocking her. “Yes, it’s me. You’re all right.”
Then her arms are pulling me closer, hands grasping, holding on like something is trying to wrench her away. And she’s crying.
No—not crying. Sobbing. Great, heaving, broken sobs that wreck me.
I gather her even closer, rocking and rocking, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, trying to weave myself around her.
“It’s all right, Sarah.”
“I . . . I was so . . . afraid.”
“I know, but I’m here now. I’ve got you.”
“I hate this,” she chokes out, pressing into my neck. “I hate being afraid all the time. I hate it.”
And I can’t think of anything to say. I can’t tell her it’s okay, because it isn’t. It’s all fucked up and wrong. So I give her the only thing I can: me. I let her know she’s not alone.
“I’m afraid too.”
Her breath catches in her throat, and her lips press into my neck.
“What do you mean?”
She hugs me tighter, resting her cheek on my shoulder, and my hands grasp her closer, both of us shaking.
“I’m afraid of wanting to be king, of wanting to do it well,” I rasp out. “Of thinking I might be capable and really trying . . . only to fail. To find out I just don’t measure up. I’m terrified of letting everyone down, that they’ll all get hurt because I’m such a fuck-up. So I don’t bother . . . and it’s all because I’m just too damn scared.”
I run my hand over her hair, petting her, the way my mother used to when I was ill. Her shuddering slowly eases in the quiet that follows my confession. Her tears taper off to a sniffling trickle.
“I believe in you, Henry,” she says so softly. “I believe you can do anything . . . everything you set your mind to, because you care so deeply for everyone you meet. You will be amazing. I know it in my heart and to the bottom of my soul. And I would tell you the truth, I promise—I wouldn’t let you try and fail.”
And it’s miraculous what that does, how her words make me feel. Like I’m a hundred feet tall and a thousand times as strong. Like I’m a superhero or a god.
Like . . . I’m a king.
I run the back of my hand over her cheek. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”
She smiles gently. “You did.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and don’t even think about letting her go. I shift back against the headboard and hold Sarah in my arms, her head on my shoulder, her sweet breath against my neck . . . until she falls asleep.
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH HER?”
When Penelope’s topaz eyes go hard and her chin lifts, I know I’ve chosen exactly the wrong words.
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with her.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I walk past her through the doorway, into the sitting area of the bedroom. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this particular bedroom. It’s covered in shades of rose and fuchsia and pink—nauseatingly girly, as if a Barbie Dreamhouse puked all over it.
Penelope shuts the door and stands in front of me, securing the belt of her robe defensively.