When Prince Joseph comes to our room, I’ve already bathed and am in a nightgown and matching robe.
“Are you feeling sick?” he asks. He quickly crosses the room and puts the back of his hand against my forehead to check for a fever.
“Not like that,” I tell him with a small smile. “My breakfast and lunch did not agree with me.”
He frowns. “Toast is not good any longer?”
Tears well in my eyes. I don’t want to cry, and while I try to stop, he runs his fingers gently down my cheek. I lean into him and let them flow. “Queen Judith made me sit at the table, eat everything she decided I should, and puke into a silver bucket.”
He’s about to say something when I smell her. She must be listening in through the door.
“I’m sure you were still able to absorb some of the nutrients,” he sa
