The evening wore into night, and the night into morning again. The weather, like the king’s condition, did not change; rain lashed the windows, reducing the world to a smoky grey blur, shapeless and indistinct. Grieving already, Lily thought. The kingdom knew, and wept.
Henry slept, but it was not a quiet sleep; he moved and whispered and whimpered, at times speaking incoherent words. Not me, he said once, and too hard, plaintive and fretful. Once or twice he said his half-brother’s name.
Lily stayed beside him, breathing charms and chants in a voice tired from use, trying to get him to drink, trying to soothe his rest. William had vanished again, and for once so had the near-constant knot of hovering courtiers that stood outside the door like jackals, wondering if the king would die.
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