by Amelia Autin
Water mains and sewer systems hadn’t been affected—anything below ground was apparently still intact—but electricity was out because the power lines had come down. And natural gas had been shut off at the pumping station to prevent fires from breaking out through the ruptured gas lines in the destroyed buildings.
A sudden wailing drew Andre’s attention to a dust-covered woman picking up a small body that had just been pulled from under a beam that had once held up a roof. A body that didn’t move, even though she clutched at it and begged it to answer her. Before he knew it he was there beside her. “Let me take him,” he told the woman kindly, lifting the slight weight into his own arms, quickly feeling for the pulse he knew wasn’t there.
Pity swept through him. Pity for the child, whose eyes were half open but would never see again. And pity for the mother, whose child was forever lost to her. With one hand he closed the eyelids so the child appeared merely to be sleeping. Then he stroked the tousled hair into a semblance of order and brushed the dirt away. “Come,” he said, walking toward the tent the Zakharian Red Cross was already setting up over the bodies laid out in what had once been the town square.
He surrendered his precious burden to a Red Cross aide, then turned to the silently weeping woman behind him. In that moment they weren’t king and subject. They were just two people in the midst of tragedy, and Andre held her for long moments as she wept her heart out in his arms. Finally, when the first torrent of tears abated, he asked her, “What was his name, madam?”
The woman raised her head. “Stepan,” she said brokenly, then dissolved into tears again. “Stepan.”
“A good name for a son,” he told her, wishing there was something more he could do other than hold her. Wishing he had the words to comfort her.
A group of men rushed down the road just then, returning from where they’d been tending their flocks of sheep in the high mountain meadows, obviously starting their return when they’d heard the mountain rumble ominously, followed by the frantic tolling of the bells. A man with a dazed look about him broke away from the others and rushed to where Andre stood with the grieving mother. “Katia?” he asked anxiously. “Katia? Where is Stepan? Where is our son?”
The woman turned from Andre and threw herself into her husband’s arms, weeping anew. Muffled words answered him, and the man’s face contracted over his wife’s head on his shoulder as he grasped the truth he didn’t want to hear. His eyes met Andre’s.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Andre said gently, laying his hand on the man’s other shoulder and squeezing firmly.
The man shuddered once, but kept his emotions in check. “Thank you, Sire,” he said gruffly. He glanced down at his wife. “And thank you for...”
Andre shook his head. “It was nothing. Do not think of that. Just comfort your wife. Stay with her. Be strong for her.” He squeezed the shoulder one more time then removed his hand. “I will pray for your son,” he said sincerely. “And for your wife. And for you.”
The other man blinked back sudden tears. “Thank you, Sire.”
Andre turned away to give the man some privacy in his grief and almost ran into his bodyguard. “Get their names, Damon,” he stated quietly for his bodyguard’s ears alone. There was little enough he could do for the couple. Money to rebuild their house, yes. Money to replace the possessions they’d lost. But that will not bring back their son, he thought sadly. He breathed deeply several times, preparing himself mentally for more bad news. Then he headed back to the ongoing rescue effort.
* * *
The fresh-faced palace maid assigned to look after Juliana and who went by the name of Daphne had been and gone, tidying the room, drawing Juliana’s bath over her protests, asking her what clothes she wanted to wear for the evening and then laying them out, again just ignoring Juliana’s protests with a patient smile. Juliana wasn’t used to being waited on this way.
Yes, she had her personal assistant, Maddie. Maddie was a necessity to deal with fan mail, to run interference, to perform little errands such as taking clothes to and from the dry cleaner’s and to do the hundred and one other things Juliana didn’t have time to do for herself as a general rule. But not to wait on her hand and foot. Not to do things Juliana was perfectly capable of doing for herself, like laying out her own clothes and drawing her own bath.
But all Juliana’s protests were ignored, and Daphne continued doing whatever she felt it necessary to do on Juliana’s behalf, and eventually Juliana had given in with as good grace as she could muster. She had just finished luxuriating in the perfumed bath Daphne had drawn for her after a long day of filming when there was a sudden loud rapping on her door. Juliana pulled on clean underwear and quickly wrapped her robe securely about her, knotting the belt firmly. The rapping continued, more forcefully than before.
“Okay, okay,” she called, but she wasn’t sure if the person on the other side of the door could hear her or not, so she hurried to answer it. Dirk stood there, his face a study in worry.
“Got a minute, babe?” he asked Juliana, not waiting for her assent, just moving into her sitting room.
“Sure. What’s up?” She turned around to face him as he paced.
“I talked to the director and the producer about changing the filming schedule, and they’re willing as long as you agree contractually. In other words, as long as it doesn’t cost the film more money. But it means extending your stay in Zakhar.”
She started to shake her head. No way did she want to stay a minute longer in Zakhar than she absolutely had to. But then she realized Dirk, the ultimate professional, wouldn’t ask her to do this unless he had a really good reason. And the only reason that came to mind was Sabrina. “It’s about Bree, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I want to take her back to the States for treatment. I’ve been talking to her doctors back there, and we’ve just about convinced Bree chemo will be safe for her and the babies now that she’s closer to six months along. She’s wavering on the surgery, but I’m working on that. I’ve got scenes to film that don’t involve you—you know I was supposed to stay on after you leave. But if I can accelerate all my scenes into the next two weeks, my part on the movie will be wrapped up and I’ll be free to take Bree back earlier rather than later. But that means the rest of your scenes without me will have to be postponed. Will you do it?”
“You know I will,” Juliana responded without hesitation. “I don’t have another picture lined up—I was going to take a vacation after King’s Ransom, go visit my father. But he’ll understand if I can’t make it when I said I would.”
“Thanks, babe,” he told her, giving her a quick hug and kiss. “I’ll tell the producer. He’ll probably want you to sign something—you know how that goes. I’ll call Marty and give him a heads-up,” he added, referring to their lawyer agent. “I owe you big-time.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she chided him. “I love Bree like a sister. I’d do this in a heartbeat for her, you know that. But even if that wasn’t the case, I owe you far more than a little thing like this.” She put her arms around him and held him tightly. “Think positive, okay? Bree’s going to be fine.” They walked arm in arm toward the door.
Just as Juliana reached for the old-fashioned door latch, a knock sounded on the door. Her heart skipped a beat and all she could think of was Andre. Andre knocking at her door because he’d promised her he’d never use the secret passageway between their bedrooms. Andre... And she was alone in her suite with Dirk, wearing a bathrobe with nothing beneath it but skimpy underwear. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how it might look. I haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself stoutly. But would Andre believe it? Believe her?
Then she shook that thought off. Why do I care? Andre doesn’t believe me anyway. Still, before she opened the door she called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s Maddie,” came the muffled response through the solid oak door.
Juliana let her breath out on a whoosh, and Dirk gave her a knowing look.
“Thought it was him, didn’t you?” he asked, not needing to specify who him was.
With heightened color, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous,” and opened the door. “What is it, Maddie?”
“Oh,” the young woman said as Dirk exited Juliana’s room without saying a word, just a smile and a wave. She watched him walk away, then turned her gaze back to Juliana, taking in the robe and Juliana’s obvious lack of other clothing beneath it. “Oh, I...I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her eyes betrayed what she was imagining.
“Come on in,” Juliana told Maddie, leading her into the sitting room and past the open door to the bedroom, wanting her to see the bed completely made up, nothing in the room out of place as it would be if she and Dirk had just spent the preceding hour in a passionate frenzy. And the clothes laid out on the bed ready for her to don them. She smiled to herself when Maddie finally relaxed her tense scrutiny of both rooms.
“Dirk wanted to know if I’d agree to change the filming schedule, and I said I would. That means we’ll be staying here longer than originally planned. Will that be a problem for you?” Maddie started to answer, but Juliana added, “If it is, don’t be afraid to tell me. You can always go back ahead of me—I’m fine with that.”
“Oh no!” Maddie shook her head emphatically. “I love it here. I don’t mind staying. Honest.”
Juliana smiled. “Okay, then. I’ll need you to change our flight reservations, but I’m not sure exactly when we’ll be leaving. I have to talk to the producer and the director first, get the revised filming schedule. I’ll let you know when I know.” She changed the subject. “So what did you come here for? What’s up?”
Maddie looked confused for a few seconds, then her confusion cleared. “Oh, I was going to ask if you heard about the landslide.”
“What landslide?”
“There was a terrible landslide in the mountains west of here. I saw it on the news. I mean, I saw the pictures, but I had to ask someone what it all meant because I couldn’t understand the announcer. They told me a whole village was pretty much wiped out. I don’t know how many are dead, but...it’s pretty bad.”
“Oh my God!” Juliana’s hand covered her mouth, and the only thing she could think of was Andre, how devastated he would be by this. These were his people. He would take the loss personally—she knew him well enough to know that. Her first instinct was to seek him out, comfort him however she could, but almost immediately she realized that was ridiculous. Andre didn’t need her. Not for comfort, or for anything else. “Oh my God,” she said again. “Do you know anything more?”
Maddie shook her head. “All I know is what I just told you.”
Juliana hugged Maddie quickly. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know. I probably wouldn’t have found out until tomorrow if you hadn’t come to tell me right away.”
After Maddie left, Juliana stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Her first instinct—to go to Andre—had been suppressed, but her second instinct was to pray. Pray for the villagers who were suffering tonight. And pray for those whose suffering was over, but who left behind grieving family members. The chapel, she thought suddenly. There’s a chapel just downstairs.
She moved swiftly, ignoring the casual outfit she’d planned to wear that was laid out on her bed, searching instead for a dress in the closet. Sleeves, she reminded herself as she rejected first one dress and then another. Nothing sleeveless for church. Maybe that was old-fashioned nowadays—she knew most Americans were a lot more casual in their church attire now—but that’s the way her father had raised her. And besides, Zakhar hadn’t moved with the times the way the United States had. Women still covered their heads in church here, and both men and women still dressed with care for church.
Satisfied with her choice at last, Juliana donned the dress, searched in the dresser for a scarf she could use, then hurried out. Her feet skimmed down the steps of the Grand Staircase, her hand just lightly touching the gilded handrail. She knew where the chapel was on the main floor, in the older part of the palace. She’d been there before when she was younger, but never like this. Never with a desire to alleviate suffering with prayer.
The chapel door was open, and Juliana checked on the threshold, startled. Someone else was already inside. Two someones, actually—both visible in the glow cast by the lit banks of votive candles. One man was kneeling on a prie-dieu in front of the altar railing, his head bowed; the other man was standing a little to one side watching the first man, but not so intently he didn’t see Juliana in the doorway when she paused there.
She slipped the scarf over her head, then slid into the last pew, not wanting to intrude. In the few seconds before she bowed her head in prayer she realized who it was who was here before her. I should have known, she told herself. Where else would he be? Then she resolutely emptied her mind of everything except those she was praying for and began the comforting litany of formal prayers from her childhood.
She didn’t know how long she prayed, just that—at the very end—Andre intruded on her thoughts again. Andre, who would be suffering tonight along with his subjects. So she added him to her prayer list. “Help him in his hour of need, Lord,” she whispered. “Help him find the words to comfort his people. And help him be strong enough to bear this alone. Amen.”
Alone, she thought. So alone in his role as Zakhar’s king. He would comfort others, but who would comfort him? She’d wanted to be that woman all those years ago. Had believed she could be. And if only he’d loved her, she would have been. He wouldn’t be alone now.
For the first time she saw not only what she’d lost eleven years ago, but what he’d lost, too. And in that instant a tiny thaw began. She didn’t recognize it at first. Didn’t realize that her thoughts of Andre at this moment...her prayers for him...and her presence here in the chapel were all reminding her that forgiveness was the path to true healing. She would never heal as long as she refused to forgive Andre. She would always be locked in the bitter past until she let go of her anger and pain, and to do that she needed to forgive him. Her heart would never be free until she did.
Juliana looked up just then and saw Andre rising from his kneeling position in front of the altar. Saw him turn tiredly toward his bodyguard and say something. Saw his bodyguard point in her direction, Andre’s gaze following where he pointed. Their eyes met across the distance. Locked. Held. And in her head she heard the words that had haunted her for eleven years. Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.
But this time they weren’t soft, seductive words. This time they weren’t a sensual lure. This time they were the cry of a man in pain, a man who needed someone to take the crushing weight of kingship from his shoulders for a moment. Just for a moment. A man who could be strong in all the ways he needed to be...if only he could let go and be weak for just a moment. If only he had a woman who believed in him. A woman to lend him her strength for that one moment when he couldn’t be strong on his own. Come to me, Juliana. Come to me.
Loving words. But not lying words. Not anymore.
Chapter 12
Suddenly Juliana realized Andre and his bodyguard were walking briskly toward her up the chapel’s main aisle, and she panicked. She slid from the pew and hurried out the door, her only idea to escape. Because she didn’t know what she would say to him. Didn’t know how she would react if he searched her eyes, not sure she could hide her feelings. She just knew she wasn’t ready to face him, not with everything she’d just come to understand so fresh in her mind.
She raced down the corridor, not caring that her scarf flew off and fluttered to the marble-tiled floor, not caring if anyone saw her running. Not caring if Andre saw her running, either. Then she heard footsteps behind her, not soft like hers; the determined tread of a man who wasn’t about to let her escape.
“Juliana!” he called. “Wait!” He caught her at the foot of the Grand Staircase, snagging her wrist and swinging her around effortlessly to face him. His other hand held the scarf she’d dropped, which h
e must have stopped to pick up. He didn’t say anything, just dropped her wrist so he could loop the scarf around her neck and tie it loosely. Then he stepped back, away from her, and she realized there were eyes everywhere. Not only Andre’s bodyguard, who’d followed his king as he raced to catch her, but the guards on duty at the front door, household employees crossing the vast expanse and who knew all else.
She looked up at him, her heart beating wildly. Not just from running, but from the emotions chasing through her at the sight of him in a way she’d never seen him before. He was dusty, dirty, disheveled. His clothes were a mess and almost certainly ruined, rips and tears that could never be invisibly mended. There was a bad scratch across one cheek that looked as if it needed attention—it had drawn blood. And his hands with their long, straight fingers—all except the pinkies and their odd yet endearing defect—his hands were bruised and grimy, some of the nails broken off at the quick. He’d obviously come directly to the chapel from the site of the landslide, directly from the rescue effort without bothering to stop and clean up.
He whispered her name, and she asked the question foremost in her mind. “How many?”
He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again she saw the undisguised grief in their depths. “Ninety-seven.” He breathed raggedly. “Ninety-seven dead, thirty-two of them children.”
“Oh God,” she whispered, appalled.
“The dead are mostly women and little children. The older children were all in school—the village does not have its own school, thank God, so the schoolchildren are bused into Drago. Most of the men were at work and away from the village when the landslide occurred, but many of them heard the rumble as the mountain let go and hurried back. It was a good thing they did—we needed those extra hands in the rescue effort.”
“How many wounded?” she asked softly.
“Nearly twice as many, some of them seriously. The seriously wounded ones are in hospital. The ones who had only minor injuries, or who were miraculously unharmed, are being housed in the surrounding villages and in Red Cross shelters, as are all the ones who were not there when it happened. The village of Taryna itself was destroyed. Not a single structure is safe to occupy.” His face hardened. “And even if the buildings were safe I would not let anyone stay there. We do not know if the mountain is done.”
