Chapter 241: The Examination
Chapter 240: The Examination
The door opened after what felt like an eternity, though it had only been a few minutes.
The male physician stepped inside first, his face pale. Behind him came a woman—not with the quiet deference of a servant, nor the polished composure of a court physician.
Her hair was white.
It hung loosely from the edges of a bun that looked as though it had been arranged in haste, strands escaping in every direction, as if she had been mid-task when the summons came and had simply done the best she could with the time she had. Her dress was neat but rumpled, the fabric creased from hours of wear, and it rose high on her neck, covering every inch of skin from collarbone to chin. No jewellery adorned her. No ornament softened her plain appearance.
A leather satchel hung from her shoulder, worn smooth at the strap, the brass buckle tarnished with age.
She crossed the chamber and stopped before the Queen.
"Your Majesty," she said, bowing deeply.
Her voice was husky—extremely so, rough at the edges, as though it had been strained by years of use or illness.
The Queen regarded her with a look that could only be described as disgust.
"Your name?" she asked.
The woman bowed again.
"Kathryn, Your Majesty."
The Queen’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, as though memorizing every detail of her face, her posture, her worn satchel. Then she nodded.
"I trust you understand why you are here."
Kathryn inclined her head.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She then turned to Duke Valenridge and Baron Redwick, bowing to each in turn.
"Your Grace. My Lord."
Neither man spoke.
Kathryn moved to the bedside.
Princess Lyria lay still beneath the blankets, her face pale, her breathing shallow. The cosmetics had been removed, revealing dark circles beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin, and a fine sheen of sweat upon her brow.
Kathryn set her satchel on the bed and began to unfasten the buckle.
"Kathryn," the Queen called out.
Kathryn paused and turned to the Queen.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Surely you ought not be examining the Princess while the Duke and Baron are present, correct?" the Queen asked.
Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was nothing light beneath it.
Duke Valenridge’s lips tilted into a smile.
"Is this another attempt to stall, Your Majesty?" he asked pleasantly.
"I am not stalling," the Queen replied.
"Hopefully, you are not," he said, "but it should be noted that Baron Redwick and I are not leaving this chamber."
Kathryn paused with her hand still on the satchel.
"There is no reason for them to leave, Your Majesty," she said quietly.
"It is against propriety," the Queen said.
The Duke sighed. It was a long, tired sound, heavy with exasperation.
"Again with this word," he muttered.
The Queen’s eyes narrowed.
"Your Grace, you are in the middle of a competition. There are rules you must follow."
"The rules state," he said, "that a suitor candidate may not be alone with a Moon candidate without a chaperone present. Your Majesty is present. The maids are present. There is no violation."
He crossed his arms.
"I am going to remain here so I may know exactly what ails the Princess. The same Princess whom you—who claim to love her—did not know was ill."
The Queen’s eye twitched.
Kathryn cleared her throat. The sound was rough, scraping, but it cut through the tension.
"Your Majesty," she said, "I would like to begin the examination. There is no time to waste."
She looked toward the Duke and Baron Redwick.
"If propriety is so important, then perhaps the gentlemen might face the wall. I shall announce my findings aloud so that all present may hear what I observe."
The Queen ignored Kathryn and focused on the Duke.
"If both of you remain in this chamber," she said slowly, "points shall be deducted from them during the competition."
She looked at each man in turn, expecting a reaction. She expected Baron Redwick to leave—he was, after all, a man of rules. But to her surprise, he spoke up quietly.
"Then let it be so," he said.
And with that, he turned and faced the wall.
Duke Valenridge followed, unhurried, his expression unreadable.
The Queen’s eye twitched again.
Kathryn did not wait for further argument. She nodded once to the male physician, who had been standing near the door, forgotten.
"You may leave," she said.
He bowed and retreated quickly.
Kathryn turned back to the bed.
She opened her satchel and removed a stethoscope—the metal cool and gleaming, the earpieces worn smooth from use. She placed the chest piece against Lyria’s chest and listened, her brow furrowed, her eyes half-closed in concentration.
"The Princess’s heartbeat is irregular," she announced. "Rapid, but weak. There is evidence of strain on the heart."
She moved the stethoscope to Lyria’s back.
"Her breathing is laboured and shallow."
She set the instrument aside and pressed her fingers to Lyria’s wrist, counting the beats carefully.
"The pulse is weak and thready. She is dehydrated."
She placed the back of her hand against Lyria’s forehead.
"The fever is significant. I would estimate it at 103 degrees, perhaps higher."
She lowered the blanket and carefully lifted the hem of Lyria’s shift.
"The Princess is underweight," she said, her voice quieter now. "Significantly so."
A faint crease formed between her brows.
For someone who was a princess, that was not normal.
It should not have been possible in a palace that claimed to provide everything.
She hesitated, a thought forming that she did not want to follow too far.
She did not like where it led.
Her gaze flickered briefly toward the Queen.
Then back to Lyria.
"There is a poorly healed scar on her cheek," she continued. "Possibly from being struck."
"There is also the smell of blood." She added after a pause.
Her expression hardened slightly.
Her gaze shifted toward the maids.
"Was Her Highness injured recently?" she asked.
