when the elevator doors opened. Marcellus and a guard I didn’t recognize were standing inside. Marcellus stepped forward while the other man remained. “Ophelia, you need to come with us.”
“Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Please come now.”
I put down the knife I was using to cut tomatoes and turned off the burner for the pasta. My heart quickened, but I tried to tell myself that it was nothing. Since the king’s death, however, nothing seemed like nothing anymore. I followed Marcellus into the elevator, and he pushed the PH button. So we were going to Gertrude. Ugh, I thought. What now? I looked up and saw my pinched face in the mirrored ceiling. The guards looked straight ahead. I wished they would say something.
When we emerged, the entry was quiet, which I took as a good sign. Marcellus allowed the other guard to open the door to Gertrude’s chambers, and he took me by the elbow. He leaned in and whispered, “Signal if you need me,” before he pushed me ahead of him.
My eyes were instantly drawn to a small cohort by the window, which had been shattered. One of the curtains had been pulled down and left crumpled in the corner. Gertrude and Claudius were together across the room. He looked pale and sick, and she had mascara tracks down her face like on the day her husband, her first husband, had been buried. Lastly, I saw Hamlet, flanked by two guards. When he saw me, he tried to stand up from the overstuffed burgundy chair, but they forced him back down and he hit his elbows on the carved wooden armrests.
Everyone turned to face me, and the group in the corner whispered furiously. I shoved my hands into my pockets, my muscles tense. VanDerwater, head of security, came forward and said, “There has been an incident.”
Hamlet was there, Claudius, Gertrude. What could have happened? I looked at the fallen curtain and noticed shining black shoes sticking out from underneath. Unable to imagine whose they might be, I looked back at VanDerwater for more of an explanation.
He removed his hat slowly, letting it rest across his heart. He cleared his throat and began, “Your father—”
I gasped and clapped one hand over my brow. “No, no, no.” My brain hummed with this solitary word. No, no, no, I thought. No, no, no. Choking on my own breath, my chest heaved. My other hand flew atop the hand covering my eyes. Together, the palms pressed hard, and red and blue lights danced in the darkness. The pain forced thought away and was welcome relief, brief as it was.
“I’m sorry,” I heard Hamlet call out. “It was an accident.”
My legs began to buckle, and my stomach dropped. Still shielding my eyes from the sight too horrible to comprehend, I turned away from Hamlet’s voice and called for Marcellus. “I need—” I pulled in more breath, but it stopped at the top of my throat. I heard his handcuffs and flashlight jangling together as he stepped forward to touch my back. My jaw was chattering, so I could barely whisper, “I’m gonna be sick.”
He guided me swiftly across the room and opened the door of Gertrude’s bathroom. He flicked on the light and closed me in the room. The confined space was soothing, though I had to keep my eyes closed to shut out the golden poodles she inexplicably had painted everywhere. I leaned over the toilet and waited, but did not vomit, so I lay down on the cool marble floor. Outside I could hear chatter and the clacking and thudding of feet hurrying around, but no single sound, voice, or word came through.
My nausea subsided, but my head continued to throb. Thoughts swirled so fast, they ceased to make sense. What kind of accident had there been? Was it possible that my father was dead? Would he be buried with my mother? Was my mother in heaven? Who would take care of me now? Would I be able to stay in the castle? Did I want to? What had happened? What was Hamlet sorry for?
I focused on the chill of the marble seeping into my skin. I could think of no reason to ever open the door again, and even if I did think of one, I did not believe I had the will to do it.
Sooner than I would have liked, a gentle tapping came at the door. I didn’t answer.
“Ophelia?” called Gertrude. “Are you ready to come out