Cobweb Bride by Vera Nazarian Page A

A patient who was drained of the blood humour and stabbed in the heart—which was now stilled and probably as cold as the air in room.  . . .
    The Infanta’s head did not turn, and she continued to stare out of the window, unblinking. However, she replied politely, first making a peculiar effort to expand her chest, so as to inflate her motionless lungs in order to exhale air upon which words would be formed.
    “No pain.”
    The doctor watched in horror coupled with professional curiosity the physics, nay, mechanics of her speech-making. For it was as though a mechanism was engaged, like that of an artfully created doll, for her to recreate the living act of breathing and speaking.
    She had been thus for hours. All questions were answered in short easy phrases after some noticeable delay. And she never looked away from the window.
    “It is wonderful that your Highness is not in discomfort, but maybe a glass of water or some hot tea would be helpful for the physique—”
    Again that mechanical ballooning of the chest, the intake of breath, and she replied, “No, thank you. I am not thirsty.”
    Doctor Belquar looked behind him with frustration and made eye contact with a colleague, Doctor Hartel, a young brown-haired assistant and, in a manner of speaking, his professional rival.
    “A hot bath with salts . . .” whispered Doctor Hartel.
    But Doctor Belquar shook his head negatively.
    “Perhaps, a light application of leeches. . . .”
    “Are you out of your mind?” Doctor Belquar hissed. “The royal patient  . . . has no blood , would you bleed her more. . . ?”
    A few steps away, a breakfast service had been brought in, and it lay untouched upon the small table. The servants stood at attention, most of them looking directly ahead of themselves, so as not to be found staring at Her Royal Highness.
    The great canopied bed of the Infanta was also untouched. The feather pillows had been plumped and stacked, and velvet coverlets had been turned down for the night. But when she was offered a chance to lie down, the Infanta refused, most vehemently of all—if shaking her head back and forth and saying “no” over and over in a monotone could be considered passion.
    In the opposite far corner of the grand bedchamber stood two bishops and a host of priestly attendants. There was a non-stop soft hum of spoken prayer and wafting incense, but because the physicians had been given supreme authority in the matter, the on-going Mass was relegated to the back, so as not to disturb the unpredictable and precarious condition of the Infanta.
    At about eleven o’clock in the morning, the Empress Justinia was announced, at the same time as she unceremoniously walked into the room, forgetting or discounting all Imperial protocol. The Empress had changed out of her eye-blinding splendor of the night before and wore a simpler gown of warm cream and pearl, and a plain powdered platinum wig. Her face was drawn with exhaustion and, lacking the usual artifice of makeup, revealed wrinkles and an unhealthy color, while her dark brown eyes were sunken and reddened around the lids.
    Empress Justinia walked past the priests and the breakfast service and the Ladies-in-Attendance and the doctors. She stopped in silence before her seated daughter.
    “Claere . . .” the Empress said. “Claere, my child, can you hear me? It is your mother. Look at me.”
    A pause. Even the whispering of prayers ceased.
    The Infanta made that familiar-by-now effort of breathing. And then, slowly and stiffly she turned her head away from the window and toward the Empress.
    “Your Majesty,” she said. Her face was serene and blank.
    The Empress suddenly burst into weeping. Her face contorted and she immediately covered it with her hands in a last vestige of protocol, for it was said nowhere that the Empress can be seen to weep in public.
    “Mother  . . .” Claere said. And she reached forward with her right hand, just barely touching the