She nodded. The children had all been gathered in a nearby hall and allowed to say goodbye to their father in pairs or more. She had been the last, as the eldest remaining child who had been at on the grounds during the tournament.
Pulling herself from his arms, she watched him for a moment, those strange silver eyes of his fixed on hers. When the servant tugged on his sleeve, he nodded and turned his attention to the job at hand. He disappeared into the room and shut the door behind him.
She knew she should go be with the others.
She knew she should.
But something else pushed her forward. She stepped back to the door, ignoring the protests of the guards, as she opened it silently.
Faust was standing beside her father’s bed, his fingers pressed to the dying man’s throat, another holding Henri’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the pulse.
Her father breathed in. Then breathed out. Then breathed in…and then breathed out.
And then nothing happened.
It seemed time held still as all parties watched and waited.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Faust pulled his hand from Henri’s throat and gently crossed her father’s arms over his chest.
Some kind of noise escaped her throat that she did not recognize. It caught the attention of the alchemist, who looked up at her in shock that quickly turned to grief.
Marguerite fled the room, blinded by tears. She did not know to where she ran. She did not know as it mattered.
Her father was dead.