the king is dead. no vision of mine has foretold such a thing, none have even come close. though he spends much time in his bed when i see him, i was under the impression he was in good health.
agathe has spent many nights away from me. when i see her, all i can notice are her tear stained cheeks and her trembling hands folded in front of her. the queen has been a mess. when i catch agathe on a break, she tells me that the queen refuses to bathe herself, to brush her hair, to eat anything in fear of it coming back up. she fluctuates from a slate of a woman to mourning in full. sometimes when i see her in her blank, wandering state, i see her flipping her necklace pendant in her hand.
i feel for her deeply. i wonder when hamlet will get the news. there are no words to describe the ache that is having your father’s death relayed to you–i could not imagine it being by letter. disaster has struck so soon after his leave.
even madam lisbeth has been a whirlwind. with funeral plans in place, accommodations have to be set in the castle for visitors–she’s spent much less time with me and instead has been dusting mirrors and arranging beds.
i worry for my father. lisbeth has murmured about wondering if her job will stay hers–it must be doubly so for my father, shouldn’t it be? he’s managed to shut himself away; i haven’t spoken to him in days.
as for me, i will spend the coming days in confession. He has blessed me, and yet i still failed.