#hamletsr

his majesty called for me. lisbeth had beckoned for me, prayed over me, whispered to me gently that i was to go to his majesty’s bedroom.

aunt marischa has been coming by recently. i have missed her dearly, but being with her hurts my heart. being with aunt marischa reminds me of doing laundry by the river and the smell of mushroom stew wafting in through the windows. having her on my bed as we chat only brings back memories of when she would stay over in mine and laertes’ room with me, and laertes would sleep with my mother in the family room.

the king’s dreams have proven to be nerve wracking for me. each time i attempt to interpret his dreams, there is a glint in my father’s eye that scares me. my father has been kind before, and often he is far removed from reality. when famine or plague or death crosses my tongue, i feel his anger across the room as king hamlet only nods along.

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.