The night she lost her eldest son, Catherine drank more heavily than she had in months.
No matter how much she drank, it didn't seem to numb her like she wanted it to. The pain remained a sharp and steady constant, a brutal reminder that her son was dead.
But you - oh, my golden child, I can't lose you.
The scene had been almost beautiful, in a way that Catherine did not understand, nor did she care to, although it wouldn't leave her thoughts. The image was painted behind her closed lids, ever present, haunting her. If she focused only on the burn of the alcohol as it moved down her throat, she could almost ignore it.
Mary's hands were locked around his as he lay on his back, an utterly serene expression on his face. Her hair tumbled from its braid and stuck out around her face. Splatters of crimson stained the front of her dress - Catherine had wondered dimly if it belonged to Francis or Mary's would-be assassins. Francis's assassins, her mind reminded her cruelly.
And then there is blood splattered across some of the petals.
Nostradamus had been right. White petals surrounding the base of the tree, in Francis's curls, all around him like a bed of down. She had nearly been sick when she'd seen them.
You cannot keep me in a cage, Mother - even one built with love.
Why hadn't he let her protect him? He had been drunk on life, on love. If he had just listened to her - and she knew best, didn't she? it had infuriated her. Mother always knew best - he would still be here. There was a nagging little voice in the back of Catherine's head that told her that wasn't true - fate, it whispered - but she ignored it. He would be. She knew it.
Golden child.
A cage.
Francis.
Snow on a spring day.
Petals.
The words spun around her exhausted mind, nearly making her dizzy.
She needed another drink.
She needed her son back.
Oh, my golden child, I can't lose you.