"Please, Your Ladyship," Sarah the cook cheerfully coaxed, "just a few sips more."
Obediantly, Marian drank the remaining broth, though she had no appetite.
In a few years from now, wounded by Gisbourne, she would rise from her bed before she was strong or well enough to do so, but in her present depressed state, she'd lost her will to get up.
"I'm not a child, you know, Sarah," she complained.
"I'm sorry, Your Ladyship! That's what comes of raising a toddler! I'm always treating others like I do my Jess."
"You don't need to apologize. And thank you for the broth. It was delicious."
Taking the tray from Marian's lap, Sarah bobbed a curtsey and left Her Ladyship's bedchamber, just as His Lordship was coming in.
"How are you, Marian?" her father asked, searching her eyes for any sign of their former sparkle.
"Much better, thank you, Father."
She hated answering with so little feeling, wanting to stay strong for her father's sake, but she just couldn't find the heart. Everything seemed so bleak with Robin gone, as if winter had entered her soul.
"I'm such a ninny," she told her father. "I thought I was strong, but I'm...I'm sorry."
Was that the reason, Robin, you didn't love me enough to marry me? Had you seen through my displays of courage, guessing they were false?
Sitting down beside her on her bed, her father draped an arm around Marian's shoulders and pulled her gently against his side. "You're no ninny, Marian," he told her kindly. "You've just been ill. Here! Now that you're sitting up, feeling better, how would you like to open your Twelfth Day gift? I've been waiting a long time to give it to you."
"I would. Thank you."
For her father's sake, she tried to summon a measure of enthusiasm, feeling none. She felt empty, completely empty inside, and she despised herself for her weakness.
Her father handed her a small box that fit in the palm of her hand, tied up in green ribbons. "Well, aren't you going to open it?" he asked, already anticipating her joy.
But Marian could only stare at it.
Years ago, when they were little more than children, Robin had given her a similar box tied with nearly identical ribbons, but when she'd opened it, she found it was empty. "My heart," he'd told her, with an adorably sheepish grin.
You were right, Robin of Locksley. And now it's my heart that's empty, thanks to you.
She found herself so angry, she wanted to throw her father's present against her wall. But, of course, she didn't. First carefully untying the ribbons, she lifted the box's lid to look inside.
A pair of glittering jeweled hairpins sparkled back at her.
"They're beautiful," she said politely, trying to force enthusiasm into her voice.
They were beautiful, as she said. Normally, she would have been thrilled to receive such an exquisite present, but her only thought now was, "He isn't here, to see me wear them."
"I thought, since you're such a young lady now, you might want to start wearing your hair up more often," her father explained. "Be careful putting these in, however. Their pins are sharp as daggers."
Marian kissed his cheek, snuggling closer. "Thank you, Father. I will treasure them."