XVII. Half-Truths

I have never attended a state funeral before. Though the old king was properly interred a month and a half ago, it is only now that all the preparations have been finalized for his "official" funeral. I do not know why it has taken so long – something to do with castle politics, the sort of thing that makes my head spin. For weeks much of the castle has been abuzz with activity, but finally the entire court dons their most subdued attire and joins with those who have come from far and wide to pay their final respects to Denmark's late monarch.

Elsinore is in a strange humour for much of the ceremony. While the priests speak long passages in Latin and choir boys sing joyful hymns of our great leader's passing to Heaven, most of us cannot help but feel that the mood does not reflect one of a funeral. The collective mind of the aristocracy is more focused on the upcoming wedding and coronation then saying farewell to an old king.

The nobles wear the black out of tradition, but the court's heart is golden and merry. I am certain that this is the one of the most light-hearted funerals I have ever attended, and that is thanks to the infectious attitude of the nobles.

The royal family is a sight to behold. King Claudius is grim faced as they lay his brother to his final rest. Does he feel satisfaction that he has inherited the throne, or is there remorse in that ambitious expression for the death of close kin? Queen Gertrude is pale and seemingly weak, a stark contrast to how she has been in previous days. I wonder whether she had taken my words about stalling the wedding announcement to heart and now she regrets having her intentions be known. Hamlet is like stone for the duration of the ceremony. He is as still as a statue, remaining unchanged, his expression unreadable or simply empty. Even when the king's final blessings are said, he does not react. When it is over, he quietly slips away, disappearing like a ghost into the wide, silent halls of Elsinore.

Why is it that we are compelled to celebrate after a funeral? I wish that there was a sombre mood here today; it is too contrasting to have such a merry band of people when we have just honoured (or attempted to honour – I would hate to know what King Hamlet thought of the court during his funeral) the dead. But no sombreness here – the food and drink has been brought out, music fills the air, and merrymaking fills the halls with laughter.

I am discontented by it, but I seem to be the only one. Even Gertrude and King Claudius (as far as I can tell from a distance) do not look as they did during the funeral. They are now as merry as the rest of the court.

I long to disappear, but my brother and my friends will not allow it. I am obliged to stay with them and dance and laugh until my feet fall off and my voice ceases to function.

As far as I can tell, the prince stays away from such celebrations.

For a while, I find Adelaide and Fernanda's light jokes amusing. Their attempts to make me laugh do force genuine smiles on my face and I find myself enjoying the celebrations. But eventually, I grow tired and I excused myself, longing to retreat to the silence of my quarters, even though it is still early in the evening.

When I arrive in my rooms – a difficult feat, as there are many who see me go and attempt to stop me – I throw myself on my bed and enjoy the peace and quiet for many long minutes. I can still hear the racket from below, but it is dulled somewhat as my quarters are high in the castle. It is pleasantly warm in my room; Catherine knows me well enough now that she kept the fire in my hearth going and lit candles about the place. I have all the light and warmth I need.

Adelaide and Fernanda will complain that I am being unsocial again… I am upset that I have disappointed them, but I needed to escape. Certain courtiers who have noticed the amount of time the prince and I spend in each other's company will no doubt gossip that we are together… perhaps this gossip will finally reach my father's and brother's ears… No good, no good! It is no good to think and ponder on it.

I rise from my bed and fetch a box that I keep hidden from the prying eyes of others. It amuses me still that I keep this box beneath my bed, like a young child who seeks a place for the treasures that she finds out in the wilderness. I used to do this in France, during my childhood. Flowers, pebbles – any memento of nature I found and liked eventually wound up in a box that I then stored under my bed. Laertes was the only one who knew of my hiding place, even though it was not particularly inventive.

This box is plain wood and rather unappealing to look at, but it has a silver lock and a matching key that I keep hidden within my desk. Inside, I have stored every letter I have ever received from Hamlet. Like nature's treasures I discovered and sought to keep hidden in my childhood, I have a special place for the gifts of my adulthood.

I am not sure why I wish to re-read the letters now, but nevertheless, I retrieve my box and its key and sit on my bed. There was a time last year when I would have traded every letter for the man who wrote them. Now I find myself dearly missing the correspondence. We have not shared letters since I gave him the incomplete letter I wrote the day his father died. We have both been too preoccupied in these long weeks to set words to paper, but I miss it still. By re-reading these letters, I warm my heart as I remember.

I read through each one, fingering the rough parchment, admiring the elegant script in which they are written and, of course, sinking within the words on the page. They are my words, my letters, gifts to me. He could have given me jewels and trinkets as symbols of his love, but I much prefer these letters. It is so much more… intimate.

I am near the end of my letters when my door suddenly flies open, startling me. The letter flies out of my hand and into a near-by candle. It smokes and goes up in flame. I cry out and fling myself out of bed, rushing to pick it up, but it flutters to the floor, where it insists on bursting into a mess of ash and charred parchment. I stomp the flames out with my shoe and the letter crumbles, burnt beyond recognition.

I breathe in sharply, my eyes stinging. I know it is silly to mourn the loss of a letter, but I am furious nonetheless. I look up to see which of my family members saw fit to charge into my room without knocking first.

It is, of course, my brother. Sometimes he does not think before he acts. I glare at him, indicating the pile of ash on the floor, and he bows his head passively.

"Forgive me, Sister," he says. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Indeed." I sigh, fully irritated. I walk to my bed; my other letters have strewn all over the cover when I knocked over the box during my flight to save the burnt parchment. I begin to collect them and stuff them back into the box before more of them accidentally catch fire.

Laertes comes forward and attempts to help but, but I brush him off.

"No help is necessary," I say, my tone a bit rude.

"All right," he says, spreading his hands apologetically. He catches sight of one of the unfolded letters and frowns. "What are these frivolities?" he asks, moving to pick one of them up.

I snatch the letter away and glare at him. "They are not frivolities, they are letters."

"To you from whom?"

"It is not your business, Laertes."

"Nothing seems to be my business these days," he says flatly.

"It is pure nonsense and nothing that should concern you," I snap.

He falls silent and watches as I shove the rest of my letters into my box and put it away.

"Still under the bed, Ophelia?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "You never change."

"And what is it to you?"

He glares at me. "You are clearly affronted today."

"I am… annoyed."

His expression does not change. Stubborn boy. "Why?"

"I am annoyed at you," I clarify.

"I apologize," he says shortly.

"I came here for some privacy and some quiet, Laertes," I say, "and the last thing I wanted was to have you come flying through my door, unasked and uninvited! We are not children anymore. We do not play. We… have polite conversation like proper adults and… and when I wish to be alone, I will be alone. I am not as social as some of my friends, and frankly I have a headache."

We glare at each other, in a way only siblings can. Finally, he relents, shaking his head and laughing hollowly. "I do believe I've never heard such anger from you before, Ophelia."

"As I said—" I fold my arms – "I am annoyed. Specifically at you. I am not a perfect lady every moment of every day, as some would have you believe." I sigh. "What is it that you want, Laertes?"

"I won't lie, Ophelia," he says. "I came to see if you were where you said you would be."

I blink, confused. "What?"

Laertes sits down on a chair, looking quite uncomfortable. He seems to be puzzling over something troublesome in his mind. "Gossip and rumours abound as they always do," he says heavily, "and I hate to have to suspect my own sister. Father—"

"Oh." My fingers clench. I know exactly what has happened. This is yet another episode of my brother and my father showing their protectiveness. "I see. You heard some rumour or strand of gossip that I have… have some lover somewhere and when I left the festivities below, I disappeared to consort with that same lover." I am trying very hard to control the blush on my cheeks. Laertes will never know of it, but when I left the grand hall, part of me had thought of seeking the prince out.

There is a very uncomfortable knot growing in the pit of my stomach. I hate lying, and at times it seems that all I have done since I came to Elsinore is hide truths and tell half-truths and sometimes complete lies in order to disguise my own actions. But no one – no one – can know the truth of my relationship with Hamlet. By now, they suspect, but there is no truth yet. They cannot know, especially not my father or my brother, the extent to which we have pursued our relationship, at least not until the promise he made me by the willow tree comes to pass.

And so I must lie to the one person I wish I could always trust.

"You decided to verify that these rumours were not true," I continue, "because even though you hoped they were not true, part of you doubted –"

"They say that you are involved with the prince," Laertes interrupts. "That changes everything."

"I do not see how."

"Ophelia, how can you be so naïve?" He looks astonished. "Of course it changes everything! Any woman in this court would give anything for a chance to court the heir to the throne!"

"Well, perhaps I am that naïve," I retort.

Laertes frowns. "I had my suspicions, Ophelia. Do not blame me, there is usually some grain of truth in all the wildfire of gossip, and I have seen you with the prince with my own eyes. As has father." He looks at me directly, emphasizing the last words.

I purse my lips. "Father asked you to do this, did he not?" I ask quietly.

"Ophelia—"

"Did he not?"

Laertes' shoulders sag. "He did. He suspects. He more than suspects."

"So he sent you to spy on me?"

He shrugs. "You know our father."

"Meddlesome Father," I mutter under my breath. I am affronted that Father feels the need to send my own brother to spy on me. I eye Laertes carefully. "You say you saw the prince and I together several times." I grow cold. "How long?"

"Since I arrived."

I force myself to breath slowly. "And?"

"I know there is something going on," he says. "Would you not tell me, Sister. As family?"

Can I lie? Am I absolutely certain I can lie?

"It is nothing—"

"Ophelia!" His look tells me he is intent on getting to the truth of the matter.

I brush a loose lock of hair out of my eyes. "The prince and I…" I falter. "We are friends," I begin again. "Good friends. That is… most of it. I… I have reason to believe… more than reason… that he may…" I pause, biting my lip. What to say?

The words flow from my lips unexpectedly.

"I have reason to believe that he may desire something more."

Once it is said, I feel comfortable manoeuvring within the boundaries of my lie. It is not a full lie… it is a half-truth. They say that the best lies are bound up in parts of truth. Laertes will not know the difference.

I can still feel the uncomfortable knot in the pit of my stomach.

"Those letters are all from him." It is not so much a question as a statement.

I nod.

"Oh, God." Laertes passes a hand across his face.

"What?" I ask.

He stands up and looks at me sympathetically. "Please be careful, Ophelia," he says. "It may be that your heart will get broken. But Father will hear of this – as he must—"

"And will you cease to spy on me?"

His expression flattens. "I never wanted to spy on you. It was for the best."

"I do not need to have my actions monitored!"

"You are young, Ophelia," he says. "Never forget that. The world of Elsinore Castle itself is a large and dangerous place and I would hate to lose you to it."

I gesture at him to leave my room. "Have no fear, Brother," I say. "I have a good sense of direction."

"I can only hope."

With that, he is gone and I am alone again.

I curl up on my bed, listening to the fire crackle in my hearth. Why do I feel so horrible now? Is it because I discovered that Laertes has been spying on me? It is not unlike Father to be the overprotective parent. I know that he was only doing what he thought was best. Part of me wants to feel betrayed by my father and brother's decisions, but I cannot.

They love me, and they only did it to protect me.

So why does this guilt gnaw away at the pit of my stomach?

I do not need their protection. Instead, I must protect myself and my feelings for the prince from them.

There is something that does not ring right about that realization. I do not like it.