Summer had enveloped the palace.
The heat arrived in the capital early. The stone walls of the castle, which in winter seemed an eternal protection, now turned into a trap—they once shielded from winter winds, but now tormented. The air in the corridors was heavy. Fabrics clung to the body, and the marble floors radiated warmth that neither the open shutters nor the crude fans, used to disperse the heat, could alleviate.
Beatrice was not accustomed to such sweltering heat.
And worst of all was looking at Laer.
The little prince barely cried but breathed heavily, his cheeks burning red, his body languid like a rag doll. He refused to eat and barely moved. The wet nurses whispered anxiously, offering meaningless advice, but once Beatrice had seen her son helplessly writhing his head in his crib, she could wait no longer.
There was no traditional bath in her chambers—massive cast-iron tubs installed in special halls could not be moved into the cooler parts of the palace.
Carpenters were summoned immediately.
They arrived, shuffling from foot to foot in dusty frock coats, exchanging glances between themselves. Hardly any of them expected that the Queen herself would come out to them in a light summer dress, without heavy adornments, wearing only a thin shawl over her shoulders.
– I want you to build for me a… – Beatrice hesitated, choosing her words – a cool bath. A wide one. Low enough so that one could sit in the water.
The carpenters blinked, exchanging looks.
One, the more resourceful, coughed and respectfully bowed his head:
– As you wish, Your Majesty.
Beatrice traced dimensions in the air with her hands, explaining about a taut canvas. The Queen spoke calmly, in short phrases, and in her voice there was such certainty that even the oldest carpenter, used to the stern orders of the chancellor, nodded with respect. Under her strict yet lively guidance, in the inner garden adjacent to her chambers, they quickly began constructing something like a summer pool—a wide wooden frame built of light boards, covered with a dense canvas saturated with wax for watertightness.
The work was rapid; the Queen's order was so sudden that hardly anyone dared incur her displeasure.
While the carpenters fussed over the boards, Beatrice arranged to choose the lightest fabric for a summer dress—something airy, covering the body yet allowing the skin to breathe.
It was installed under a canopy of lace panels stretched between columns to conceal the proceedings from prying eyes. When everything was ready, Beatrice inspected the result. The bath turned out simple but neat. Inside it they poured cool water, just drawn from deep wells.
When the wet nurses saw Beatrice, dressed in a light summer dress down to her ankles, barefoot, carrying Laer herself to the water, they froze. A tinge of embarrassment passed in their glances. For according to palace custom, the Queen was not supposed to appear so unguarded even among women. Some of the maidservants averted their eyes. The wet nurses exchanged looks, uncertain whether to scurry for their veils or act as if everything were fine. But Beatrice paid them no mind.
She carefully lowered Laer into the water, then sat in the bath herself, cradling her tiny body with her arms.
The baby's first cry was full of surprise. Then – joy.
Laer clapped his hands in the water, bubbled quietly, his little face lighting up. He smiled broadly, toothless and happy. Nearby, at a respectful distance, the wet nurses and maidservants gathered, watching the scene. Someone quietly wept. Someone squatted down to get a better view. Many discreetly wiped their eyes, touched by how the Queen's simple human warmth revived their little prince.
At that moment, Theodor, passing through the second-floor gallery with the advisor Aurelius, stopped at a window opening onto the inner garden. Aurelius's words about some tedious questions of grain allocation had fallen silent. Theodor raised his hand almost automatically, silently ordering the advisor to be quiet.
His gaze inadvertently shifted downward. And he saw her.
Beatrice was in the bath, holding Laer in her arms. She was smiling — genuinely, warmly, freely.
Her hair was not styled in an elaborate updo but in a simple braid, with stray locks clinging to her temples. Her thin dress, soaked through, flowed over her body like liquid silk. The fabric outlined every curve — from delicate collarbones to the contours of her chest, from her slender waist to her gentle hips. Only the thin straps on her shoulders and the semi-transparency of the wet fabric betrayed a tender, unexpected grace that few at court had ever noticed. Her foot, emerging from the water, was as pale as marble in the shade, and droplets slid down her skin, leaving silvery trails.
Theodor froze. His thoughts scattered.
It was nothing like what he was used to seeing — there was no pretense of beauty, no false display. Just a woman and a child. And that woman was his Queen. A strange, awkward heaviness spread through his chest, and Theodor suddenly found himself unable to look away.
Aurelius coughed, trying to regain his attention. Theodor reluctantly shifted his gaze.
– Complete your report later, – he said shortly without turning around, and then left.
Meanwhile, Beatrice lifted Laer from the water, wrapping him in a soft towel. The boy, having splashed to his fill, murmured something softly, clutching the delicate fabric of her dress with his little fingers.
The next morning, as the sun began to gild the vaults of the kitchen corridors and steam rose from large copper kettles, the kitchen servants gathered in the back kitchen. They sorted herbs, cleaned beans, and wiped knives with stones as they whispered.
– Did you see yesterday? – one of the younger girls said quietly, dabbing her face with a towel. – The Queen herself went into the water with the prince. In a dress as thin as a leaf.
– And her laughter was… – added the head washerwoman while rearranging wet towels. – Not like that of the nobility. Genuine. Laer laughed so that one's heart melted.
– And little Prince Laer laughed, – another added with a hidden smile. – For the first time in many days. As if, upon seeing the water, a different child appeared.
– And I thought she was cold, – muttered a third, glancing around cautiously. – Like ice on a well in spring... Yet she… is ordinary. Alive.
– Ordinary, but not completely, – sneered the old cook as she arranged the knives on the board. – Not every queen would stoop to wade in the water for her child. And laugh with him, rather than watch from above.
For a moment, silence fell in the kitchen, only the sound of knives on stone could be heard. Then someone chuckled quietly, and the conversation moved on—to the weather, new taxes, the festive fair—but the thought lingered.
From that morning on, people began to treat Beatrice differently—not as a distant lady, but as one of their own. Though no one said so aloud, it was evident in bowed heads, in cups served on time, in brief glances that revealed something new.
For several days in a row, Beatrice spent her mornings with Laer in the bath, escaping the suffocating heat. And although they tried to keep to the shade, the sun eventually caught up with them.
She noticed it on the third day.
The skin on her shoulders and neck grew hot, reddened, and painfully stretched with every movement. Laer too reddened, but his skin was softer, and it was possible to quickly cover him with a thin blanket. But Beatrice didn't have time.
In another time, another world, she would have simply gone to a pharmacy or applied a cooling cream. But here, everything was different.
The balms used by the court physicians smelled heavy and unpleasant and were intended more for healing deep wounds than for simple sunburn.
Beatrice hesitated. She did not want to attract unwanted attention. Asking the court physician would mean admitting weakness. Servants might start whispering, and Marianna could take advantage.
So she did something simpler. She asked through Linet the cook-servants to bring fresh cream, cold and thick, freshly skimmed from milk.
In her chamber, Beatrice carefully undressed above the waist. Only the corset that tightly hugged her chest and a thin under-skirt remained. Her bare shoulders and back burned. She scooped a small amount of the cool cream into her palm and gently spread it over her shoulders and neck, shuddering at the slight chill. But she couldn't reach her back. She tried, bending over, stretching her arms around her shoulder, but her fingers slid, failing to reach the spot that burned the most. Beatrice exhaled in irritation.
At that moment, the door opened softly.
Theodor entered, not expecting to find anyone in that state. He froze—for half a second, for one strange, awkward eternity. Beatrice stood with her back to him. The corset, held by thin straps, encircled her waist. Her bare shoulders, slightly reddened by the sun, appeared vulnerable, tender. The fabric of her under-skirt billowed with the draft, brushing her ankles. Droplets of cream slowly trickled down her spine, leaving a wet trail on her golden skin. Theodor felt his heart thunder in his ears. He stepped back one step.
– Pardon me, Your Majesty, – he said hoarsely, lowering his gaze stubbornly to the side.
Beatrice, turning over her shoulder, frowned slightly.
– For what? – she asked calmly. – You have done nothing.
He looked away, embarrassed. Seeing no special significance in the moment—after all, in her previous world people strolled on beaches in similar states—she simply nodded toward the cream.
– Help me, please. I can't reach, – she said.
Theodor froze.
He was ready to listen to a request for political resolution, for protection, for any battle. But this?
– I… – he faltered, then sighed heavily. – As you command, Your Majesty.
He stepped closer, carefully took a bowl of cream, dipped his fingers into the thick, cold mass, and, trying to be as gentle as possible, ran his hand along her back.
Beatrice shuddered—not from pain, but from the unexpected chill and the touch of another's hand. Theodor was cautious, almost reverent.
He moved slowly, carefully spreading the cream over her reddened skin.
His hands were rough, calloused—hands of a man who held a sword more than a pen.
– Forgive me… if it seems crude, – he whispered as he leaned closer, so that only she could hear, his warm breath sliding along her nape.
Without thinking, Beatrice held her breath.
She had always known that Theodor was above her, but only now did she feel it acutely—he seemed to loom over her, a shadow, a weight, warmth.
It was an ordinary whisper. Ordinary words. Yet in that silence, they pressed harder than any command.
Theodor continued his work in silence. His fingers glided lightly along the line of her shoulder blades, her neck. He tried to be careful, but with every passing second, he realized how tense he had become. Every inch of her skin seemed to respond with warmth to his touch. When he finished, he abruptly withdrew as if scorched, placed the bowl back on the table, and straightened up. His voice came out dry:
– It is done, Your Majesty.
Beatrice, slowly pulling her dress back over her shoulders, nodded calmly:
– Thank you.
There was no shame in her tone or movement, only a quiet, strange calm, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to allow a husband, even a nominal one, to help.
Theodor left her chambers almost in a hurry.
Only then, once in the corridor, did he allow himself to run his hand over his face, in a futile attempt to erase the strange feeling that had filled his chest. Awkwardness. Warmth. And something else, more dangerous. By the end, he realized he had forgotten to convey the information—the very reason he came to her in the first place.
Beatrice remained standing at the window. Her shoulders still stung from the burn.
But deep down, for the first time in a long while, she felt a faint tremor, as if something important had shifted, a something yet unnamed.