Sylvia leaned forward and whispered to the queen, "Your Highness, may I be permitted to withdraw? I suddenly feel unwell."
    
Isabelle looked her over, the royal expression at first showing signs of doubt of Sylvia's distress. Sylvia's ashen features threatened to become grayer if she didn't hurry away. "Go, Lady Ashcroft. Attend me in the morning."

Sylvia's curtsy was slow and deliberate, defining her still shocked state. She stood then turnedm and with stiff posture, made her way from the dais and out of the hall. A vision of dark hair and eyes swam in her memory, distorted over time, yet still recognizable in part. With the distorted image came feeling she thought long ago abandoned. It could not be. In her frustration at being kept at Whittendon on the king's whim, she must have imagined him. Why would she think of him now? Had he not died in the Holy Lands, fighting with King Richard?

There had been no word of him in almost twenty years. She could only assume he was dead, for no one had information regarding his wellbeing. Her steps were wooden, taking her along narrow corridors. The young man's face flashed before her eyes like a mockery. Servants scampered out of her way and watched her continue, unseeing, along her path. She had no idea how she managed to find her bedchamber, for she was blind to her path, seeing  only that face, haunting her from the past. Once she arrived, she slipped into the room. Leaning her back against the door she quietly shut it then did something she had never before done in her life.

She fainted.