The palace had quiet corners, though few ever dared to seek them. One such place was a narrow balcony overlooking the rose garden, hidden behind heavy velvet drapes. Drizella found it one restless night when she couldn't bear another moment of courtly silence.
She leaned on the railing, staring at the moonlit roses below. The air was cool, carrying the scent of lavender. She let out a long breath, muttering, "If one more lord lectures me on the proper angle of a curtsy, I'll shove his powdered wig into the nearest fire."
Behind her, a low chuckle rumbled. "I'd pay to see that."
She spun to see Henry, dressed in a loose shirt instead of royal garb, hair tousled as if he'd just left bed. He held two cups of steaming cider.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.
"Not without you beside me." He handed her a cup, his eyes soft.
She rolled her eyes, though warmth spread through her chest. "Hopeless flatterer."
"Loyal husband," he corrected.
They spent hours on that balcony in the weeks that followed, trading stories. Henry confessed how suffocating royal tutors had been in his childhood; Drizella recounted the time she'd tried to turn Cinderella's gowns green with nettles (and only succeeded in stinging her own hands).
But not every night ended in laughter.
One evening, after a particularly brutal council session, Drizella stormed into their chambers, slamming the door behind her.
Henry set aside his book. "What happened?"
"What happened?" she snapped, pacing. "Your council happened! They sneer at me, they whisper that I don't belong, they act as if I crawled in from the stables with mud still on my boots!"
Henry rose, his voice calm but firm. "Drizella—"
"I will not be paraded like some painted doll while they laugh behind their sleeves!" Her eyes were bright with tears she refused to shed.
He crossed the room in three strides, catching her hands mid-gesture. "Enough."
She stiffened, meeting his steady gaze.
"You are my wife. My queen. Their whispers don't decide your worth. You do."
Her throat tightened. "But what if I fail?"
"You won't," he said simply. "Because you're too stubborn to let anyone else write your story."
For the first time that night, she laughed through her tears. "You make me sound unbearable."
He smiled, brushing his thumb along her cheek. "You are unbearable. And I wouldn't trade you for all the painted dolls in the world."
Their quarrels weren't always about politics.
Once, after Drizella sneaked down to the kitchens at midnight and returned with flour on her nose, Henry scolded her.
"You could have sent a servant," he said, folding his arms.
"And miss the look on the cook's face when I demanded the rolling pin? Never."
"Drizella—"
She grinned, holding up a misshapen loaf. "I baked this myself. Try it before you scold."
He tried. It was terrible. But he ate every bite, never breaking eye contact.
"You hate it," she accused, narrowing her eyes.
"I love that you made it," he said, swallowing bravely. "But perhaps next time… less salt?"
She burst out laughing, tackling him onto the bed. "You're impossible."
"And loyal," he reminded her, pulling her close.
On nights when words failed, they simply sat together by the fire. Sometimes Drizella read aloud—her voice animated, mocking every pompous character until Henry was shaking with laughter. Sometimes Henry traced idle patterns over her hand, marveling at how right it felt to have her fingers tangled with his.
And sometimes, in the hush between crackling logs, they said nothing at all.
Because silence, shared with the right person, was the most honest conversation of all.