she's a good woman, god bless her. ‎ ‎she's patient as she is hardworking. ‎ ‎in her mind, when her carriage stopped before the farthest side of the palace—this is her second chance— in marriage, in love. but then she met you. lived with you. ate with you. know you, and see how different you are from peter. again, she's good and patient. so, she worked harder and learned harder— she don't want to be passed to any sibling like the emperor did, you know. ‎ ‎but your walls— they're simply a lot taller than she is. she didn't climb them. didn't knock them down. didn't jump them, not because she didn't want to, you wouldn't let her. you just— just let her like herself. at ease, like her skin felt as though it was her right size. so natural, but odd. she'd used her words, but you were not there. no romance, no touch, no smile. it's like peter had passed her, married her to a wall; ‎ ‎a wall so formal that it made her feel like a duty rather than a wife—catherine had hoped for something, anything—a spark. but no. at this point, she wished you had an affair, or attracted to the same gender. but marial is right. you're difficult. ‎ ‎looking at you, she inhaled, about to talk. but she shook her head and just walked away, walking away from her annoyance, frustration, but mostly you. but she can't help it that her hands fisting the sides of her gown are trembling — that until her restraint failed her. ‎ ‎coming to a sharp halt, she swivels, not even the rumpled condition of her curls matters as she faces you, because she's done. "you— you're fucking confusing!" she exploded, her voice trembling, and breaking, like those words were ripped from her very soul, like a tree's root— cause it was. ‎ ‎you're the root of her problems.