The Weight of Rest 4

Chapter 4: Bread and Thorns

The door to Jasmine’s guest room hung slightly ajar. Ariel and Belle hesitated outside, exchanging nervous glances. From within came the rustling of fabric, the sharp snap of a suitcase buckle, and the occasional muffled curse.

“Do you think she’s still mad?” Ariel whispered.

“Almost certainly,” Belle murmured. “But we should still try.”

Ariel carefully nudged the door open. “Jasmine?”

Inside, Jasmine was sitting on top of her overstuffed suitcase, furiously bouncing on it in an attempt to force it shut. Loose garments spilled out around the edges like it was trying to escape her.

“You know, I could help you pack,” Ariel offered tentatively.

“I’ve got it,” Jasmine snapped without looking up. She shoved at the clasp, grunting as it refused to catch. “I need to leave. The sooner, the better.”

“We came to apologize,” Belle said softly. “Not for the prank. That wasn’t us. But… we laughed. We couldn’t help it. And that hurt you.”

“We didn’t mean to make it worse,” Ariel added quickly. “It just caught us off guard, the way you… the way you panicked.”

Jasmine gave the suitcase one final slam, forcing the latch closed with a vicious click. “It must have been hilarious.”

“It wasn’t that,” Belle said. “It was just… it was so unexpected. But we see now — it wasn’t funny to you. It wasn’t just a joke to you.”

Jasmine crossed her arms tightly, her jaw clenched. “Do you? Do you understand what happens when people start playing with food markets? When merchants start bribing children for palace bread so they can resell it at a profit?”

Ariel’s eyes widened. “Wait, they really did that?”

“Yes. And then the farmers complained because the price of bread plummeted, and they couldn’t cover their costs. And then the palace kitchens were mobbed, because of course they were, because I promised no one would go hungry. And guess what? I can’t police every street corner. I can’t personally stop every hungry child from selling their meal to a merchant waving a silver coin.”

Ariel swallowed. “That’s… wow.”

“It’s a disaster. And now the palace is a daycare because I made children come to the palace directly to get their meals so they’d actually eat them instead of reselling them. The entire grand hall is full of sticky fingers and tantrums.”

“But… they are getting fed, right?” Ariel asked cautiously.

“Yes.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

Jasmine’s shoulders sagged slightly. “It’s a bandage over a broken bone.”

Belle, thoughtful as ever, said, “Perhaps Queen Leah would have had ideas. In her absence… the library might offer something.”

Jasmine hesitated, torn between her anger and the desperate need for something — anything — that might help. “Fine. Let’s go.”

The Rosewood Hall library greeted them with quiet sunbeams and the faint perfume of old parchment and musk. Jasmine’s fingers traced the worn leather spines as she trailed behind Belle, the tactile weight of the books oddly comforting.

“Your palace really turned into a daycare?” Ariel asked, still wrapping her head around it.

“Children everywhere. Screaming. Laughing. Trading bread crusts like currency.”

Ariel’s brow furrowed. “Is that… bad? I mean, back home, my father would just shout orders and somehow food would appear.”

Jasmine snorted faintly. “Maybe I should try shouting more.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have the beard for it.”

Belle returned, balancing a small stack of books. “Here. Histories of grain markets, food distribution models, case studies of city collapses. And — “ she lifted a particularly heavy tome, “ — a study on the pitfalls of unchecked charity.”

“Sounds uplifting,” Jasmine muttered.

Belle smiled gently. “Sometimes the harshest lessons are the ones we need.”

Belle thoughtfully added, “You know, in some kingdoms the state controls the entire food supply. It’s a different model. Some call it socialism.”

Jasmine frowned. “I’m not about to seize the bakeries, Belle.”

“Of course not. But it’s interesting, isn’t it? In some places, the grain doesn’t move unless the government says it can. It’s not freedom, but sometimes it works. Sometimes.”

A familiar voice drawled from behind a nearby column. “Finally asking the right questions, are we?”

Grimhilde appeared, arms folded, a faintly amused smirk on her lips. “The princess admits she might not know everything. What a day.”

“If you came to gloat — “

“Not today. I came to offer a correction.”

Jasmine glared. “Oh? Please, enlighten me.”

Grimhilde approached, her movements smooth and unhurried, and gestured for Jasmine to sit by the fireplace. Belle and Ariel drifted nearby but kept a respectful distance as the two settled into the quiet, crackling warmth.

“You cling to the notion that your father was merely a victim — fooled by Jafar’s schemes,” Grimhilde began, swirling her wine lazily. “But you’ve missed the real genius of that man.”

“Genius?” Jasmine snapped. “He wanted to wage war against Shirabad for a personal vendetta. My mother’s homeland — our ally. He nearly destroyed Agrabah’s future to satisfy his bitterness.”

Grimhilde waved her hand dismissively. “His vendetta was the pretext. The invasion plan — yes, it served his ambition, but that wasn’t its true brilliance. Look deeper.”

She leaned forward, voice smooth and cold. “Jafar’s war would have done three things: First, conscript the idle masses — the poor, the criminals, the ones clogging your streets. He would have swept them into the army, reducing poverty and crime overnight. Second, the army he built would not just fight abroad — it would control Agrabah at home. Enough force to pacify a city you can barely manage. Third, it would give him the numbers to eventually seize power.”

She sipped her wine. “And he needed your father to sell it to the people. They loved the Sultan. They would have followed his call to arms.”

Jasmine’s pulse quickened. “So the invasion was a front to solve… everything.”

“Exactly. And you — trying to feed the poor with bread and good intentions — you are now trapped in his shadow. You lack the force to enforce your kindness.”

“I’m not Jafar,” Jasmine bit out. “I’m not staging a coup.”

“No,” Grimhilde said coolly, “but you need the very thing he sought. An army. Order. Command. Without it, your palace is a bakery with no walls.”

Jasmine’s fists clenched. “You want me to conscript my people to rebuild the city. To build order — brick by brick — with their own hands.”

Grimhilde smiled faintly. “Not want. Advise. Feed them if you want. Employ them if you can. Draft them if must. But above all, control them. Otherwise, they will control you.”

Jasmine stared into the fire, the lines between good and necessary beginning to blur.

Belle broke the silence softly. “You don’t have to copy Jafar’s methods. But you might borrow a few tools.”

Jasmine exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to rule by fear.”

“Then don’t,” Belle said. “But ruling with love doesn’t mean ruling without teeth.”

Ariel, still mystified, murmured, “I thought feeding people would be… I don’t know, simpler.”

Jasmine’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “So did I.”

The sun was setting by the time Simon appeared with a quiet knock, a dinner tray balanced in his hands. A gleaming silver cloche concealed the dish beneath, its polished dome catching the candlelight as if guarding a secret too delectable to unveil.

“Brought something for you,” he said, his voice easy and unintrusive. “You missed dinner.”

Jasmine blinked, looking up from her book, the ache in her wrist flaring as she set it down. Her stomach growled, betraying how long she’d been lost in her reading, the library now empty save for her. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice soft with gratitude.

Simon set the tray on the table, his eyes catching the way she rubbed her wrist, wincing slightly. “How’s your arm? Still sore?”

Jasmine hesitated, her memory flickering to his hands on her shoulders yesterday — the surprising warmth, the unintentional tenderness that had lingered in her thoughts. “It’s… been better,” she admitted, extending her arm, stiff from hours of scribbling correspondence, the tendinitis a nagging reminder of her overzealous pen.

Simon knelt beside her, his touch gentle but practiced as he began to massage her forearm. His fingers worked in slow, deliberate circles, easing the tight tendons, coaxing relief into the aching muscle. Jasmine exhaled, the pain dulling under his careful pressure.

As he worked, Simon’s gaze flicked to her posture — shoulders hunched, neck stiff from hours bent over her desk. “You’re carrying a lot of tension up here too,” he said softly, his hands pausing at the edge of her wrist. “Mind if I…?”

His question hung in the air, respectful but observant, his fingers hovering as if waiting for permission to cross an invisible line. Jasmine’s breath caught, the memory of his earlier touch stirring a quiet warmth. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and his hands moved to her shoulders, warm and steady. The shift felt seamless, an extension of his care, yet the familiarity of his touch — professional but laced with quiet intimacy — sent a shiver through her. She let herself relax, the knots in her shoulders melting under his thumbs, each press unraveling the weight of her long, solitary hours.

He worked in silence, unbothered, until his hands paused and he gently wrapped his arms around her from behind, drawing her into a loose, comforting hug.

“You’re carrying too much again,” he murmured.

Her pulse quickened.

It was just a hug. Just kindness. A simple human connection.

But she didn’t pull away.

She held on. Tightly. Clinging to him like a raft, like something solid in a storm she hadn’t yet survived.

Simon was still for a moment, surprised by her grip.

Then he shifted, embracing her more firmly, his arms wrapping around her with deliberate, protective pressure.

Her heart thudded painfully. She knew she shouldn’t want this. She wasn’t free to want this.

But then her arms moved — almost instinctively — her hands sliding along his forearms, her thumbs brushing slow, tender circles over his skin. A quiet caress.

His breath hitched softly.

His hold tightened, his cheek grazing her temple as he adjusted, their breathing syncing, slow and deliberate.

Jasmine’s pulse hammered. She should stop this. She should.

There’s still time to stop this. She could pull away. She could still tell him to leave. But her body… didn’t want to.

And wasn’t this her fault? Wasn’t she the one who’d moved first? Hadn’t she started this by caressing his arms, by holding on, by asking for more?

She stayed there, holding him, letting his warmth seep into her bones, savoring the ache of something she was not supposed to have.

This is too long. I should pull away. Why aren’t I pulling away?

Oh, stars. This isn’t safe.

I’m not safe from this.

Simon’s fingertips began to move, tracing lazy arcs along her arms, an unspoken question in every touch.

She didn’t answer it. Not with words.

She just leaned back, just a little, breathing him in, feeling the press of his chest against her spine, the warmth of him wrapped around her.

The silence stretched, fragile, dangerous, and sweet.

Somewhere in the quiet, she registered the untouched dinner cooling beneath its silver cloche — its guarded secret now slipping away with the heat.

Not yet.