A dull ache throbs in my temples.
“I shall have it by morning. I strongly suggest you spend a few hours getting to know your bride.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Actually, on second thought, why not make it a surprise proposal at breakfast?” Gods help me if he decides against the wedding upon closer acquaintance. He’s not marrying the girl for her personality, after all.
“As you wish, sir.”
“Stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not your commander.”
“Yes, Highness.”
One down, one to go. I expect it will be more difficult to find a willing husband for Drucilla with her maimed foot, perpetual scowl, and vicious tongue—although I have an idea where to look. When I was frantically reviewing the land records looking for clues to Elinor’s identity, I came across a name that might solve at least one of my problems.
But first, my father wants a word with me. The grayish cast has deepened. His eyes have sunk into his skull. He cannot stand, so I am summoned to his room. Pungent odors of tinctures and concoctions meant to soothe his cough permeate the air. I gag. How his nurses stand the smell I cannot fathom.
“I want to know if you will marry your lady tomorrow as planned,” he wheezes.
“Ah…not quite. I need more time.” I wince as I say it. The king rolls his eyes. “Not much. A day. Two at most.”
“What is the holdup this time?”
“I beat her loathsome stepfather to death. I wasn’t thinking about needing his permission for her to wed. Legally, I mean.” A grimace seizes my face. I am not giving my sire the impression that I’m ready to lead an entire country, and I know it. “Nor was I thinking about what I would tell her sisters.”
“Let me guess. She says she won’t marry you unless you can produce him in the flesh.”
“More or less. Elinor also wants her sisters to have husbands.”
The king scoffs. “That would take years.”
“I think I have a solution.” I explain what I have in mind. “I only need twenty-four hours or so. We could be married, say, the day after tomorrow?”
“There will be no more roadblocks,” my father says.
“None,” I say with utter confidence. Unwarranted confidence. I can forge a letter granting Tremaine’s permission, but what will I say to the vile Tremaine sisters when their own father doesn’t show his face at their joint wedding? Even I, the king of liars, can’t think of an untruth convincing enough to sway Drucilla. As awful as she is, she isn’t stupid.
Nor do I know how to summon Killian down from his monster-infested mountain. The last time I tried to contact him, Briar sent her pet dragon to scare us off. The gate to Thorn Mountain was locked and barricaded with magical vines.
Imagine. The onetime dragon hunter now consorting with the fae beasts.
“I am counting on you not to fuck this up,” my father gasps out. “I cannot hold out much longer. Tomorrow at midday, you are walking down that aisle. If not with Elinor, then with another woman. Understand?”
“You shall have your dying wish,” I vow. Perhaps vows don’t mean much when spoken by a liar, but for once, I mean what I say. Elinor has set me a nigh-impossible task to win her hand, but I will have her at my side if it’s the last thing I ever do.
* * *
The dank castledungeon makes my private pit of despair look as bright and clean as a surgeon’s operating theater. Squalid hay reeks of human filth. Dark shapes moving in the shadows make it hard to tell where rats, mice, and other vermin end and humans begin. The conditions should make my target particularly open to a discussion of what would be required to obtain a king’s pardon.
I try not to breathe in the smell as I stride after the prison ward. His hunched back and rattling chatelaine of iron keys suspended from his waist make an oddly cheery jingling sound with every step. He moves quickly for one with a deformity.
“Back,” he snaps at a feeble hand reaching between the bars, swatting it with his baton. “Die already, ye violator of children. Ain’t nobody wants you among the living.”
This could have been Tremaine’s fate. A public trial would have been unavoidable, though, and Elinor would have been subjected to withering scrutiny. As much as he deserved to be tormented by sitting in his own waste for the next twenty years, I’m glad he’s dead. Nor is it lost on me that if I weren’t a prince and word got out about how Tremaine’s fate came to pass, I would be the one left to rot down here.
We arrive at a cell that’s in better condition than the others. A hand broom sits in the corner next to a bucket. The floor is relatively clean. The occupant, Lord Layton, was imprisoned for tax evasion. He’s fifty if he’s a day, and prison has taken a toll on the condition of his teeth, but his eyes are clear and cautious when the hunchback clicks a key into the door of his cell and opens it.
“In ye go. Ten minutes is what we agreed. His Lordship ain’t the violent type, but if you have any trouble, give a shout.”
