I’d heard tales of men who’d simply dared to disagree with the king. They were thrown in the stocks for weeks, and pelted with moldering food and spit and jeers. Marnaigne was swift to anger, swift to seek respect and revenge.
Should I be caught in the act of poisoning him, no matter how good my intentions were…
I shuddered.
I’d be sentenced to death, no questions asked, no chance to redeem myself. They executed people in Châtellerault’s town square, setting up a gruesome platform and block, bringing out a temple reverent carrying a long, curved sword. People came to watch, came to cheer.
The grim hooded man would chop off my head, but it wouldn’t take. I wouldn’t die. Not at first.
I imagined my severed head coming to life yards away from my abandoned body as my second candle lit. I could hear the screams of the crowd, horror and elation mingling before panicked fear consumed them. Surely they’d see Merrick’s gift as a sign of magic most foul and stomp me out of existence once more, burning through my second candle with swift vengeance. Then my third. My three lives would be over and done.
What purpose would my life have been for then? Would my ghosts follow me into the afterlife, forever haunting their murderer?I didn’t know what awaited beyond the veil—I’d always been too terrified to ask Merrick—but it was safe to assume I wouldn’t have unlimited stores of salt with me.
The entire scenario was too terrible to bear.
“Hazel?” the king asked, and it jarred me from my reverie. There was a note of concern in his voice, an indication that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get my attention.
“Sire?”
“You stopped applying the paste. Is everything all right?”
My hands flinched from his face, instantly erasing the wicked skull, but it was as if its image had burned across my retinas. A ghostly reverse imprint remained, white as bone and covering the king’s features as effectively as a mask.
He opened his eyes and they stared up through the phantom skull’s sockets, bright as sapphires.
“Everything’s fine, Your Majesty,” I said, turning back to the counter, back to my valise. I busied myself, poking through pockets for cures that were not there, that did not exist becausethe king was supposed to dieand die soon, and die by my hand. “Just lost in my thoughts.”
My fingers trembled, brushing vials of foxglove and hemlock, oleander and castor bean, and my heart thudded painfully in my chest, beating faster and faster until I could feel it in my throat, creeping higher and higher as the room spun about me. It was in this haze of distorted equilibrium that I realized I was having a fit of nerves. Panic was flooding my system, and my head felt too heavy to keep up. I wobbled on feet that seemed too small to hold me up.
“How long should I keep this on? It’s beginning to tingle.” He took in a sharp, hopeful breath, whispering with amazement, “Is it working already?”
I gripped the edge of the counter, clinging to the marble top as I fought to stay upright.
The king.
I was meant to kill the king.
I’d kill the king, then they’d kill me.
“Does it feel hot in here to you?”
I heard myself ask the question but couldn’t remember when I’d decided to speak. I fumbled at my dress’s neckline. It was too tight, making it hard to breathe. If I could just loosen it somehow, perhaps I could draw in some air and everything would be all right.
But I’d still have to kill the king.
“Hazel?” His words reverberated through my mind, bouncing back and forth like an echo caught in a chamber. My name splintered into nonsensical syllables before uniting, whole but still terribly wrong. “Hazel? Are you all right?”
I wanted to turn around and assure him that all was well, that all would be fine, but I couldn’t because when I turned, I would see that ghastly skull over his face, hiding his expression, hiding everything but his eyes, and I wanted to scream but my words wouldn’t form and my mouth wouldn’t open, until it did, but only to release a soft hiss of air as my eyes rolled back into my head and the floor rushed up to meet me.
Chapter 30
I was no longer inthe king’s chambers.
The air was cooler now, no longer humid with the steam from King Marnaigne’s bath. It was softened by a resin incense and scented vapors so thick, I felt as if I were in a verdant forest. I took a deep breath and rolled to my side.
Slowly, carefully, I opened my eyes.
The room around me was spartan and functional. Rows of simple cots ran its length. I was the only occupant, positioned somewhere in the middle. The sheet covering me was rough and thin, the woven fibers coarse. I shivered, startled to find I no longer wore my own clothing. I’d been dressed in a cotton shift striped green and yellow.
