Page 50 of Princess of Death

Everyone was sorry. But no one was as sorry as me.

“Madame Hatchet at the apothecary has some opium. Eases the pain of the dying.”

I didn’t want her to die. But I didn’t want her to die in pain.

“But it’s not cheap.” He reached behind the counter and produced another fifty sickle before he set it on the counter.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Consider it an advance on your next piece of meat.”

I stared at the coin for a moment before I took it. “Thank you.”

“When I said I was sorry, I meant it.”

I gave a slight nod in appreciation.

“You’re a good father to those boys. A good husband. A good man. A rare breed these days.”

I entered the apothecary and was immediately struck by the smells. Perfumes, flowery scents, a combination of so many things that it overpowered my senses. I walked down the aisles of odds things, plants that were black instead of green or sage, vials of substances that glowed purple or blue.

The old woman behind the counter was covered in what looked like multicolored drapes. She stared at me like I was a shoplifter. “Looking for something?”

“Opium.”

She studied me before she came around the corner. “I’m sorry for your loss…”

I wasn’t ready to hear that phrase yet. Wasn’t ready to be a widower. Anya was supposed to outlive me and be taken care of by the boys we’d raised. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be—and it killed me.

She went to a vial of clear liquid before she handed it to me. She gave me a heavy look, full of compassion, as if it hadn’t been full of accusation just a moment ago. “Who is it?”

I just wanted to pay for the damn thing and leave, but I stared at the vial she gave me. “My wife.”

“From what affliction does she suffer?”

“Infection of the lungs.” I dared to hope. “You wouldn’t have anything for that, would you?”

She pressed her lips tightly together before she shook her head. “No remedy for the illness. Only the God of the Underworld can change her fate.” She moved to the counter. “That will be fifty sickle.”

I stepped up to the counter and gave her the money that I’d earned.

She made the exchange and set the vial on the counter.

“You believe in that?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine before they narrowed.

“That the gods are real.” Because if they were real, my wife wouldn’t be on her deathbed right now.

“Tobelieveinmeans to assume without proof. Toknowmeans to have evidence. I don’t believe the gods are real—I know they are.”

“How so?”

“I’ve seen the God of the Underworld in the flesh. In the dead forest where the trees never grow. It was just for a moment, but I know what I saw. He strikes deals with mortals, granting their wishes in exchange for debt.”

“What kind of wishes?” I asked.

“Any kind. Power. Wealth. Saving someone’s life…”

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