Page 41 of Of Song and Scepter

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In the cramped closet of a room, carved into the floor, is a deep channel full of sea water. If I dive through the channel and follow it to its depth, it leads into the fishery. Surrounded by steep coral walls and a net over the top, the open-water enclosure brims with fish. Large, juicy fish. And the best secret of all—no one guards the door.

I’ve wandered into the kitchen many times now, under the guise of needing supplies for the princess. If I catch the staff ina busy moment, they shrug at me and shoo me off to fetch the supplies from the closet myself.

If I appear for the dinner rush, by the time I emerge, hours later, dripping wet, they’ve wrapped up their chores and closed the kitchen.

Odissa takes her meals in her room now, too, since the prince no longer joins us. Tonight, I pause before the kitchen door, listening to gauge the mood of the staff.

The scent hits me first, as it always does, wafting beneath the door, warm and thick. It’s ridiculous how the Corals cook a perfect piece of flesh, but damn does it smell good. My stomach gurgles with a painful twist, and I rub my hand over my belly, soothing it.

“Soon,” I whisper to it.

The lock isn’t difficult—a snick of my claw and I’m pushing the slab of wood open, creeping through the minimal opening and slipping into the fray.

The kitchen is a flurry of activity. Mermaids flutter from counter to counter, chopping vegetables and barking orders. A large stone counter stretches in a wide U, framing a stocky center island.

The closet is in the back corner of the room. I mumble something to a servant about needing more seaweed. She grunts at me, jerking her head toward the door.

I slip into the closet without further notice. Shelves line the walls, displaying baskets and bins overflowing with fruits, kelps, and corals. The pool sits in the middle, and I remove my dressing skirts, shoving them into an empty crate. I dive into the water eagerly, welcoming the sensation as the water swallows me.

The channel opens into the fishery, and a panicked school of wrigglefish greet me with their pink, curling bodies. I snatch onein my claws, greedily slurping it into my mouth. I chase them through the fishery, a predator set loose on a guppy’s buffet.

I hunt a sweetfish next. It eyes me with bulging eyes, darting for the nearest cover. The water is bare, cleared for easy fishing. They cannot escape me, and they cannot outswim me. I smack my tail in a burst of speed and sink my teeth into the sweetfish’s neck, tearing free a chunk of the sweet, sweet meat. The carcass flops and sinks, and I scoop it from the water, hefting its weight. I settle happily into the sandy floor, plucking pieces of meat from my prize until my stomach swells.

The fiery evening light filters through the surface above, painting the sea in a wash of color. The sunsets here are beautiful, but I much prefer them from beneath the waves. I nestle in the sand, watching as the hues fade from orange to red to the navy of nightfall.

I return to the entryway to complete the last task on my agenda. Beneath the lip of the channel, I’ve hidden my leather pouch, full of my stolen treasures. Here, Odissa will never find it.

I dig into the sand, retrieving the pouch, and heft its weight in my hand. My collection is growing steadily—golden screws, silverware, gems, jewelry, candlesticks—anything that might fetch a good price on the market. What I really want is that magical necklace hidden in the prince’s desk. Tonight, I add two gold coins to my pouch, and it’ll have to do. How much I’ll need to secure a life on my own once Odissa sets me free, I don’t know. The Kingdom of Frost is a mystery to me. All I know is it’s cold and secluded in the northern reaches of the sea, and the merfolk there tend to be just as icy as their seascape. My kind of company.

The pouch safely buried, I ascend through the channel and crawl out of the hole onto my dripping pair of legs. As I’m wrapping my skirts around my waist, I hear voices in the kitchen.

It’s past nightfall. Usually, the kitchen staff has cleared the room by now. I peek around the doorframe into the kitchen, and my stomach drops to the floor.

There, lounging against the wide, center counter with his back facing me is the Coral Prince, chatting with the royal chef.

A dim fire burns in the white-stone oven set into the far wall. Its flames crackle and pop as they heat a spitted fish. The royal chef stands in front of the cooking fire, rotating the spit with a large, speckled hand.

The prince gestures at the rotating fish, and the muscles along his back flex with the movement. For the second time in a matter of weeks, I find myself staring at the prince’s fine ass.

The chef removes the fish from the fire, handing the spit to the prince. This is my chance. I move with as much grace and stealth as my legs can muster, but before I can reach the exit, my foot connects with something hard on the floor. I glance down in horror as a rogue vegetable launches from its sentient place on the floor into the prince’s rear end. With a dull thud, the vegetable bounces off his ass cheek, the muscle rippling as it rejects the accidental missile.

Ignoring all my instincts to hit the floor or dash to the door, my body freezes in utter embarrassment—never before have I been so clumsy in a stealth mission. Heat burns my face as the prince turns, brow furrowed, spit in hand. His eyes widen, taking in every inch of me at once. The charred fish slips slowly down the stick.

We both freeze, as if waiting for something to explode. Waiting formeto explode, I realize a moment later. I open my mouth to offer some sort of excuse, but my tongue is dry. All that comes out is a pathetic puff of air.

“Chef, I think I’ve found your mystery fish-eater,” he says. His voice is playful. He eyes my wet hair, my damp skirts. “Thekitchen has been having troubles maintaining inventory. Do you know anything about a dozen missing sweetfish, Wicked?”

“If you mean to spit me next, Your Highness, I’ll gut you where you stand.” I suck in a breath. That was hardly appropriate.Where the fuck is my filter?

And what did he call me? Wicked? My spines bristle beneath my gloves.

He chuckles. “With what, that potato?”

“I’m sure I could figure it out,” I mumble. Embarrassment washes over me once again, red-hot and angry. I fight the urge to stare down at my feet, to funnel my anger into my toes. I hold his searching gaze, lifting my chin to hide the shame.

“Are we not feeding you enough?” His face softens, brow knitting with concern. He gestures, and the chef bends to retrieve a raw fish from a basket beneath the counter, laying it onto the stone worksurface.

“I’m getting plenty to eat, thank you,” I say.