Page 29 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood
“Ye ’ave? Who then?” Melly hands me a fresh glass.
I down its contents before sing-songing my answer. “The Prince of Death. He fancies me. When he isn’t ruling the Underworld, he visits me and lets me touch his wings.”
“The Prince of Death,” Melly deadpans.
“Yes.” I grip one of my bedposts, leaning as I issue a dreamy sigh. “He’s dreadfully beautiful. Like the moon.”
Melly snorts a laugh. “Finally letting yer looney out for everyone to see? I approve. Maybe if ye spout about yer imaginary crush, King ’off will run away.”
“You don’t believe me.” I push myself off the bedpost and move toward her, stumbling a bit. “He’s real. He’s quiet and graceful. I feel like I’m breathing air when I’m with him.”
“Ye do breathe air, Lenny.”
I grip her shoulder, shaking her slightly. “No, like the air is fresher. Or like my lungs have more space to breathe when he’s around. You know what I mean?”
Melly looks to my empty glass and grins. “Oi yea, nothing like those air-breathing boys and their big wings. Drops me knickers in an instant.”
“Melly! I’m serious.” She doesn’t believe me. If she saw him, she would understand. If he comes to the ball tonight, I could convince him to show himself to her. Dancing with Harrow would be magical. His wings could raise us up high until we’re dancing above the others like spirits.
A rapping sounds at my bedroom door. The fantasy dissolves like sugar in hot tea. Melly cracks it open, exchanging hushed words with whoever is on the other side.
“They’re ready for ye.”
My stomach pits. The carefree buzz dissipates. Stuffing my feet back into the garishly ornate shoes, I walk from my room, head held high, feelings tucked away behind my practiced smile.
The sounds of merriment grow louder and louder as I approach the Great Hall. The party is in full swing. I, the Princess of Roseheart, am to make my grand entrance so all may “set their eyes upon my beauty”.
Warm light spills out into the hallway through the partially open doors. My gut tightens. Impending doom seizes me. It’s as if I’m at the bottom of a pit, watching the sharpened edge of a pendulum swing lower and lower. It drops, swiping nearer with every step, waiting to slice me open and leave me bludgeoned and bloodied for the gawking masses.
Maybe if I dart away now, I’ll catch everyone off guard. I could be hidden away in my secret garden before they’ve dispatched a proper search party. This dress is getting heavier with every step. My feet are throbbing, fingertips burning, ribsaching. This isn’t how it should feel to walk into your own engagement party.
“Are you well, Princess?” Gestin steps forward. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there. His face is lined with wrinkles as his brow creases.
My gaze flits toward the hallway on my left then back to Gestin. This is my last chance to make a run for it. But what will I do afterward? Hide out in the garden until I starve? Seal myself up between those weathered stone walls, allowing my bones to crumble alongside the bones of all those animals I couldn’t save? That’s what I am right now, an animal, frantic and frightened. I’m cornered, trapped by my inescapable duties.
“Princess?” Gestin takes another step toward me.
“I—” The doors swing wide. A double line of trumpeters lets out the royal anthem and all heads turn my way.Too late to turn back now. Gestin nods for me to go first. I swallow, my throat feeling as dry as garden dirt in a summer drought.
My first step into the Great Hall forces the air from my lungs, the pressure of so many stares sitting heavy on my chest. An invisible force squeezes my throat. The tightening of a social noose. The Great Hall is overly warm, a combination of the roaring twin fireplaces and too many bodies crammed into one room.
The patrons are all masked, their identities hidden behind black velvet cats and white tufted rabbits, yellow-lace bird beaks and blue-feathered peacocks. Some cover just their eyes while others obscure the entirety of their face. My own mask presses against my face, leaving sore skin around my eyes. It’s a beautiful mask. A white and pink butterfly, lined with golden feathers and inlaid with real rubies. My mother said it’s meant to depict my metamorphosis into a woman, a soon-to-be wife.
More like a soon-to-be doll on a shelf.
My parents sit atop a dais, their crowns making them recognizable despite the matching sapphire masks that cloak their features. Next to them sits my future husband. The King of Honenbrie has chosen the mask of the golden eagle. Its gilded brilliancy contrasts with the muted grey and black of his neatly combed hair.
His mouth is hidden beneath the mask. It’s a relief, for surely he won’t expect a kiss if his lips are unreachable. I do wish I could see if he’s smiling under there. A friendly gesture may put my heart at ease. Without being able to see his face, I can only imagine it’s a true mask of revered stoicism, cold and unreadable. My own mouth is exposed for all to see, to scrutinize the quiver in my lower lip as I approach the dais steps.
King Hoff rises as I reach the top, untying his mask and setting it on the table beside him. “Princess, how lovely you’ve become.” He takes my hand, dipping down to plant a kiss on my fingers. It takes a substantial amount of willpower not to jerk my hand away. If he notices the dried blood on my brittle bitten nails, he doesn’t show it. Like all men, he only sees what he wants to see. Maybe imperfections only exist to those of us who want an excuse to hate ourselves each day. Or who are pretending not to.
“Your Highness.” I don’t think I can bear to fake a compliment about his appearance. He is a handsome man, with a stern face and closely set hazel eyes, but I’ll only ever see him as my father’s friend. “How kind of you to make the trip to Roseheart. I hope your travels were pleasant.”
“The trip was well worth it.” His gaze slides along my body.
All kings are the same, ruling with their crowns but leading with their cocks. I turn in on myself. My discomfort must be evident enough for my mother to step in. She passes pleasantries back and forth, nodding for me to take a seat. Our table is placed in front of us by four servants who look ready to keel over aftercarrying the heavy oak table up the steps. Dinner is served, an exorbitant array of furred and feathered beasts. Food is usually my comfort but between the stress and restrictive dress, I can’t eat. I’ve been sick to my stomach since I walked in. Instead, I sip my wine in silence. When my mother nods to my plate, I raise a fork, using it to press through the center of a yellow pear. The pears were brought as a gift and were grown in my soon-to-be home. I watch as the tender cream-colored flesh presses up through the prongs. Pears are grainy, plain. I much prefer apples.
My mother said an apple tree blossomed in our courtyard on the day I was born. It produces the sweetest and most unusual apples. Their skin is as gold as a treasure trove. The tree only bears fruit twice a year. When it does, I gorge myself until my belly aches.
