Marco sighed. “We thought perhaps the curse had come for you.”
Anders swung his legs round and attempted to stand, but he immediately fell back onto the mattress. He pressed a hand to his head with a groan.
“What happened?”
“You fell asleep on the job,” Paolo replied bitterly.
Anders shook his head and pushed back up to standing, kicking over the cup from his supper the previous evening, which rolled behind the door.
“The King has requested your presence at breakfast. There’s a pail of hot water by the basin for you to wash up. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Anders pinched the bridge of his nose as Paolo closed the door, leaving him alone. What had happened? He felt as though he’d drunk three pitchers of mead and lost a bareknuckle boxing match.
He reached down to pick up the cup he’d kicked and noticed a folded piece of paper behind the door. Opening it, he saw a note in a delicate, scrawling hand. The words made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
Beware, Silver Prince. Do not eat or drink anything that is brought to you.
How did the letter writer know who he was? And what did they mean about the food and drink—had he been poisoned? Was that why his mouth was drier than a desert and his head was throbbing?
Anders’ eyes widened. Someone was trying to help him. Which told him that someone in the palace knew what was happening to the Princesses. And that meant he’d be able to discover the truth if he just asked the right question to the right person.
All he needed to do was find the right person. But where to begin?
He’d taken this quest on as a way to save his own neck, believing it would be a simple case of watching and noticing things that others had not—something he usually excelled at. But now, with the note and the poisoned cup of wine, he was starting to worry that it wouldn’t be as simple as he’d first thought. Someone may be trying to help him, but someone was also working against him.
If he was going to make it out of the Gilded Palace alive, he needed to find out who that was, and soon.
Chapter 8
Isadora
Issy pushed her porridge around the bowl with a silver spoon, her mind consumed with the shards of memory from the previous night. Again, they’d danced at the mysterious ball, again they’d woken in their finest gowns with shoes that had seen better days. And when she’d woken, Issy’s ankle had been agony.
She dreaded the thought of dancing again that evening—luckily there was no ballet performance, but she feared she’d be forced to dance through the night once more, sore ankle or no.
She stirred honey and red berries into her oats until the entire bowl was stained pink, but she didn’t raise the spoon to her mouth. She couldn’t stomach breakfast anymore. It had been her favourite meal of the day before the curse, but now she woke every morning with a bad taste in her mouth and a stomach that baulked at the sight of food. She’d lost weight, and the sleep deprivation had affected her studies, never mind her dancing. She’d always resembled her mother, but now she looked more like Queen Idalia when she was suffering with the wasting sickness than she did the portrait that hung in the hall outside her and her sister’s rooms.
Her mother had become ill very suddenly, the sickness progressing quickly, until just one week later she had died and been entombed in the royal mausoleum. Issy had never quite understood how her mother had deteriorated so rapidly, she’d had the best physicians and apothecaries in the kingdom, and food and drink had been plentiful. Her father had told her it was just the way of the world, sometimes people grew sick and died and there was nothing more to it. But Issy had—
“Isadora, have you heard a single word I have said?” Her father’s gruff voice cut through the chatter inside her head.
“Apologies, father. I’ve a lot on my mind.”
He shook his head in exasperation, but Issy saw the twitch of his lips and the twinkle in his eye that only seemed to appear when he was speaking to her. She supposed she reminded him of her mother; a strong-willed, confident young woman who knew her own mind. It had been an admirable trait in a queen—perhaps less so in an adolescent daughter.
But Issy reminded herself, she wouldn’t be an adolescent for much longer. In two days’ time, she would turn eighteen, and the business of marrying her off to the highest bidder would begin. As heir to the throne, she was still an attractive prospect for many young noblemen, even despite the curse.
“Well, I hope you’ll show Prince Philip more interest than you have this conversation when he arrives.”
Issy’s stomach churned and she feared she would lose her breakfast, but she hadn’t eaten anything.
Her father went on. “And Lady Fiona is arriving later today.”
Both Issy and Livia groaned.
“Don’t be like that,” their father warned. “She’s a dear, old friend and she offered to come and prepare the both of you to be presented to suitors. She is doing us a kindness, and I expect you to treat her with respect.”
“Yes, father,” they both mumbled into their bowls.
