Amril’s bloodshot eyes searched the room and fixed on Melia. “Where’s my brother?” he asked.
WherewasAmron? It was not his habit to shirk his duty like this, even if he was angry, even if this crowd bewildered him. Amril so rarely relied on him, but now Amron’s absence loomed like a missing tooth, like a rug pulled from under one’s feet.
The truth was, in that roiling sea of sycophants, he was the only person capable of reining Amril in, and Amril knew it.
Faster than she expected, Amril crossed the room and grabbed her arm. “Where is he?” He shook her so hard her teeth chattered.
“I don’t know,” she stammered, frightened by the wild glint in his eyes.
“Someone find him,” Amril ordered.
He looked sick, yet everybody pretended not to see it. Goaded by his friends, he let go of Melia and stepped towards the bedchamber.
“She’s in for a treat,” a lady said behind his back, her voice dripping poison.
“Show her that move, you know, the one that makes the girls moan.”
A choir of exaggerated moans echoed in the background. Amril swayed on his feet and shook his head like a wounded boar preparing for the final charge.
“Conquer the Empire for us!”
Melia kept her expression frozen, afraid to show her disgust lest they turn on her.
“Open the door,” Amril said.
If Amron had been there, perhaps Melia would have repentedand begged him to stop his brother, to take him to some private corner and let the potion run its course. But Amron wasn’t there, and even if his erratic behavior frightened her, she had no means of stopping Amril.
The Seragian ladies opened the door, and Amril walked through them like a man heading to his execution.
The noise in the antechamber fell to hushed whispers, cushioned by the soft melody the lutenist strummed. The lust was postponed for a little while, the erratic, nasty revelry temporarily brought to heel while the royal business was conducted in the next room.
What were they waiting for? For Amril to walk out with a triumphant smirk on his face? For some physical proof, like a bloody sheet?
Melia felt sick.
“Any moment now,” one of the ladies whispered, “he never lasts very long,” and all her companions burst into muffled fits of laughter.
But there was only silence on the other side of the door, silence for so long that the men grew uncomfortable and the women bored. Those intent on seeking their own pleasure snuck out, and the crowd dwindled, leaving only the curious and the unfortunate.
Too many scents mixed in the air—food, flowers, perfume—and it lay thick and heavy on Melia’s shoulders, choking her. Her father was far away, yet she felt his fiery gaze burning the back of her neck, his hot, hungry breath behind her ear. And Ferisa, damn her, what was she doing? She used to be Melia’s friend, her anchor, not this malevolent creature seeding destruction wherever she went.
If only Amron were beside her. Even though it was too late to save the night, they could retreat with dignity. Melia stifled a yawn, looking at all the food that lay forgotten on the tables,all the bottles filled with bright liquid, the ice slowly melting, wishing she knew how to drink herself to oblivion and wake up in some other place. Or some other time, where Ferisa’s potion had been nothing but a sleeping draft, and Amril snored gently in his wedding bed while the carevna read a book beside him, wondering how long it would take for the most stubborn guests to take the hint and go away.
The course of the night had already been decided upon, though. Voices rose on the other side of the door, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Pleading, then a high-pitched yelp, something heavy stumbling, hitting the door. A cry, “No, don’t—” and then the door opened so violently it almost tore its hinges.
The carevna flew through the doorway, landing on the carpet in the middle of the room. The Seragian women screamed, rushing to her. Amril stood on the threshold, swaying wildly, his bloodshot eyes staring at the antechamber but seeing nothing.
Pushing away the ladies, Aratea cried, “What are you staring at? Help him!”
The prince fell to his knees, head bowed, hands hitting the carpet, and threw up a stream of red liquid.
Melia screamed, and she wasn’t the only one. The ladies shrieked, and Amril’s friends woke from their stupor, ran to him, pulled him away from the mess. A lady with a wet cloth ran to wipe his face, someone poured a glass of water and tried to lift it to his lips. The prince shook them off and turned to his wife.
Supported by her ladies, Aratea looked like a ghost, red hair pouring over her shoulders, white nightgown ruined. She stepped towards the prince. “Amril, you’re unwell,” she said.
The glistening puddle on the floor was dark red, but it was clear to Melia, who’d seen enough blood spilled for a lifetime, that it was only wine.
The prince opened his mouth to say something and instantlydoubled over, a red tide rushing out of his mouth again. When it ceased, he lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “What have you done to me, you bitch?”
