The handwriting is feminine, slanted and careful. Faded, as though time itself tried—and failed—to erase it.
Beneath a subheading pressed in small, deliberate script:
Remedy or Deadly?
Certain flowers exist in both pharmacopeia and poison lists. Their purpose is determined not by their nature but by the hand that prepares them. Destined to heal or cursed to destroy.
My breath stills. I flip back to the entries, my pulse beginning to race.
Belladonna(Atropa belladonna)
Meaning:Beautiful woman. Silence. Hidden danger.
Note:Highly poisonous. Medicinal in precise doses.
Foxglove(Digitalis)
Meaning:Insincerity. Deception.
Note:Deadly if misused. Heals the heart when properly prepared.
Snapdragon. Deception. False appearances.
Edelweiss. Courage. Devotion under trial.
Beside them all is one word, pressed harder than the rest.
TRIAL.
Underlined.
Once.
The flowers weren’t chosen at random. They weren’t gifts; they were instructions. A warning passed from one woman to another.
The next trial is the ball.
At dinner a week after his disappearance, it is not Keiren who enters the dining hall, but Arther. His stride is sharp, his expression unreadable. The hall stills as if the stones themselves recognize his authority.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone.
“The king’s ball will be held tomorrow night,” he announces. “In the Hall of Mirrors.”
No explanation. No questions entertained.
When I return to my chambers the following night, a gown awaits me, draped across my bed in a river of midnight silk that shimmers like spilled ink. The fabric is cool beneath my fingers, heavier than it looks, stitched with a care that speaks of time and intention. Beside it rests a silver mask, its surface carved into delicate scales that catch the light and fracture it.
Chapter 26
The Hall of Mirrors
The Hall of Mirrors devours us in light. Candles gutter inside crystal cages, their flames multiplying until the walls look as if they’re burning without heat. Gold leaf traces every cornice. Painted dragons drift across a ceiling so high it could be sky. And everywhere, glass. Endless alcoves of it.
My reflection stands among them like a patient army: a hundred versions of me in a midnight gown and moon-silver mask, each one a breath behind the last.
The gown clings to me as if stitched for my body alone. Tiny scales thread the fabric, catching candlelight with every step, making me look more myth than woman. No one else wears anything like it. The other brides shimmer in pastels—gauze and jewels, soft colors meant to soothe.
I alone wear darkness and dragon-silver scales.
