“What’s in the box?” Asherton asked, inspecting the food. He reached for the cheese, but Zephyr grabbed his wrist.
“Your bodyguard should taste your food before you eat it,” he said.
Magdala’s eyes widened. It would be difficult to slip him amenite powder if she had to taste his food first. “Oh, that’s not necessary …”
“It is absolutely necessary,” Zephyr said firmly.
Asherton tossed Magdala an apple. “Zeph has a point. Isn’t that how they get the princess in fairytales? With a poisoned apple? That would be a cliche way to go.”
Magdala bit the apple, then sampled the stale bread and sweating cheese.
Zephyr peered over his spectacles at her. When Magdala finished, he nodded and said brightly, “Excellent. Now we just have to wait and see if she dies.”
“At this rate, I’ll starve to death first,” Asherton complained. “So I think I’ll risk it.”
“The crown prince of Allagesh is too important …” Zephyr began, with practiced polish.
Asherton cut him off. “The crown bastard of Allagesh, you mean.”
Zephyr flinched. “Don’t call yourself that. I’ve never called you that.”
“And I’ve never called you old, but that doesn’t mean you’re not.”
“You call me old all the time.”
“My point stands.”
“Your point is in shambles on the ground, gasping,” Zephyr grumbled as he left the room. It seemed his habit to arrive suddenly and unannounced and then leave in the same manner. Very inconvenient when one is trying to slip amenite into someone’s drink.
Magdala reached for the box, assuming that if she was expected to taste the prince’s food, she was also expected to check his packages.
“I don’t mind you eating my food, but I draw the line at opening my mail,” Asherton said, snatching the box from her.
“Why?” Magdala asked with an impish grin. “Is it from a lady?”
Asherton carried the box to the bed. “Oh yes, every high-born lady wants to be queen to a cursed king. All of Allagesh thinks I’ll either abdicate or die before I’m crowned.”
“And will you, Your Highness?’ Magdala asked.
“Die? That’s up to you, I suppose.”
Her cheeks pinked. “I meant, will you abdicate?”
“I can’t. There’s no law for abdication. Wherever I am on my twenty-first birthday, I am king.” Asherton pried open the box’s lid. “But even if I could abdicate, I wouldn’t do it. I promised my brother I would save the dragons.” He glanced inside the box and froze, his lips slightly parted.
This was her moment. The prince was distracted, and she could slip the amenite into his drink. Trying to appear casual, Magdala returned to the tea tray, angled her body so she blocked his view of the table, poured a glass of water, and sipped it loudly. Then she took the amenite from her pocket and uncapped the vial.
One sip and it would be over. He would blurt out that he’d killed Julian, then he would be exiled, and Huxley would restore her house and title. Her father would sleep in his own bed again, with a full belly and a proud heart.
“Oh, oh no …” Asherton moaned.
Magdala glanced over her shoulder. He reached into the box and lifted out a well-worn shearling-lined leather jacket.
A prickle ran up Magdala’s spine. The wool on the collar and cuffs was stained dark burgundy, as if they had been soaked in blood.
Magdala hesitated, her hand suspended over the glass. A dusting of blue powder dropped from the vial onto the surface of the water. Immediately, the dust dissolved, invisible.
Asherton held up the jacket, his jaw tense. He ran his thumb over the stiff wool, and a fine russet powder dustedhis hand.
