Page 19 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

And yet, I think of Sera’s fingers brushing mine over the cup.

I think of her gentle voice and her soft smile and blushing skin and delicate body…

If I miss, if I fail?—

She’d never survive him.

I unclench my fists and walk away.

When I do this, when I take aim at the king, my strikehas to be true. Not delivered in the heat of the moment, when I might leave him breathing.

At this, I cannot fail.

The afternoon beginsthe way they all begin now, with Sera already in her window seat, a book propped open in her lap. Isolde, her handmaiden, takes up needlework across the room, trying to be unnoticed.

I enter with a slow bow. “At your service, Your Highness.” I straighten and fix my drooping hat. “Do with me what you wish.”

I say it just to see the blush rise high on Sera’s cheeks. My heart knocks against my ribs at the beautiful sight.

We’ve developed a rhythm. I sit on the bench, she pours tea, and I talk while she listens. She always asks questions, and her questions are always the ones that crack me open:What did the rain smell like in your village? What games do the children play? What did your sister want to be when she grew up?

And I always answer her honestly.

When she wants a story from me, I try to remain as truthful as I can, while sparing her some details, toning the story a shade lighter than the darkness that the original stemmed from. A degree less brutal, masking the violence that has surrounded my life.

And today there’s a new weight in thesparing. What I saw through that war room door, what I saw of Aldric… I could warn her. But fuck, it seems its own cruelty to do so, to make her dread a night she can’t escape.

Not that she needs any such shelter from me. I fear a woman raised to grow poison in her garden is a woman to be feared herself, and yet, these moments between us are the brightest moments I’ve had in my dreary life. Maybe I’m curating these stories for myself, to keep her light shining, so I can bask in it just a little longer.

But today, I find that I’m curious about her, wanting to ask her questions, to know the woman behind her silver, jeweled crown.

I fight the desire, and instead tell her about the harvest festivals back home, the ones from before the taxes stripped them down to nothing. Before men fought each other over rations, blood garnishing the streets where there used to be streamers and wine.

Before I took up the profession of thief, just to keep food on the table for my sister.

How the whole village would gather in a field and someone would play fiddle by firelight and the dancing would go until dawn, and Kammy would climb on my shoulders because she was too small to see over the crowd.

How—before I’d raid at night during those festivals—I’d dance with Kammy until her heart’s contentment.

“You dance?” Sera asks, and there’s a sliver of astonishment in her voice.

I chuckle. “Gods, no.” I remove my jester hat, running ahand through my hair. “I’m awful. I think Kammy enjoyed teasing me more than the dancing, to be honest.”

Her laugh is soft, a breath of warmth. The sound arrows straight into my chest.

Sera looks at me, and she doesn’t stare—she looks at me. I’ve since stopped being self-conscious over the scar that marks my face, but still, this close, I should find it hard to hold her gaze, waiting for hers to drop to the marred skin.

She doesn’t acknowledge it, as if only seeing the man beneath the flaw. She doesn’t make me feel less. Like some revolting thing.

I clear my throat, the first to break eye contact. The garden room door opens, and Isolde slips in. I hadn’t realized she’d left at some point, and I drop my head as she crosses to Sera and leans close, murmuring something about a dress fitting.

Sera nods, replying to her in a low voice. Isolde’s eyes drift to me for a moment, coolly assessing, then she slips back out, clicking the door shut behind her. Tension threads the air, filled with the awareness—made very apparent now—that we’ve been left alone.

Sera sips from her teacup, then says, “I’m required to do a dress fitting soon, to select fabrics. For the festival.”

I nod slowly, unable to find any words. Far too aware of the way the rim of the cup presses to her lips as she drinks her tea.

She places the cup on the tray,saving me from my deviating thoughts. “You’ll be expected to attend, you know,” she continues.