Page 22 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

I pick up my hat and bow to the princess, meeting her eyes only briefly before retiring from the room. In the corridor, I lean against the stone wall and press a hand over my chest, trying to steady the frantic beat of the muscle.

The bells of my hat jangle their pathetic song, making me irrationally angry, as I yearn to hear the softly hummed notes of hers again.

Chapter 7

Seravyn

Wolfsbane blooms for death.

My mother taught me this when I was seven, her fingers guiding mine along the deep violet petals in Threnmere’s moonlit garden. Every plant speaks, she said. Every root, every petal, every thorn carries a message. Nightshade whispers sleep. Belladonna sings beauty into the blood until the heart neglects to beat. Wolfsbane is patient, a slow unmaking.

For this, wolfsbane is queen.

The poison inside those elegant spires is the most patient killer the earth has ever sown. It seizes the heart and squeezes, disrupting its rhythm until the chambers stutter and stop. A few drops of its tincture can kill in a matter of hours. A single root, improperly handled, can poison through the skin.

My mother called it the crown jewel of Threnmere’s inheritance.

And the women of my bloodline have been drinking it for generations.

Mithridatism is the practice of building tolerance through tiny, increasing doses over years, training the body to carry what would otherwise kill you.

My grandmother drank wolfsbane tea every morning like other women drink chamomile. My mother put drops of the tincture in my milk when I was still small enough to sit in her lap, building the immunity into my blood before I was old enough to understand why.

I am the princess of poisons, raised by its queens, carrying enough lethality in my bloodstream to kill a wretched king.

Standing in the pool of moonlight, I crouch near the short row of plants and cut a stem, coming away with a single purple, hooded bloom. Even here, in this foreign land, I have to continue the nightly ritual to keep my immunity built to the toxins.

I’ve just placed the bloom in my cloak pocket and turn to leave the garden, when a sound draws me around. My heart vaults to my throat at the sight of Ren.

He’s wearing a plain black tunic, his hair disheveled without his jester’s cap to tame it, and the scar cutting through his eye catches the silvery moonlight in a way that makes him look like a cautionary tale.

He tilts his head, assessing me. “It’s rather late forprincesses to be roaming the garden,” he says, his voice cast low.

Feeling less startled that it’s him and not one of the guards, I physically relax my stiff posture. “I could say the same for jesters.”

His mouth twitches at the corner. “Fair enough,” he says, crossing toward me. “But I’d feel responsible should anything happen to you out here, so let me escort?—”

The words have barely left his mouth before I’m grabbing his arm and tugging him down with me. Face just inches from his, I push my finger against my lips, urging him to be quiet.

“Norene, come help with this bucket,” one of the servants calls out. I peek through the row of plants, watching as she empties a bucket of sudsy water. The garden is small, a walled courtyard, enclosed on three sides by pale stone. “Aye, never mind you. I’ve done it already.”

Slinging the bucket at her side, she enters through the side door, leaving us alone in the silent garden once more. And I become hyperaware of the rushed sound of my breaths—and Ren’s heavy gaze on my lips.

He swallows, slowly dragging his eyes up to meet mine as my finger lowers. “I take it being found out here at night wouldn’t be a good thing,” he says.

I unclench my fingers from the fabric of his tunic sleeve. His presence so near is a physical thing. All heat and breath and thrumming nerves. I push back some, clearing strands of hairfrom my face.

“You’d be correct in your assumption,” I say warily, uncertain of what he’ll do with this information.

Ren licks his lips, a slow smile tugging at the corner as he watches me, and the air changes. Warmer, denser, headier with his scent—some spice beneath the soap on his skin, earthy and male and entirely too present.

He remains crouched beside me, far too close. His knee nearly touches mine. He cocks his head. “What are you doing out here, Princess?”

“Brash of you to ask, Jest,” I snap.

His smile stretches. “Just curious.”

This man has no fear in his eyes. It’s what I noticed the first moment I saw him in the throne room. And seemingly, he has no fear of me—something that makes my heart knock hard in my chest.