Page 25 of The Dead Queen

The maid giggles on the other side of the door. “It’s a surprise, Your Highness. You’ll like it.”

Doubtful. I yawn. “Can you leave it outside the door for now? I’m not decent.”

“I don’t believe so, Your Highness. No.”

I smother my groan into a fluffy pillow. “All right, give me a moment.”

With great effort, I rise from the bed to throw on a dressing gown. If the maid saw I didn’t wear the frilly sleeping gowns she ironed, she would be very disappointed. But I can’t sleep in that much luxury after everything I’ve been through on the border, everything I’ve seen. It haunts my dreams. The expensive bedding makes me feel guilty enough.

After checking in the mirror to make sure there’s no drool on my face, I open the door.

The maid’s eyes are bright, and I’m instantly suspicious. My eyes trail behind her to the parade of servants standing beneath enormous arrangements of red roses. My jaw drops. The sheer extravagance of the display is staggering, bordering on ridiculous.

The maid’s face is flushed as she says, “They’re from your groom, Your Highness! Isn’t it romantic?” Her voice is high-pitched with excitement, as if she’s living out some grand fairy tale, secondhand.

The most I can manage is a mumbled, “Mmhm.”

The maid shoos me aside so the servants can take the entire greenhouse-worth of red flowers into my bedchamber. Bouquet after massive bouquet, my room fills until every surface is completely covered. The vanity, the writing desk, the window seats—they all disappear beneath a sea of scarlet petals. Even the floor is blanketed in vases overflowing with roses, forcing the servants to navigate between the arrangements.

The entire room has turned into a crimson garden. But this display doesn’t make me think of romance and stolen kisses, it makes me think of thorns and open wounds. It makes me think of blood.

The thing is, I don’t even like roses. And I’m pretty sure Hunter knows this. But this show isn’t for me, not really.

“We’ll give them a once in a lifetime love story,” he’d said at the ball last night. It seems he wasn’t kidding.

“They came with a note,” the maid says breathlessly. She holds up a cream-colored envelope with my name scrawled on it in looping penmanship. The maid looks at it with hunger in her eyes. She clearly wants to know what it says.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Read it to me.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Oh, but I couldn’t! It would be an intrusion!”

“It’s all right, I’m … too tired. To read.” I flounder. “All that dancing.”

The maid clutches her heart and gives me a pitying look, like I’m the most self-sacrificing heir that ever lived and she adores me for it.

“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” She nods enthusiastically. “You must be exhausted. Please, sit. I will happily read the letter to you.”

I shuffle to a gilded lounge chair. Its gold velvet upholstery blends into the sea of red roses. Settling into the cushions, I play the role of the beloved heir. My face arranges into what I hope is a convincing mask of romantic longing.

She breaks the wax seal with a flourish, her hands trembling as she unfolds the note. Then she clears her throat and reads:

To My Dearest Love,

These roses are but thorns compared to your beauty …

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. The maid’s head snaps up, and she gives me an incredulous look.

Thinking quickly, I wave a hand in front of my face and add a slight cough. “My apologies,” I say, with a note of polite embarrassment. “The pollen. I’ll be fine.”

Her face relaxes. She continues:

Waiting for our wedding day, when I can see your beauty bloom in our own shared chamber, feels like torture.

I roll my eyes and barely manage to stifle a groan.

The maid’s face is pink, but I don’t believe it’s from embarrassment. She reads faster in her excitement, no doubt memorizing every word to repeat to her friends later. By nightfall, every servant in the palace will know of my lovesick groom. They’ll be dreaming of our wedding night and the thousand roses he sent to remind me of all the beautiful things he’ll do to my body.

I cringe at the thought. Thankfully, the maid is too engrossed in Hunter’s saccharine words to notice me.