Page 3

I swallow, fear coating my throat, my tongue. Not for myself, but for Cress and her unborn child, I whisper, “I’m a necessary sacrifice.”

“Now, make me believe you mean it.”

He holds my gaze before he releases me and offers me his arm. I drape my hand over it as I bite my cheek. A leash retied. With every step back toward the rehearsal, I burrow into myself. Resigned to my fate so I can spare Cress from whatever sick retribution Vivian could dream up.

We find the marker where we last left off.

The witch’s mouth is drawn tight for only a moment before she says, “Now, once the processional music begins, you will promenade to the altar.”

And then it is like my outburst never happened. The witch waves us forward, and though no music is playing, we meander down the aisle until we’re a hairsbreadth away from the altar. The large slab of stone is shaped like a coffin.

A coffin.

Unlit black candles sit around the edge of the base, interspersed between similar floral arrangements of burgundy garden roses, deep purple peonies, and ivory buttercups, all carefully sourced and donated from the late queen’s botanical gardens.

Vivvy grins at me. “Excited yet?”

“Sure am,” I murmur, forcing just enough enthusiasm into my voice to mask my resignation.

The witch points to Vivvy. “After your father presents the sacrifice to you, you will guide her onto the altar, and I will begin invoking the rite.”

“At what point am I given the lunar blade?” asks Viv.

“After you’ve made your vow, one of my sisters will grant you use of the dagger.” The witch beckons me closer, and I reluctantly step forward. She reaches for my hand and turns it palm up. My heart involuntarily gallops. Bunching up one lacy sleeve of my night-dark dress, she drags her fingertip across the inside of my wrist in a single lethal line. “Your slashes on both wrists must be precise and deep enough to satisfy the invocation.”

My empty stomach churns as the thoughts and feelings I have tried to block out threaten to rear their ugly heads—fear being the strongest and the first to loosen itself free. I’m really going to die. Tomorrow. Nothing short of Death herself denying me will stop the rite from happening.

The light breeze from the oncoming storm rustles the crimson ribbon cinching the end of Vivvy’s braid. I can’t help but fixate on the slash of color. It’s the hue of spilled blood, of hopes crushed and dreams come true. She tightens it as she nods. “I’ve been practicing.”

Those words, paired with her winning smile, stop me from spiraling altogether. Resentment replaces my fear. How often has she practiced slashing my wrists? Does she dream about sacrificing me the way I dream about disappearing in the night?

I tried running away once. I made it all the way to Wall Lilium before the witches caught me, and Father locked me in my room for an entire summer with nothing to read but the mortal kings’ propaganda.

“Good.” The witch’s lips turn up, but her grin is more terrifying than friendly. “Once the sacrifice has bled enough to fill the Ascension Chalice, you will drink from it. As her life fades, yours will amplify. When she draws her last breath, you will breathe in the spirit of the First Hunter and the ascension will be complete.”

“Let us see what the sacrifice will look like sprawled across the altar!” someone shouts from the tables.

All the witches draw to a collective stop. Eerily still, scarily quiet.

King Joal’s favorite pins the onlookers with a glare. “Such a suggestion is sacrilegious.”

“If that’s all,” Father cuts in, diverting all attention to him, “let us conclude this rehearsal and honor Death the way she is meant to be honored the night before a rite… with wine and music!”

The overwhelming urge to roll my eyes nearly consumes me, but I keep myself in check.

For Cress.

At that, the violinist Father hired just for tonight plays an ambient, haunting tune as servants spill from the manor, bringing more bottles of sparkling wine and trays of delicate pastries from Sweet Disposition—my favorite bakery.

Vivian and Father break away, and I follow suit and dip into the shadows where those who shouldn’t be seen nor heard linger. Beneath the flowering dogwood’s leaves, I count the minutes until Father is well into his cups and animatedly telling a story to his adoring crowd before sauntering over to one of the tables lined with various finger foods.

My stomach rumbles as I reach for a small plate and pile it with petite crackers, figs studded with almonds, and a few goat cheese tartelettes. I pop a cherry pastry into my mouth and chew so quickly I barely have time to savor the taste.

“Sacrifice,” Vivian chides, approaching. Her eyes linger on the cherry juice I lick from the corner of my lip, dip lower to the crumbs sprinkled across my bodice, and finally at the plate in my hands. “You aren’t going to eat all that, are you?”

Shame rushes through me. I shake my head, praying the dim candlelight hides the warmth crawling across my face.

“Of course not,” I lie, holding the plate out for her. “I prepared it for you as an apology for my earlier outburst.”