Chapter Three

I shouldered my way into the Rose Room, a tray of fluted glasses in my hands. I’d swirled valerian root into a dessert wine—a dark vintage dug out of the back of the pantry—to mask the bitter taste.

Once the king drank it, the herb would soothe the shiver in his spine and the jitter in his hands. It wouldn’t ease the madness nipping at the back of his brain, but it would make him seem more relaxed.

We don’t want the Volds to know he’s slipping. We didn’t want anyone to know. A mad king, a dying queen, a country still in the soft of its infancy, barely older than I. We were teetering on the edge of a succession crisis, dancing dangerously close to the cliff.

Inside, the king had wedged himself between the settee cushions and goose-down pillows, his fingers laced around a bouncing knee, pink-rimmed lips pursed as if he were sucking a lemon. His entourage stood behind him—the minister of trade, once a trusted advisor, now a babysitter, and two stewards, immaculate in their polished boots and wing-tipped jackets.

The Volds had sprawled across the room, out of place against the warm wood and faded florals. There were three—the two I’d seen arguing earlier, stiff and apart, and a woman with sharp features and the same blonde hair. A family, then. A father and his children? An uncle with a niece and nephew? Kohl rimmed the woman’s eyes, and she fingered a knife, flipping it back and forth so the gems in the hilt cast a spray of red shadows over the room’s coffered ceiling.

“Finally.” She dropped the knife into her lap and reached for a glass.

I plucked King Christian’s off the tray and let her take another—a trick I’d gotten from Stefan. We’d both gotten good at administering medicines, at slights of hand. Grape seeds slipped into a jar of pickled herring, charcoal creamed into crab.

Rain pattered on the recess of the window, beads pilling on the glass. The sky outside gloomed a shallow and smudgy gray.

I handed King Christian his wine, then waited for him to take a sip. He needed to drink most of it to get the benefit. Afterward, I’d need to watch him to make sure the herb took effect.

The king’s throat bobbed. He raised the fluted glass to his lips, then pulled it back. “He licks me with his frog tongue, ties it round my neck. He tells me to drink, but I do not want to drink. I do not.”

A stewards snorted, and the minister scowled. Rain continued to patter.

“King Christian,” the oldest Vold said. “We were hoping to speak with you in private.”

In private? That was a weird request. Even before he was mad, the king was always accompanied by half a dozen others—stewards and spectators, servants and seneschals. Lately, the number of people allowed near him had shrunk, but he was never left alone.

The minister rubbed the whiskers on his lip. “Due respect,” he said, “I don’t think—”

“Alone. Yes, alone.” The king stood, then paced around the room on wobbly legs, his shirt hanging out of the back of his pants like a duck tail. “The dark devil comes to me alone.”

The fluted glass of wine sat on the table, deep red and untouched. It would help, but he needed to drink it first.

King Christian licked his lips. “Everyone can leave.”

The stewards exchanged a glance and shuffled toward the door. The minister clapped his hands, face beseeching. Do something, he seemed to say.

My gut lurched. “I…erm, I believe a toast is customary.”

All eyes slid to me.

Please. Just drink. It will help you.

Tick, tick, tick went the mantle clock. Its scrolled, silver hand made its way around the pearly face. Tick, tick, tick. Rain billowed the curtains, soft wisps of cotton and champagne.

“An excellent idea,” the minister said. “A toast to new allies.” Had he caught on to what I was trying to do, or did he see this as an excuse to delay leaving?

The king lunged forward, reaching for the glass in the oldest Vold’s hand.

“Actually, Your Highness, I think you have one right…” I plucked the king’s cup off the table and gave it to him. His fingers were bony and cold, limp as chicken flesh. “Here.”

He took it. Thankfully.

The king raised the wine to his lips, where it hovered for a second, the bow of glass catching the light, pulling his upper lip wide like a frog’s. His mouth parted and—

He stuck out his tongue and lapped it like a dog.

The handsome Vold gave me a look that said he was seriously questioning whether we knew how to use cups.

My cheeks burned. So much for discretion.

Dribbles of red streaked down the king’s chin, staining the white of his cravat. “More,” he said. “The rest of you can leave.”

No one moved.

The oldest Vold clapped his hands. “You heard him. You’re dismissed. Now go.”

The minister touched my elbow. “Watch him.”

I’d try.

The minister and the two stewards filtered out of the room, but we were staff, what else could we do? Even the minister didn’t have the power to disobey a direct order from the king.

I opened the credenza and found a dusty bottle in the back. The king said he wanted more wine and it was customary to keep at least one serving girl in even the most private meetings. There were still a few from Larland’s rule who had their tongues cut out, a way to ensure the glasses stayed full and the secrets never spilled. I wasn’t a serving girl, but I’d try to stay in the shadows, try to blend with the scrolled sconces and the white walls the same way the stewards—

The oldest Vold plucked the bottle from my hands. “We will serve your king. Now run along.”

He waited, hulking and wolfish, at least a head taller than the average man. His face was hard and battle-lined.

“Run along,” he repeated, and there was a bite behind those words, a warning.

The minister, two stewards, and the guard nearly toppled through the door when I opened it.

“He drank valerian root,” I said. “That should relax him.” Though it wouldn’t be enough to keep him from spouting nonsense about the dark devil or to stop him from lapping his drink like a dog.

“Is there anything else you could give him?” the minister asked. “Anything stronger?”

One of the stewards flicked a gloved hand. “I don’t see why it matters. We don’t have a relationship with Volgaard.”

True. But Volgaard didn’t seem like the type of country you wanted to trifle with. Even if the Volds weren’t terrifying, they could take the news to our neighbors. At some point, they’d all ruled us—Larland, Gormark, even cold and rugged Forelsket. We’d been traded, given like rubies in dowries, won and lost in smoky gambling rooms. The Hyllestad Treaty protected our sovereignty, but if the Sanok Isles collapsed into crisis, they might take it as a sign that we were not smart enough, not shrewd enough, to rule ourselves. Did they want us back?

The minister waited for the answer to his question. His cherubic cheeks flushed red, a rash from the liver disease I’d been treating. Was there anything else I could give the king?

My hand crept to my hip where I’d stashed a clear vial. S?ven. A wet rag held against the mouth would make him slump forward, his eyes lidding heavily. If I used that, the Volds would definitely know he was slipping, but what would be better? The king doing something ridiculous or using s?ven to knock him out?

Or maybe everything would be okay, maybe the valerian would be enough.

I pressed my ear to the wood and tried to untangle the sounds, the vowels, but everything blurred together like I was listening underwater. Was the king scratching? Growling? Pawing at the furniture?

No. They seemed to be talking. Or rather, the Volds seemed to be talking.

If I strained, I could catch snips of the conversation, voices vibrating the wood in a honeyed thrum. “… protection… resources… peaceful transition…”

It must be the oldest one, his tone teasing out the sharp consonants of each word, making them hard like metal.

“… before we start a war…”

My heart kicked. Before they start a… what?

I caught one of the steward’s eyes. His brow furrowed, jaw falling slack as if he was trying to puzzle through the same thing.

“Do you think they mean…?” I whispered.

The steward shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Shhh,” the minister of trade hissed.

“… enemy… allies…”

From inside, something thunked . Then a shatter. Another scuffle, another thunk . A muffled, “Your Highness?”

What was the king doing? It might be fine. It should be fine? Or was he hurting himself? Hurting the Volds?

Scuffle, scuffle, thunk , thunk … crash!

I grabbed the s?ven and barged into the Rose Room.

Curtains billowed. Papers rustled.

King Christian had climbed atop the settee, his silver hair out of the ribbon, cascading wildly down his back. One of the oil lamps had been knocked over, and his wineglass lay broken at his feet, the pieces glittering.

I uncorked the s?ven bottle, wetting the corner of my rag. “The king’s feeling unwell,” I explained, bunching my woolen skirts and climbing onto the settee. “He’s having a reaction to something I gave him earlier. He’s not normally like this.”

I needed to keep a firm grip. I’d seen the way the king fought Stefan when he tried to sedate him, thrashing and tearing like a fish caught in a net. He may be mad, but his years as a commander in Larland’s army had drilled combat into his muscles in a way that could not be unlearned.

I grabbed the king’s shirt by the ruffles and stuffed the s?ven-soaked rag into his face.

He tensed, then twisted, shoving my shoulders with the flats of his hands. Any minute now, he’d slump forward, unconscious. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. A few deep breaths.

“It’s okay, Your Highness,” I murmured, trying to mimic the milky tone Stefan used. “You can relax. Take a deep breath.” The settee groaned under our weight.

King Christian’s hands roved my torso, my arms, his nails raking the back of my neck. His fingers tangled through the fabric of my dress, tugging at the ribbing of my sweater. His grip seemed to loosen.

This was it. A few deep breaths and he’d be on the ground. I pressed the rag harder. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

It was as if someone sent a surge through the room. King Christian shoved me and scrambled up the side of the settee, perching there like a giant bird. “You’re working with him,” he shouted. “You’re working with the dark devil.” He hugged his knees and rocked. “The dark devil puts me to sleep, but I do not want to sleep. I do not.”

I glanced at the bottle of s?ven, still open on the credenza, only the shape was too big, too fat, the liquid inside missing the pale champagne shimmer.

I sniffed the corner of my rag and my stomach crumpled. The queen’s foot vinegar.

The king scrambled off the settee and into the space between the back of the chair and the bookshelves. “I do not want to drink, I do not.” His lips sheened with vinegar. He tore off his jacket and tossed it to the ground. “The only way I am safe is to become the bear.” He pulled his breeches over his boots, exposing his penis.

One of the stewards pushed past me. “Give it to me,” he murmured, lunging for the open bottle of vinegar on the table.

“Wait.” I pulled the real s?ven bottle out, taller, more slender. “Use this.” How had I switched the two?

The steward took the rag and s?ven bottle and crept toward the king, his footsteps soft against the floral rug. “Your Highness,” he said, his cadence calm like waves. “I know a way to get rid of the dark devil. Come closer. I’ll tell you.”

King Christian’s arm slacked, his fingers loosening around his waistband. He shuffled forward one step, then another.

The steward lunged forward, shoving the rag against the king’s nose. King Christian flailed, raking his fingers along the steward’s coat, tearing the fabric, popping buttons.

The steward’s elbow clipped a bird on the bookshelves. It shattered into a spray of glass. The king stumbled back, knocking into another bookshelf with an oof , just as—

The king groaned, then slumped against the steward, who lowered him to the floor.

Everyone stared, mouths agape. The handsome Vold swirled his drink and took a pointed sip.

The room was so quiet, the only sounds were the rustle of pages and the lull of the ocean.

The minister clapped his hands. “Well,” he said. “That was exciting. Now if you’ll follow me, I think a better place to talk would be the Orchid Room.” He led the Volds down the hall. “I can relay your message to the king when he’s feeling well again…”

I grabbed the king’s coat off the ground and draped it over his waist. “Thanks for that.”

The steward picked the vinegar bottle off the floor and took a sniff. His expression pinched. “Is this…?”

I snatched it back. “The s?ven should wear off in a few hours. He’ll need to be dressed and moved. Discretely. Make sure he has a warm bath when he wakes. He’ll probably soil himself.”

The steward gathered the king’s clothes and his boots, then eased his pants around his belly. Broken glass littered the floor like confetti and three half-drunk wineglasses shimmered, red like rubies, red like blood.

We don’t need the Volds to know he’s slipping.

We couldn’t have told them any louder.