Page 64 of These Vile Hearts

“The tarts—”

“Liquid sugar. Like juice or something.”

Castor stands abruptly. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

He disappears through a door behind a shelf full of glassware that clinks together as he shuts it back. In his hands, he carries a large glass jar of—

“Cherry juice for the Magesté wine,” he announces. “There are half a dozen jars back there. And also wine, which is obviously how I know about it.”

Saying nothing, I hold my trembling hands out. He keeps one palm beneath the jar as I tip the juice into my mouth, taking severalhuge gulps. Castor lets go, clearly assuming I have a tight enough grip of my own. He assumed wrong. The glass slips through my fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering.

Deep red liquid spreads through the grains of wood like the blood I imagined spilling moments ago.

“Sorry.” I attempt to stand but am hit by a wave of vertigo that forces me back down.

“I’ve got it.” He presses a hand to my shoulder. “And don’t be sorry. It’s not like you spilled wine.”

20

Castor

“So, Your Majesty…” Tamarind says the evening following the great cherry juice debacle and my locking-down lesson. “What now?”

“Everything’s going to plan.” I wave Maddox’s painstakingly wrapped gift at him and place it beside me on the samara seat. “Have some faith.”

Everything is certainlynotgoing to plan. It’s unclear if Maddox is simply locked up in that imaginary house in her mind or if she is truly uninterested in me, but my anxiety climbs as the Sylveris Solstice grows nearer and nearer.

In the past, it seemed almost cruelly easy for lovers to fall fatally in love with me. It took no grand displays or thoughtful gifts. No daily visits with coffee in hand or candlelit desserts. Just casual nights spent smoking nepenthe in bed. I pat the substance in my pocket. Desperate times call for it, I suppose.

“I know it’s not my place.” Tamarind stares out the window of the samara rather than at me. “But perhaps if you opened yourself up abit more—shared something personal or vulnerable—she might relate to it. Or even do the same.”

“That girl is locked up tighter than the citadel vaults. I seriously doubt spewing out a sad story will change that.”

Tamarind’s lips press tightly together, holding back words he clearly wants to say. I don’t push him to share them. I am well aware my time is rapidly running out. My eyes cast down to the gift, about the size and width of my forearm and wrapped in silver paper. Luckily, mortals seem to value possessions over most things. And luckily, I’ve been paying attention to the kind of woman Maddox is.

Magesté is filled to bursting when Tamarind and I arrive, Maddox’s gift tucked underneath my cloak. Fern flits about, handing out drinks to already-intoxicated visitors as Maddox stands behind the front desk, scribbling numbers on a page. Tonight, she wears a flowing gown of deep plum, fiery hair pinned back, with loose strands framing her face. Her teeth capture her bottom lip as she concentrates on her calculations.

Something stirs in my chest. An electric zing travels over my skin. Warmth pools in my gut. All of which I ignore.

“Sorry,” she says, without looking up, “we’re all booked for the night.”

“Shame,” I reply. “I had such grand plans too.”

The leaf quill in Maddox’s hand stills, silver gaze sliding up to me. “I suppose you will just have to find something else to entertain you, Your Majesty.”

“Mmm. Afraid you’re right.” I approach the desk, leaning my forearms against it. “Are you free?”

“For your entertainment?”

“No, for yours.”

I see Tam roll his eyes in my periphery, and Fern bounces up to the desk. “She’s free!”

“Very well,” Maddox says in an unrecognizable impression of some posh mortal accent. “Shall we go downstairs, or retire to the parlor?”

“Neither. Just change into something more comfortable and meet me outside.”

She doesn’t protest but glances warily at Tamarind before disappearing into the theater.