Page 72 of These Vile Hearts

But my dad’s pact ended in his death. Who’s to say mine won’t end that way too? Was my wording clever enough? Did I seal all the cracks in the deal the Myrtle Queen could attempt to slip through? Will the Redwood Court find out what I did and haunt me for the rest of my days? Even if I kill Castor, there’s still one Sempervirens left. Who will the Myrtle Queen task with killing Durian once he’sthe last one standing? Castor’s story about Elswyth and Rowan and their doomed love story replays in my mind.

Dozens of dryads lost their lives; their blackened heartwood skeletons still stand to this day, as a reminder of the chaotic temperament of the Myrtle Queens.

Shaking my head to clear it of unwanted thoughts, I move on to the final portrait in line…King Castor.

It seems much newer than the others. Brighter and untouched by dust.

I take in his image with a slow sigh. Chestnut hair, slightly tousled, like he didn’t even bother combing it before sitting for this portrait, charred black horns curling back like a devil’s, brown skin much lighter than the former king’s, and thatjaw. It’s almost rude how sharp it is. But, behind his subtle smirk, there’s a haunted look in his deep-set eyes, something that’s missing from all the other kings.

The bonfire of hatred I felt for him a week ago has dimmed with each day. Which means I need to kill himtonight, before it burns out completely.

“Handsome, isn’t he?”

I nearly spill my wine. The cursed prince steps into my periphery. The memory of his hand on mine, pressing against the axe he knew I was hiding, rises to the surface of my skin in the form of a blush.

“Uh—”

Soft harp music suddenly builds, joined by violins and horns. The chattering in the room evaporates. Durian turns to face the pair of tall doors, where the guards are now forming parallel lines, a wide smile unrolling across his face.

The doors swing open and in strolls King Castor with six attendants trailing after him.

Tonight, he wears a tightly fitted white-and-gold ensemble complete with a straight cape that falls to the ground and a vestencrusted in half-gilded diamonds. His hair is styled, arranged so perfectly that not even the strongest gust of wind could displace it.

In fact, it’s too perfect. I prefer how it usually is, disheveled and unkempt like it’s just been tousled by a lover’s hand. More than once my fingers have twitched to touch it, to gauge the softness of it.

The king parades through the center of the guards like an A-list celebrity on the red carpet feigning being bashful, a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. He seeks me out. When he notes Durian standing beside me, any trace of softness in his expression turns to stone.

Coming to a stop, he folds his hands before him, clearing his throat to address the room. His words sound rehearsed and stiff, like he’s unused to speaking to such a large group. “Welcome, my friends, to my home. As you all know, the Sylveris Solstice will take place at the upcoming full moon. My brother”—he waves a bejeweled hand in Durian’s direction—“and I are truly pleased to have you join us in enjoying some of the most decadent wine and food our kingdom has to offer. So, er”—he clears his throat awkwardly—“enjoy the food tonight. I hope you will, I mean. Enjoy the food. It’s very good.”

After an uncomfortably long pause, the room breaks out into polite clapping. A few dryads cover their mouths as they shake with silent laughter. Durian’s expression is lit with the light of a thousand fairies, as if he’s just witnessed the beginning of a fabulous show.

He raises his glass. “Thank you for those eloquent words, King Castor.”

The music begins again. Most of the guards fall away, pressing themselves back against the wall. Two trail after the king, right in my direction.

I swear all eyes are on the three of us.

“Enchanting speech, Your Majesty,” Durian says.

Castor’s chin inclines. “Thank you. I agree. In fact, it was probablythe best speech anyone in this room has heard from a Redwood King.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was…” Durian returns with a cryptic grin. “I will leave you two for now. I can tell when my presence is not wanted. Unfortunately, that is nearly always the case, isn’t it? Such is the lot of a cursed prince.”

Revolving on a heel, he winks at me and backs away, sliding between a pair of ogling dryads. They jump dramatically away from him as if he’s carrying some sort of contagious disease.

A server passes with a tray full of wine. King Castor swipes one, draining the goblet and running his tongue across his teeth. His brown eyes burn into the prince’s back. “Shall we?”

The dining room is just as excessive as one might expect for a dryad kingdom dripping in gold. His Majesty sits at the head of a sprawling table, and Prince Durian is to his right. I’m directed to the seat on his left.

Elegant ivory candles housed in wreaths of pine cones and jewels decorate the center of the vast expanse of redwood. Each seat is set with golden chargers in the shape of delicate leaves beside wooden goblets wrapped in the same material.

The feast—seventeen courses—is served by squat creatures called woodlings. I leave the table nearly a dozen times, under the guise of using the restroom, to deliver more and more and motherfucking more insulin. At first, I try to take enough to cover multiple dishes, but they are too spaced out and some don’t have carbs while others have loads. And the auric wine issosweet.

One of my foster families—the Cadwalladers—was of the country club variety, and they would take me and their bio kids there every weekend to indulge in decadent five-course meals. I hated it because they were ungodly strict about manners and shit, so I had to leave the table every time I needed to take more insulin to cover my food because “needles are indecent.” Eventually, I just stoppedeating at those dinners altogether. I would pick at my salad and claim I wasn’t hungry while their entitled kids gorged themselves on bread and desserts.

I think hindsight will tell me that I should have gone that route tonight. But…it’s a bit late for all that now. I’ve already stepped onto the roller coaster.

Anytime Durian speaks to me, the king freezes, as if his brother’s words hold some kind of dark, hypnotic power over him. My mind travels in a million directions: my soaring blood sugar, my racing heart, Durian’s words, Castor’s uncomfortable silence, my father’s warnings, my pact with the Myrtle Queen, the weight of the dagger at my hip. Each thought is punctuated with the wordskill the king.