Page 73 of These Vile Hearts

“You must be a very special lady,” the prince says after the tenth course—quail drizzled with a blackberry reduction. “I’ve never seenHis Majestyleave the citadel this frequently.”

I take another sip of wine. “That so?”

“Can’t say I blame him.” Durian looks up at me through his lashes. “You are breathtaking.”

Castor’s fork clatters onto his plate, and he reaches for his nearly empty goblet of wine. The quick movement knocks the glass on its side, spilling the pathetic remnants across the table. Two woodlings hurry over to mop up the mess.

His arm, which rests on his thigh, shakes with the movement of anxious foot tapping. I press a hand to it. At my touch, he stops.

“Chill,” I whisper to him. “I can handle myself.”

His eyes meet mine, filled with a slow-building storm of anxiety. I slide my hand away. What does he think, that I’ll fall in love with the cursed prince in the span of one dinner and drop dead at this very table?

If I do drop dead, it will be from hyperglycemia.

I duck away around the fourteenth course to test my blood sugar yet again and find it’s jumped from 213 to 284. “Are you fucking withme?” I whisper aloud to my meter, pressing my forehead against the wall of the bathroom, swallowing the curse I’m tempted to scream. Low blood sugars are easy, quickly treatable. But, for me, high blood sugars are a category five hurricane traveling at 1 mph. Just sitting there, wrecking things.

Likely, it stems from all the horror stories my mother used to tell me of what can happen to “bad diabetics” who let their blood sugar stay high for too long. How I could lose my sight, my hearing, my limbs, my teeth. Any ailment I had was blamed on my brittle blood sugar, a cookie I’d eaten the previous day or a piece of candy I’d snuck from the “low jar.”

I fill a syringe with more insulin, wishing for a pointless moment that I had the insulin pump I briefly used to keep track of how much I’ve already taken. I wish for my life back. For a life that isn’t dictated by my blood sugar and my ability to afford its demanding care. I wish for the cure scientists keep promising is just another ten years away. The Myrtle Queen’s promise is one I can make come true. All I have to do is kill the king.

No big deal. Just kill him.

Simple.

I return from my existential crisis as the first dessert is being served: a towering spectacle of cream puffs covered in a tangled web of butterscotch drizzles, dotted with elegantly carved fruits. I will not be eating any of that.

As I take my seat beside the king, he leans over to whisper, “Feeling all right?” His breath is soaked in sweet wine.

“Yep. Drinking just makes me pee a lot,” I say as he finishes off his tenth glass. “Areyouall right?”

“I am excellent.” He reaches over my empty plate to grasp the handle of a full flagon of wine.

Once the desserts are devoured and the table cleared, the king stands, inviting the men to follow him to the brandy room.

“Ladies,” he addresses the three other females and me, “it has been an honor and a pleasure to share this feast with you. There are acorn sherry and huckleberry truffles in the music room. Feel free to stay as long as you wish.”

Evidently, this kingdom is stuck in early 1900s America. Women here, men there.

Standing, I lean over to mutter to Castor, “Are the women justdismissednow?”

He reaches out a hand, absently brushing my hair off my shoulder. I fight back a chill. “Trust me. I wish I could join you.”

My chance is slipping away from me. The king will soon be in a room surrounded by men and guards and brandy. How am I supposed to commit a murder in those conditions?

“Enjoy yourself.” My brain aches as I desperately seek another way in. I know this is a dinner party, but I didn’t realize most of the night would be taken up withactualdinner.

Prince Durian chooses this moment to approach the two of us. The king’s temporary relaxation evaporates into palpable unease. “Are you joining us for brandy?” the prince asks me with a coy grin.

“Afraid I am not invited.”

Durian fixes the king with a look of shock and disdain. “YourMajesty. Surely you would rather spend the evening in the company of this stunning young lady rather than among a group of dreary old men.”

“Well, I’m sure Maddox wouldn’t want to—”

“I wouldloveto join, actually,” I chime in. “If I’m allowed.”

“Of course you are.” Prince Durian offers me his arm. “Allow me to escort you, my love.”