Page 7 of Split or Swallow

“It doesn’t count when you say it.”

“Does it count when Old Steve says it? Because I’m sure he would if we asked him.”

Tem resisted the urge to pour her beer on his lap.

“The prince has to think I’m a catch. And I can assure you, he won’t.”

Gabriel tapped her twice on the nose.

“You’ll never land a man with that attitude.”

“The prince is hardly a man,” she grumbled, swatting his hand away.

The prince was twenty years old, just like Tem. Only girls born in the same year as the prince were eligible for the training. She’d never seen the prince up close, although if Vera’s bullshit story about running into him in the town square was to be believed, his eyes were green. Tem didn’t believe the story, and she definitely didn’t care what color his eyes were.

“It could be worse, you know,” Gabriel said.

“What could?”

“The training. At least the prince will make his choice based on who he likes in bed. If it was based on other skills, you’d have no chance at all.”

Tem frowned.

“What other skills?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Cooking, for example.”

“Cooking?”

“I’ve had your shepherd’s pie, Tem,” he wrinkled his nose. “Gamey.”

Thankfully, at that moment, Peter walked through the door.

Gabriel leaped to his feet, adjusting his jacket and running a hand through his hair.

“Duty calls,” he said before making a beeline for the stable boy.

After that, there was nothing left for Tem to do but watch Vera and Jonathan test the bounds of what was appropriate to do in public. Two beers later, Tem was ready to go.

True to her word, she wasn’t home late. But the cottage was quiet when she arrived, her mother already in her room, probably asleep in anticipation of an e⁠a⁠r⁠l⁠y morning on the farm. Tem washed her face in the bathroom before crawling into her bed and staring once more at the ceiling. Usually, she would touch herself before falling asleep. But the thought of meeting the basilisk tomorrow was so intimidating that she couldn’t even do that. She tossed and turned violently, unable to settle.

When she finally slept, she dreamed of fire.

It didn’t burn her. Rather, it warmed her gently, from the tips of her toes to the base of her skull. The fire felt familiar, somehow, as if it were sent by someone she had known a long time ago. Flames licked her fingers, her palms, her arms. A single breath brushed her cheek. Then it was over.

The next morning dawned like any other. Tem went about her chores, delivering her eggs and helping her mother in the kitchen just as she always did. But in the back of her mind was the constant knowledge that in less than twelve hours she would be face to face with a basilisk.

By the time evening arrived, she was taking her angst out on the potatoes.

“Careful, Tem,” her mother said. “You’re going to cut yourself.”

A cut was the least of Tem’s problems. She threw down the knife in exasperation.

“I’m not ready, mother,” she said. “How will I know what to do?”

Her mother sighed, brushing her hair from her face.

“You will learn what to do. The basilisk will teach you.”