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Dante says that everyone has dreams. But the way he’s described them, they’re very different from the kind I have. The last one he told me about, he was riding a frog into his hometown to meet his sister to congratulate her on her new carrot.
“You don’t have a sister,” I told him. “And why would you congratulate anyone for a carrot?”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s just how dreams are.”
I didn’t understand. Everything I’ve ever dreamed has happened or will happen—or wasmeantto happen. And now, I’m getting cryptic messages directed toward me from gods and fairies and dream princes, when I’ve never had these kinds of omens before.
I can’t warn Cyrus about this.
My ruin,his dream-self accused.
I believe it.
Maybe there’s another way. It wouldn’t be the first time Ichanged destiny. That was how this trouble started: I pulled a prince out of danger when I wasn’t supposed to. There must be other things the gods want besides the prince’s life or mine. Can Cyrus even die before Felicita’s prophecy comes to pass? Maybe it’s all connected. Or maybe I’m going mad….
I’m absolutely going mad.
Between the bedlam of the readings and my anxious nights, I lose track of time. A week passes and I have to meet with the king again. He requests an update on my progress, and I scrounge up meager excuses for why Cyrus doesn’t know of his fated bride yet.
“It is important to be fastidious. If he suspects the falsehood, the idea will not plant,” King Emilius says. “But the ball is approaching.”
“I understand, Your Majesty.”
He nods, concern tightening his gaze despite his smile. There is never an exact threat behind the king’s words, but I can sense it in his habit of discarding advisors and dukes when they are no longer of use, in the grandness of his visions and his ability to achieve them. I’ve seen maps of Auveny from previous decades. This kingdom is now twice as big as it was when King Emilius’s reign began—and it’s still growing.
You can’t accomplish something like that without being pragmatic to a fault.
Though the king has raised me like his own blood, I’m still disposable—unlike his own blood. If I can’t pull this off, I don’t know how eager he’ll be to support me whenCyrus finally ascends. I’ve ridiculed it, but I can imagine dozens of scenarios where Cyrus follows through on his threats to remove me. Even the court gossips see it as a possibility; with the accuracy they have, I might not be the only prophet here.
Better to be pleasantly surprised than vulnerable. I’ve clawed my way up to the very pinnacle of this kingdom, and it’s a long fall down.
After the meeting, I head straight to the second floor of the palace to seek the prince in his quarters. This will be inelegant, but I can’t hope for a perfect place and time.
I knock on his bedroom doors, which Cyrus has learned to lock, and I wait. Glancing around, I see his antechamber still hasn’t changed much. It’s furnished to make him look impressive: framed curios, ornate books, an astrolabe—all pristine and unused.
I knock again.
The door to an adjacent room opens. I shirk, startled.
Cyrus stares out from the shadows of his study, bags under his eyes and a red mark on his cheek as if he fell unconscious on the hilt of a paper knife—a monogrammed one, if the backwardCLis any indication. I feel like I discovered him naked; he isn’t wearing any glamour.
He rubs his eyes and quickly tugs at his wrinkled shirt. “What do you want?” he mutters, not quite low enough to hide a sleepy rasp.
An urge rises to smooth that mark from his cheek, like how I wanted to brush away that tendril in my dream. I always liked him better like this, not that he cares. Glamoursmake him look so predictable. But seeing him worn makes me wonder what he’s been doing, when usually I don’t think of him at all.
I stick out my hand. “A truce. For Dante’s sanity, if nothing else.”
Cyrus glances down, unfazed. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice your hands aren’t gloved?”
For the love of— “This isn’t atrick,Princey. I just—”
“If you want to apologize to me, it should be before the entire court.”
I bristle. I’d choke on my pride if I tried to swallow it. “Did I offer an apology? I offered atruce.”
“Not interested.” Cyrus grabs the doorknob.
I throw an arm out, pushing the door wide open. “You look awful, Princey, you must know that.” I snort as he reflexively musses his hair; I can’t believe he’s actually self-conscious. “What are you losing sleep over? The ball? The Council? Heard they’re bringing up Fifi again. Honestly, youshouldlet me see your threads in a proper reading. I’m not interested in your boring memories; I was probably around for most of them, for stars’ sake. But I can warn you of what’s to come.”
