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Toady hell, not the Fates again. When I hoped for answers, I didn’t mean like this; this is why we usegodsas a swear.“What do you want?”I shout. “I’ve hadenough—”
You seek the prince’s confidence.
I shut up.
I swear I can feel a presence smiling.
Asinglepresence, I realize in a moment of calm. A single voice. Not the chorus of gods I encountered once before, who arrived with a gale of fragmented taunts.
Are you listening?
“Who are you? Are you a Fate?”
Answer my question, little star.
I stare into the dark, dimly aware of my insignificance and a gnawing, crunching fear. “I’m listening.”
Good. Tell your prince these exact words.
If gods have throats, I just heard this one clear theirs.
The journey to love never runs smooth,
and yours, your father would not approve.
They will catch you by surprise, hidden in disguise,
but leave your grasp before midnight strikes.
“That’s all?” I frown, scanning the empty dark for a figure, a face—anything. Those words sound like prophecy. “Why should I trust you?”
Do you trustanyone?
I scoff, but I don’t reply. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. I should probably be more polite to a god; I could have worse allies.
I want to help you.The voice has a sultry quality, sly in the way Camilla can be.I have seen your future, and I believe we have much to accomplish together.
“Like what?”
I will tell you when the threads have finished playing out. They will betray you. They all will. Only then will you understand.
“Who? Understandwhat?” None of these is a real answer. I despise divine language.
That you are worthy of so much more, little star. That you should never again kneel for the scraps of kings.
Tapping.
My head hurts. My cheek stings as if bitten, iron tang salting my tongue. I peel my face from the book page, damp with drool. How long have I been sleeping at my desk?
The light streaming through the window is thin, not enough to hurt my eyes. Draped behind me, my robe is silver-gray with fog.
More tapping.
My bones groan with regret as I uncurl from my sleeping position. Standing, I amble stiffly toward the noise. A shadow flutters at the windowsill. I expect to find one of the messenger pigeons that usually bring newsletters.
There’s a snowy-white falcon instead.
I frown. A hunting bird has no business here.
