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I can’t help glancing behind me. The king casually reclines on his chair, relaxed as ever.
“The price is that you will not be able conceive a child during that year.”
I’m nineteen, and hardly interested in children, but I also don’t see the point in stopping my aging right now. That said, I can’t deny I’m curious to see the process, and who knows? It might come in handy in a decade or two.
I get to work.
CHAPTERELEVEN
THE SIREN’S SONG
Ninety-seven hours later, I’m dead on my feet. The walls of the stuffy alchemy lab have never felt more constricting. We’ve had longer experiments, but none so precise or dizzying. A cloud of thick smoke has been our companion at all times.
There are cots prepared in an adjacent room to catch a few naps at appropriate stages during long labs like this one, but I’m not about to close my eyes on enemy territory. I’d like to think the teacher’s presence would prevent the asshole king and his posse from messing with me, but I don’t intend to take chances.
Unlike our teacher and some of the other students, Devar didn’t take a break either. I would have noticed, and daydreamed about pouring itching powder all over him as he lay unconscious.
After all this time, I’ve brewed the most disgusting stew ever created, and simmered it down into a flask’s worth of putrid, pungent concoction.
Drinking this potion is so not worth an extra year of youth. I can’t imagine making myself guzzle that crap down to erase a few wrinkles.
“Flawless as usual, Lady Rhodes,” Mr. Heffur croons, after checking a drop of my work. “I don’t have one single comment.”
He offers me a sunny smile, and strolls to the back of the class.
Grinning at the praise, I get to my feet and start to gather my instruments to bring them to the nearby sink for a thorough wash. I’m not putting any of the things I used back in my fancy bag.
“Hm.”
Hearing a distinct note of disapproval, I’m curious enough to raise my head and glance at our teacher.
“Did you boil the toad for seven minutes, Ms. Lawrence?”
The charming Dorathian girl frowns, visibly trying to recall those specific seven minutes in the last three and a half days. “I…I think I did?”
I can relate to her confusion. If I’d messed up the process, I would have been hard-pressed to guess when.
The teacher sighs. “If you had, your potion would be mauve, like Lady Rhodes’s, not green.”
The beauty shoots me a furtive glare. I can’t blame her. I would have preferred to be left out of the conversation. My peers scorn me enough as is.
“It’s a good effort, truly, but a drop of that potion would send you straight to the grave in thirty seconds, tops. You’ll get a B plus today.”
I focus on the pan I’m washing, trying not to grimace too obviously. I’ve only gotten As so far, in all disciplines, and I am doing my best to keep it that way.
Our teacher continues his inspection. Most students managed an acceptable potion, though he doesn’t find another worthy of praise. One man, who produced a black bubbly brew, gets a failing grade.
Done with the cleaning, I return to my desk to put my affairs in order.
“Your Highness,” Mr. Heffur says reverently, once again catching my attention.
Zale Devar is as gorgeous as usual, his pristine white shirt open at the throat spotless and wrinkle-free. The only thing even remotely out of place with him is his shoulder-length white-blond hair, but it’s always artfully tousled in a purposeful style.
He’s such a poser.
I don’t have to check a mirror to know I look like hellhorses danced all over me. It’s unfair that a man so powerful and influential also boasts the appearance of a young god.
I attempt to hide my curiosity, but I do listen in. I’d love to hear that His Highhandedness messed up today’s work. Surely the universe would be so kind as to give me this tiny satisfaction?
