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“I can’t perform the transmutation in front of the Court,” I say as I’m hurried out into the corridor. “I need privacy for the magic, and I need time.”
“You will speak to His Majesty. He will decide how and when you serve him.”
My stomach knots up, a nervous cramp. Earlier this morning I longed for a heartier breakfast, but now I’m glad I only had a little food. I only hope it stays in my stomach during my audience with the King. I can’t imagine he’d take it well if I vomited all over the steps of his throne.
The guards escort me down to the first floor of the House of Bounty, then through a long hallway leading from the back of the House to the King’s residence. We emerge into the royal palace through a guarded door, and I stifle a gasp at the change in scenery.
The House of Bounty is elegant and well-appointed, but the palace is a dizzying dream of elaborate luxury. The walls themselves look to be made of porcelain trimmed with exquisite gilded designs—wreaths and leaves, vines and flowers, leaping lions and galloping horses. In some rooms the furniture is dark, polished wood with jewel-toned upholstery. In others it is gleaming gold or sparkling silver, amid rich damask draperies or delicate gauzy curtains. The floors shine, pristine and glossy, reflecting dozens of lamps and candelabras.
We pass through a hall that features enormous portraits of past kings, each frame thrice my height. Then there’s a reception area with powder-blue couches and crystal statues of hunting hounds. After crossing that room, the guards and I halt by a paneled door where a butler stands straight-backed and still, his hands tucked behind him and his chin lifted. He wears the crimson and black of the palace servants, and his puffed black sleeves are slashed to show gold silk within. Tight gold leggings complete the outfit.
“One of the potentials is here to see His Majesty,” announces a guard. “Juliette Wetheris.”
The butler nods and disappears through the door. After a moment he returns and waves us along.
As I step through, I realize that we’re accessing the throne room by a side entrance. To my right lies a long path delineated by a colorful tile mosaic, leading all the way from a wide pair of double doors up to the steps of the throne. Courtiers cluster throughout the room, conversing quietly, and guards stand along the walls and at each corner of the dais.
Flanking the throne, two gigantic golden statues of horses rear high into the air, their hooves nearly touching the peak of the towering throne. It’s a thing of beauty, that throne—pearly white stone threaded with opalescent glimmers of the rainbow. It’s a throne of light and glory, of awe and of blessing. It shouldn’t belong to a man who would cut off pieces of his subjects and force gifted women to serve his pleasure.
Yet there he is—the King.
He looks nothing like his statue in the town square of my village. He’s much older, for one thing, and he’s coarser, too. Tanned from battle, with a massive jaw and a thick neck. His hair is brown, salted with gray at the temples and through his beard. He’s a powerful-looking man, but not handsome. The pouches of swollen flesh around his eyes, the heaviness of his jowls, his toadlike mouth, and his pockmarked skin are all things I could overlook if I knew him to be a good man, but I understand his true nature now, so I would find him disgusting even if his features were perfectly symmetrical and his skin flawless.
He’s wearing a shade of purple so deep it’s nearly black, as if someone spilled ink on the beautiful throne. An opal-studded crown rests on his head.
To the right of his throne I spot a servant I didn’t notice before—a boy of perhaps fifteen, dressed in the crimson-and-black livery of the palace. He waits quietly on hands and knees, like a dog who has been told to “stay.” On his back rests a silver tray with a goblet and a plate of cheese and fruits.
He is serving the King as a human table.
The guards escort me to the foot of the steps, below the throne. Gathering my skirts in both hands, I sink into the deepest curtsy I can manage, and I remain there until the King says. “Look at me, child.”
Child—I’m fucking twenty-seven. I’m no child. Although I suppose to a man of fifty-five I might seem young.
I look up at him, trying to appear meek and submissive.
He ogles my curves, my deep cleavage. “Beautiful. You’re the one with the power of transmutation?” His eyes bore into mine.
This is the moment when I should confess the lie, admit my lack of power.
But I don’t, because I’m terrified.
I hate that I’m so frightened of the King. I want to defy him, to be brave and condemn him for his cruelty. I want to stand up to him and shout that he doesn’t deserve the throne, nor does he deserve the bodies, minds, and magic of the women I traveled with yesterday.
But I am afraid. Terrified of losing part of myself, literally—or of being killed. I’m terrified in a knee-shaking, muscle-liquefying, dry-mouthed, tight-throated kind of way, and in this moment I cannot defy him. I don’t have that courage in me. Not yet.
“Is that your ability?” he repeats. “Transmutation?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How does it work?”
“Well…” I clear my throat, trying to remember what the stranger told me to say. Not that I trust him, but without any strategy of my own, his ideas are better than nothing. “Transmutation drains my energy quickly, and I must eat frequently to regain it. To accomplish the best result, I must be alone and unobserved while I turn the straw into—”
“We won’t go into the specifics of your abilities here,” he says quickly, with a glance past me at the groups of courtiers. “I prefer that you demonstrate them in private. When you leave my presence, you’ll be taken to a room full of straw, where you can work. How much time do you need?”
“A day and a night, depending on how much straw there is,” I say, with a casual confidence I don’t feel. “And if Your Majesty would permit, I would like a servant at the door, both to keep out intruders and to bring me sustenance when I need it.”
“It shall be done.” He drums the arm of his throne with meaty, ring-laden fingers. Involuntarily I picture those fingers groping my body, and I nearly lose my breakfast. I struggle to breathe through the nausea, but it’s difficult thanks to the corset.
