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The King must eat, and I must wait until I’m sure the poison is taking effect. And then I have to speak Rupert’s true name, before the King actually dies.
If I free Rupert now, and the King hasn’t been poisoned, he’ll have us both killed instantly. I need to wait until he shows signs of distress.
I need him dead.
King Falron is examining the treats, his thick beringed fingers hovering first over the cookies, then over the fruit tarts.
“I’m not sure I’m in the mood for something sweet,” he mutters.
Oh shit.
What if he sends me back to the kitchen with orders to bring him something savory instead? There’s no more of the fennisley to sprinkle on anything else.
I stand there, stomach churning and heart thundering. But I have to control my breath and keep it steady, or this will all be for nothing.
Just a little longer. Hold on, and hope. Think of everything you’ve done to get here.
The trip to the Sanctuary. The journey into the Riddenwold, the meeting with the Elves. The banquet, and the sleepless night that followed. I was exhausted the next day, yet restive, eager to get back to Giltos.
The trip would have taken me days. But when Lord Argelos brought me the charmed bracelets, he also brought me something else—a huge mirror that could transport one person anywhere they desired. After that single use, it would crack and never work again.
“It’s one of a set of five charmed mirrors I inherited,” said Lord Argelos. “My son took a pair of them when he left—palm-sized that could produce a lifelike illusion. This was too big for him to steal, I suppose.”
“You’re willing to let me use this?” I asked him, hardly daring to believe it.
“The boy needs you,” he replied simply. “The sooner the better.”
I couldn’t bring Bede through the mirror with me, but Enthel and Lannau swore they would take her back to Lensterhaven and care for her. We said a hasty, tearful goodbye.
“I’ll write to you,” I told her, “and you’ll write to me… the longest letters, everything you want to say.” And she nodded, one hand pressed to her heart like a wordless vow.
The mirror brought me to the Royal City yesterday morning, but it took hours to contact Mistress Moorne and arrange my entrance into the House of Bounty—then more hours to secure my role as a newly hired maid. Even with an impenetrable, magical disguise, certain protocols had to be followed, and the cook had to call in a few favors with her contacts throughout the palace. Once the arrangements were made and the plans were in place, we still had to create the poisoned food I’ve just delivered to the King.
After all that, he’s still dithering over which treat to take, while Rupert remains on hands and knees, a living table for His Perverse Majesty.
Just fucking eat something. I’m two seconds away from shoving a cookie down the King’s throat.
And then he snatches up one of the fruit tarts and sinks his teeth in.
He makes an obscene noise of appreciation through the mouthful of crust, while fruit filling oozes in scarlet globs from his partly closed mouth. He drops Rupert’s leather leash and grabs a second tart from the tray, then waves it away.
I pick up the tray and retreat a little, moving one step down from the throne platform. My eyes swerve to Rupert’s, shining blue over the silver-studded leather muzzle he’s wearing.
They didn’t need to muzzle him. It’s not as though he can do any magic without the King’s permission, anyway. No, this was an act of degradation, of humiliation. His tanned, tattooed body is on full display, crisscrossed with leather straps, and there’s a prominent codpiece covering his dick. They’ve shaved him, too, including the dark scruff along his sharp jaw. He looks younger without it.
Is it wrong that, scared as I am for both of us, there’s a part of me that likes him this way?
I’m sick. And I’ve been watching Rupert too long—the King has noticed. He shoves the rest of the second tart into his mouth and seizes Rupert’s leash again, yanking it hard. Rupert chokes against the muzzle as his throat is sharply constricted.
But then the King coughs too. Sputters. It seems as if he’s choking on his food. His eyes bulge and he strikes his own chest as if trying to dislodge an obstruction.
A guard steps cautiously forward. “Sire?”
Quickly I set the tray down, mount the top step, and lean forward, as if I’m checking on the King.
As I bend nearer to him, I say clearly and quietly the name I was given.
“Rumplestiltskin.”
