Page 5 of A Cursed Son

Some of the sauce mixed with the custard and now the whole thing tastes like puke. I just wasted one of the few good desserts they serve, and now my entire lunch has turned nasty. A suitable punishment, I suppose.

They both turn quiet, that strange wall between them still standing. I hate it that every time I speak to one of them, it’s as if I’m betraying the other. And then, the truth is that I am betraying Sayanne. If she eats the dessert, she’ll be spilling her guts ten hours from now. It’s quite hypocritical to even try to pretend I’m a good friend. All for a guy. And the only reason I’m not feeling guilty is because I’m still worried whether the plan will work, and maybe annoyed that she’s been calling Tarlia a slut. Well, that is horrible, but then, I’m not much better.

And yet, when Sayanne finishes her meal and takes some of the dessert, I delight in the joy of seeing my genius plan unfold, instead of wallowing in any sense of guilt.

Then, to my horror, Tarlia also takes some passion-fruit custard. I want to scream no, and yet I can’t. I can’t. But I have to say something.

“It’s not good,” I mutter, hoping she’ll take the hint.

Sayanne stares at us, while Tarlia takes a spoon, then says, “Chicken-flavored custard does sound awful, Astra.”

Calapher-poisoned stew is much worse. “I thought you didn’t like it,” I say.

She shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

I’m sure Tarlia’s eating it just to spite Sayanne and leave less for her. Why, why? The upside is that now there’s no way I won’t go on this trip, with the two of them sick. The downside is that guilt is chewing my insides and getting to my bones, since I can’t find a way to justify what I’m doing to Tarlia.

But guilt won’t change what I’ve done, so I try to at least appreciate my achievement and the certainty of spending hours with Quin and his gorgeous smile. I glance at him sitting at his table with the other male substitutes, his laughter lighting up the hall.

All my regrets dissipate. Instead, I take a moment to appreciate my resourcefulness. For a crazy moment, I even hope someone will uncover my plan, learn that I’ve broken into a study, opened a locked cabinet, come in and out, and left no trace.

See? I did pay attention to our classes on opening locks.

2

Fuzzy memories are all that remain from my dream, and yet I can still recall his hug, his chest, the feel of his skin. I let the comfort of that embrace envelop me. Nothing can shake me when I’m so deeply loved.

Before I reach the dining hall for breakfast, an attendant tells me I’ve been summoned to Otavio’s study.

Uh-oh.

Fine. Some things can shake me.

It might mean nothing. Perhaps he wants to make sure I’m ready to go to Lord Stratson’s wedding.

What nonsense. Had it been the case, he would have waited for me to eat. My breath stills.

When caught, there are two main strategies to consider. The first is to deny and keep denying. That’s excellent when there is no proof. The trick is not to exaggerate the feeling of indignation but not to act too nonchalant about it either. Will Otavio have any proof?

The other strategy is to confess quickly, pretend to be sorry, and apologize. It sounds so humiliating. It’s still the best option—sometimes the only option—when there’s no way to deny what you did.

I’ll have to figure out in which situation I’m in.

Still, I try to lean onto the thin hope that he doesn’t know anything, that my mind is overreacting, which is a dreadful response, as it can cause us to give away our guilt. I tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about, and I have no idea why he summoned me.

I descend the stairs to Otavio’s study in calm steps, trying to focus on the feeling of curiosity, as if I had no clue why he’s summoning me.

This study is cooler and darker than the rest of the tower, since light comes in only through a small window—the same window through which I came in last night. Before I enter, the familiar scent of books, potions, and knowledge greets me. For the first time, it’s nauseating instead of comforting.

Master Otavio stands facing his massive bookshelf, his back to the door, hands clasped behind him. His long, graying brown hair is untied, and his plain black robe can’t conceal his unusually stiff, tense posture. None of that bodes well.

Before I even say anything, and without turning, he says, “Close. The. Door.”

His tone gives me chills. I’ve seen him angry before, but now his voice sounds like a blade about to slash my neck.

I can’t let it intimidate me, though, and do as he asks.

“Lock it,” he adds.