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Illian means me to poison Gustav?

Gustav—another doe-eyed, sweet lord, just like Lord Sarden. The lord I was supposed to have murdered.

Lord Sarden, who was devoted to his young, pregnant wife, who always made a point to smile at those he passed.

Who gave most of his earnings away. Illian and I learned as much firsthand when we visited his manor, when I performed at his wedding.

When we spent hours at his after-party, conversing, a few weeks before his death.

I’d even thought Illian had overlooked the way Lord Sarden had critiqued his stance on Razam and the almost war—an offense I should have known he’d never ignore.

He didn’t perish by my hand, yet his death was blamed on me. But Gustav . . . His will be my fault. After all this time, my punishment will have been warranted. I will deserve worse. So much worse than what was done to me . . .

I jolt at the peculiar way King Anton is regarding me.

I force a swallow, shoving my thoughts down with it.

Gustav, being the gentleman that he is, tucks me into my seat and tells me about each prince while they engage in lively chatter.

Next to Sundar is Mantrin, known for his military prowess alongside his brother, Veer.

Then there’s Arjuna, an expert archer, and Tara, whose tunic represents his achievements in astrology.

Nakula is on the Queen’s other side, and lastly, Karun, who I’m told is quiet but effortlessly wise and kind.

More than once, I’m gifted a smile, even as I have little to add to their conversation.

And I don’t understand. They are treating me as if I’m nobility, not the hired entertainment.

“When will I be performing?” I ask Gustav, biting back the other, more pressing question of how I’m going to perform in this souls-damned gown.

Or how I’m supposed to muster up the nerve to poison him.

King Anton beats him to a response, his cheek dimpling. “Miss Moran, you are here as my guest. There is no need to perform tonight.”

I resist the urge to gape, but only just. Not dancing? A guest ?

He chuckles at my expression. “Relax. Tonight is for revelry, not work,” he decrees, waving a ring-clad hand.

He invites others into his lair to study them.

At that, Gustav passes me a hearty, golden stew that smells of fresh cloves and cardamom, even a hint of cinnamon and fennel, followed by a dollop of bread. “Courtesy of Her Majesty,” he says, bowing in Queen Sadira’s direction.

I spoon some into my bowl, dipping the bread before taking a bite. As I swallow, my eyes meet the queen’s narrow, seemingly disapproving gaze, but then the spices melt together on my tongue, pulling an errant hum from my lips.

A hint of satisfaction flits across the queen’s face before she turns away. My heart does a silly little leap; that almost-smile was pointed at me. Then to King Anton, she says, “Your older brother. Is he un-well?”

I’d almost forgotten about King Estienne, Illian’s older brother. He’d missed the Welcoming, something about a delay, but I’d been too focused to wonder why.

King Anton merely shrugs, plucking a stem of grapes from a nearby tray. “Delayed is the word, but who knows?”

“Not enough room in his carriage for all his wardrobe?” Amusement glitters in the queen’s eyes. “We all know how vain Miridranian kings are.”

My breath hitches. Surely he won’t allow such an open insult.

But he barks a laugh, bumping her shoulder. “We have so many charming qualities; it comes with the territory.”

“Yards and yards of territory,” she quips.

“You shouldn’t complain, My Queen. If I didn’t take such care of my appearance,” he says, plopping his chin on his hand, “you and your sons would be deprived of such a view.”

The meal stretches past sundown, with dishes I’ve never tasted before.

I can’t eat much more than a sample from each tray, but Gustav explains each dish, occasionally checking the queen’s response to ensure his pronunciation is accurate.

It never is, and laughter spills across the table like wine.

It even catches between my teeth until I feel the warm tingle of the vial against my hip, a reminder of my task.

I can’t dip the poison into his glass here without being seen, and the delay is the only bit of comfort I have.

Still, revulsion swims in the pit of my stomach, snaking up my throat like bile.

All the while, I notice the way King Anton’s gaze lingers on me—more so than on anyone else. I can’t help but think he’s assessing me, like Laurent said. As if my movements, the way I breathe, could give something away.

As if he can sense the danger tucked against my side.

And the monster I’m about to become.

“A toast,” he calls suddenly, springing from his seat. He hoists his flute heavenward, a signet ring half the size of his finger glinting like a star. It reminds me of Illian’s, though Anton’s is polyhedral in shape as if it was handcrafted, with a design etched onto its rim.

All at once, the room quiets; even the music dies away. Yet again, King Anton’s eyes lock on mine. My pulse skips a beat, but then he swings his head toward Gustav. “To Lord Bayard,” he says, with no short amount of pageantry, “whom we honor tonight.”

Cheers spread across the table. Sweat gathers along my brow and I try not to let my flexing fingers inch toward the vial hidden in my dress.

“It is because of his efforts that, as of this week, we have concluded the development of the most astounding invention of our time. In doing so, we have brought Miridran and Razam to a new level of not only friendship but also an abundant future for us all.” A single gesture, and everyone rises, Queen Sadira included.

I fumble upward, steadying myself against the table to keep from wavering.

“My friend,” King Anton says, “you have altered the course of history, and Miridran is forever in your debt.”

Invention. Altered history. I swing a glance toward Gustav, who smiles sheepishly, raising his glass in return.

Who is this man?

“Might I inquire as to the invention, my lord?” I ask while others applaud.

But it’s King Anton who responds. “Ah, but we can’t yet spoil the surprise. You will know by the Gathering’s end, Miss Moran.”

Vague as that is, I try to shape Illian’s intent into something I can make sense of.

Perhaps he wishes to stifle Gustav’s invention or disrupt his brother’s trade.

Except doing so would harm West Miridran, considering a percentage of trade is taxed across each territory and funneled back into the Miridran army as a whole. Surely he wouldn’t wish to weaken it.

“Nevertheless, we did not drag you here merely to sing your praises,” the king says to his friend. He motions for everyone to sit. “I would not pull you away from your family without good reason.”

As we settle in our seats, I tuck my hands underneath my thighs, sliding my gaze once more to Gustav. He must feel my question because he says, “My daughter. She’s been ill for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the apology fragmenting.

His eyes, glossy now, drop to his plate. “Encephalitis, they tell me. She may not last the year if it progresses further. It’s the first time I’ve left home in years.”

Guilt tightens my throat, thieving me of words. Encephalitis—inflammation of the brain.

My instinct is to comfort him, offer some modicum of hope, but my task sits on the edge of my tongue, rancid and heavy, eager to escape.

I want to warn him to leave while he still can.

I want to beg his forgiveness. I pull in a breath, unsure of what might slip out, until Queen Sadira rises from her seat.

Her deep-set gaze, winged with a sweep of kohl, drifts toward Gustav. Then, with the flick of her fingers, a servant breezes in, a corked bottle resting atop a pillow he carries. Inside is a syrupy, nacreous liquid—a tonic of some kind.

She grabs the bottle, long nails clinking.

“Taheric, tusca milk, and a few other herbs indigenous to our region. It may help, perhaps even cure, your child. The concoction has worked miracles in my country thus far on many aggressive, inflammatory ailments. If you accept, I will have it sent to your family; my men will leave this very night. To show our gratitude for our accomplishments together.”

Taheric—I’ve heard of it. It’s rare, a root grown only in the southern lands, a single pearl-sized drop of it rumored to cost as much as a ship . . .

Gustav’s gaze swivels between his king and Queen Sadira, his throat bobbing. At that, King Anton adds, “Take it, my friend. It is the least you deserve.”

Gustav rasps his gratitude to the queen, his face awash with emotions.

To his king, he just nods—a gesture that says more than words.

King Anton’s eyes shine as he beholds his friend, even as servants shuffle in with decanters, others clearing away dishes.

The music resumes, a plucky tune dancing across a lyre.

Wine is refreshed, topped off in each flute.

Mine is filled from Gustav’s personal bottle—at his request. “To making a new friend,” he tells me.

Prince Sundar, grinning cheekily, clanks his chalice against both of ours, and in a blink, everyone else joins in.

Even Queen Sadira, who taps hers softly with mine, saying, “It is a pleasure to meet someone who wields talent so beautifully.”

I’m so surprised my thanks comes out hoarse.

And then the meal comes to a close.

Anxiety sweeps over me like a chill, and my hands go numb.

The room empties, guests following King Anton one by one through a shroud of gossamer that obscures a lounge beyond.

Soon, I am alone.

And no one seems to notice. Gingerly, I dig the vial from my gown, cupping its shape in my palm. After all I just witnessed, my insides feel like water.

A breeze wends into the room, cold against my clammy skin.

I don’t want to be the one who ends Gustav’s life. How could I? More so, how could I deprive his daughter of her father? A father who loves her, cares for her, worries for her—a sentiment more precious than all of Miridran’s gems combined. I’d have given anything for such a father.

What could Gustav possibly have invented?

But it doesn’t matter. Either I walk from this place or he does, and I don’t know him.

Not really. I tell myself he would do the same if he were in my position.

And who’s to say his personality isn’t a facade?

Or this whole charade, for that matter? Besides, he’s a nobleman.

His life is abundant in wealth, in joy. In love.

I deserve a chance at the same.

My time is running out. Soon, they will realize I’m missing. They will also know that I was here, unaccompanied, with his glass. So I weave together a plan, the only one I have time to make, and with that I make a choice.

I don’t pour the poison into the glass he left behind.

I pour it into mine.