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DULCE

“Observe the four teacups in front of you, duckling,” Mama said softly. “See them as north, south, east, and west.”

Dulce studied her mother as she placed four porcelain teacups in a square formation along the dining table, their sides painted in delicate pink roses, their borders shining swirls of gold.

The curtains were drawn back, morning sunlight spilling into the room.

It reflected off the liquid within the cups and sent glowing images across the crystal candelabras above them.

Ever since Dulce’s fifth birthday two years ago, her mother had made her play the Tea Game each morning after breakfast.

“You will take a sip from the cups and tell me which of the four tastes different.” A mischievous smile playing across her lips, Mama dropped a mint leaf into the steaming cups before propping her hands beneath her chin, watching Dulce. “Are you ready?”

Dulce rubbed her tiny hands together and sat up straight in her chair, frowning as she concentrated on the teacups.

“Will I get a chocolate again if I guess right?”

Mama always surprised her when she won the game, and chocolates were Dulce’s favorite.

“Mr. Fox might allow you two this time if you choose correctly.” Mama winked and slid the jar of chocolates closer to the teacups. “I have it on good authority that he thinks you’re gifted.”

Dulce bit her lip, wanting desperately to win those two chocolates.

Lifting the doll beside her into her lap, she peered down at Mr. Fox and whispered into his furry triangular ear, “I might need your help.” She hovered her doll above the steaming brews, letting Mr. Fox inspect them one by one.

The liquid within each cup was generally the same color every morning, just as they were now.

Mr. Fox sniffed each one, but he told her nothing. North was where she decided to begin.

Dulce brought the first teacup to her lips, taking a slow and steady sip, finding it floral though slightly bitter, with hints of earthy apple and smooth sweet undertones. Tasty.

“Chamomile,” she declared matter-of-factly, resting the cup back against the table. “With honey.”

Mama remained silent as she always did, waiting until Dulce completed her guesses.

Dulce lifted the southern teacup and found it held a flavor that matched the northern one exactly.

Pursing her lips, she tried the western one next.

Flowery and sweet, yet not completely. A hint, albeit small, of something sharper coated her tongue, a new kind of bitterness, not belonging to the daisy-like family of Asteraceae at all.

Dulce was almost certain this was the brew she would choose, but just to be precise and thorough, she brought the final teacup to her lips and took a sip, only to find no sign of bitterness or anything out of the ordinary from the first two.

“The western tea is different,” she answered proudly and tapped the porcelain with her forefinger.

“How certain are you?” Mama hedged, always attempting to make Dulce think further, to second-guess her decision.

Dulce knew she wasn’t wrong. “I would wager Mr. Fox’s life on it.”

“Ah, that must mean you’re incredibly sure of your choice.”

“I am.”

Mama sat in silence, contemplating the cups for an agonizing moment, and then grinning, she grasped the jar of chocolates and dropped two glorious squares into Dulce’s tiny, awaiting palms.

“You did well, duckling,” she said. “You are much better at this game than I expected for someone of such a young age. I’m proud of you.”

Dulce beamed with pride at her mother’s words as she chewed happily, savoring the first of the two chocolates. She rested the second in Mr. Fox’s lap and planned to savor it. “Can we play in the garden now?”

“Of course,” Mama replied. “But first, while you eat your chocolates, I have something to ask you. I think you’re old enough to learn more about our little morning Tea Game.”

Dulce sat up straighter, her attention arrested at once. Her mother had always refused to tell her why differentiating between teas was so important.

Mama was serious, with no hint of mischief in her eyes now. “This will be a secret between you and me. One you must promise not to tell anyone,” she said. “Do you understand?”

“Not even Papa?” Dulce always told Papa everything, especially when he was teaching her new songs on the piano.

“Papa is the only exception.” Mama laughed, draping her long, dark hair over one shoulder. “Because he knows about this secret already.”

“What about Nanny Vesta and Sylvie?”

“Nanny Vesta and Sylvan are both trustworthy and know most of this, yet not the entirety,” Mama assured her gently. “Sometimes we must keep things to ourselves to protect those we love. Like carrying a burden for them, something too heavy that they don’t need to carry themselves.”

Dulce thought hard. “Like the time Papa cleaned up Sylvie’s spoiled cabbage and replaced it with fresh ones from the garden before he returned from the market? No one told him because Sylvie would feel bad for Papa’s spending money and doing work he thinks only he should be in charge of.”

Mama ruffled her hair with a smile. “Exactly like that, yes.”

“I understand.” Dulce pressed a finger to her mouth and glanced at Mr. Fox. “It’s a secret.”

Her mother took in a deep breath and let it out gradually.

Dulce chewed on her lip. She had never seen Mama this serious.

“I’ve been poisoning you, duckling.”

Dulce blinked, hugging Mr. Fox tightly as her tiny heart thundered inside her chest, nearly cracking her ribcage.

“You want me dead, Mama?”

Her mother stood, rounding the table, and knelt beside Dulce, her silk skirts making that wonderful Mama sound they always made.

She took Dulce’s hand in hers, her golden-brown eyes unwavering.

“I would never harm you, my love. I’m giving you these poisons because I want you to be strong.

There are dangerous people in this world, people who would try to hurt you because of who you are, and the wealth you will one day inherit.

Poisoning is their favorite method of reaching their greedy and grasping ends.

If poison cannot hurt you, it will instead protect you.

Do you understand now why this game is so important? ”

Dulce didn’t understand, but she slowly nodded anyway, trying hard to imagine anyone wicked enough to poison her. Were the monsters in the storybooks real? One thing she understood was that she trusted her mother completely.

“I started with small doses, introducing your body to various poisons,” Mama continued.

“Only the teeniest drop each fortnight before gradually adding a little more. This is why at first you felt tired and needed to take a morning nap—do you remember? This slow building of tolerance against them will help you gain immunity from poison.” She stood.

“Now that you’re old enough, I’m letting you decide for yourself. Do you want to continue?”

Dulce nodded eagerly. A body tolerant of poisons sounded positively magical. She would become like the mongoose, able to resist even a viper’s venom. Impervious as a honey badger or hedgehog. There would be no poison-peddling assassin that could defeat her.

“Our games will grow more challenging, duckling. Especially since you’re a witch. Like me.”

“A witch?” Dulce blinked, squeezing Mr. Fox’s arm.

“Yes. A secret that we keep to ourselves from the villagers in Moonglade. Your grandmother once sent me far away to hone my skills as a child and through most of my adolescent years, yet I will teach you myself, without the cold and harsh ways of old.”

Dulce mulled over all the surprises that had been revealed. “I want to learn more.”

“And you will.” Mama smiled. “Now, let’s go out into the garden and play, shall we? We’ll resume our secret games tomorrow.”

Dulce jumped to her feet in delight. “You hide, and I’ll count!”

The garden was bathed in sunlight, marigolds and daisies in full bloom, and Dulce ran through the door, Mr. Fox in tow, forgetting to eat her last bit of chocolate slowly.

A dull ache thrummed at the back of Dulce’s head, radiating across her temples, and she opened her eyes to utter and complete darkness. Darkness as she’d never experienced it before, a thick blanket of onyx seeping down to her bones.

Rubbing her temples, she went to sit up when her head struck something hard.

“Ow,” Dulce croaked, her voice muffled as she touched her forehead, then trailed her fingers across the surface above her. Smooth folds of silky material over something hard.

Dulce rapped her knuckles against it, feeling its dimensions, a foot beyond her head and to each side.

Cold realization crashed into her like a raging storm.

She was buried alive.

Cornelius had done this. He had poisoned her with …

hemlock, yes. There was no mistaking its grassy-lemon-dirt flavor, even beneath the sweet lavender and heaps of sugar he’d added to the tea.

Dulce had been so overwhelmed by the upcoming wedding that taking her daily dose of poisonous berries or teas wasn’t as consistent.

Alchemy was something she’d once cherished, yet she hadn’t performed any spells since her mother’s death three years before and had only kept up the tradition of eating poison berries and drinking toxic teas.

Being a common witch had been a side of herself she’d let die with her mother, a side that ached to live again now.

However, there was no spell she knew that would break her from this coffin.

Without proper ingredients, that was. Which she didn’t have at the moment.

How could she have been so foolish as to think Cornelius an honorable man, to judge him so wrongly? How could she not have seen the deception in his heart? If the bastard even had a heart.

If her mother were alive, she would’ve warned Dulce about him, with his slimy, over-the-top gentlemanly behaviors and simpering, false kindness.

Dulce had been so blind. An utter and complete fool.

Cornelius had barely even kissed her a handful of times, and she believed him to be in love.

Most men would’ve tried to unfasten her dress when they’d been alone, to kiss her passionately in the gardens.

But she had assumed he’d held her in too high of esteem and had wanted to wait for their wedding night.

This never would’ve happened if she hadn’t believed he was to be her true love after Vesta’s fortune. The tea leaves had to have been meant for someone else entirely—Vesta’s readings were never wrong.

The scent of earth caressed her senses, and horror churned within her. She was truly underground! Buried. Believed dead. Did Cornelius know she was still alive when he’d had her buried? Was he laughing right now, imagining her slowly suffocating to death?

The vile snake . He had never wanted her.

Dulce padded her hands around the coffin, searching the darkness. There was nothing useful buried with her. Only a silk pillow and what felt like a mountain of petunias. Petunias from her garden.

She still wore her wedding gown, her pearls that Cornelius had so lovingly placed around her neck before the entire town, and the family ring on her middle finger.

The ribbons in her hair she wanted to strangle him with.

Dulce imagined him artfully crying as his new bride was laid to rest, the villagers offering him their heartfelt sympathy, and she seethed with fury.

A low growl escaped her, and she squeezed the clump of flowers resting against her chest until the petals were crushed.

If Dulce’s mother hadn’t helped her become immune to poisons, she would’ve surely been dead instead of falling into unconsciousness for …

how long? Her estimation was three days based on the strength of the poisonous flower.

What if Cornelius had decided to murder her in a different manner? She wouldn’t have woken from a rope around her throat or a blade in the heart. No, the ruthless serpent wanted to end her life in a manner that would leave him blameless. Oh, how sad Vesta and Sylvan must have been…

Cornelius would pay for this. Dulce vowed to make certain of it.

If she ever got out of this grave, that was...

Dulce pressed her palms against the coffin’s lid and pushed with all her might, but to no avail.

No rope had been fastened near her hands so she could pull on it to ring a bell and alert someone that she was alive below ground, like she’d read about in grim poems. Was she buried where Sylvan or the others would hear her?

She was truly trapped.

With each passing second, Dulce realized she wouldn’t live long. Not with the air inside her coffin running out.

Perhaps a blade to the heart would’ve been more merciful after all.

Dulce refused to shed a single tear for her failed marriage and the bastard who had deceived her while she pounded against the dreadful coffin, hoping against hope that someone would hear and help her.

She pounded until her fists ached with bloodied bruises.

Until exhaustion and thirst swept over her as the air thinned and her strength waned.

No longer could Dulce fight against her eyelids closing, and when she finally gave in to sleep, she swore she heard digging, felt the jarring impact of a metal shovel against her prison.

Dreaming of an impossible escape, even as she surrendered to death…