Page 7 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

Anya’s Mistake

It had been the April she was eleven, and she had been taken to a concert in the castle’s silver-flecked music room.

A quartet of centaurs had come—at enormous expense—to play a concerto in honor of the king.

Dryad-made wine was served. Some people muttered about where the money had suddenly come from; others chose not to ask.

In the interval, Anya, dressed in floor-length green silk, her hair twisted into a dark blond crown, had been led to where her grandfather, the king, sat, throned and watchful.

She had curtsied low. Anya had been taught to curtsy at the age of two.

She thought it absurd (the men did not have to do it), and her face showed it.

Her uncle Claude murmured something, soft and smiling, in the king’s ear. The king inclined his head. “Yes. An excellent idea. Anya will make a speech of thanks,” he said.

There were people in the world, Anya knew, to whom words came easily—people who didn’t have to fish for them, or snatch at them as they carouseled around the head.

Anya was not one of those people. With her father and the gaganas, talking was as easy as breathing.

With strangers, it was harder. Her terrible blush would rise up her neck and cheeks to her hairline; there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Anya’s face began to grow hot. “I can’t, Grandfather.”

“Of course you can.” And then, as she stood mute and motionless, “Come, Princess Anya. A speech.”

“You don’t have to,” said her father, and he took her hand.

“I want to hear Anya,” said the king.

The court was watching her. She could feel their opinions burning against her skin. She whispered, “Please, Grandfather. Everyone’s looking.”

“Of course they’re looking!” The king was becoming angry. She knew his anger. It was a cold beast.

“You are a princess. A princess exists to be looked at. To be seen, and admired, and coveted, and envied, and adored. That is your job. To be watched. It is your only job. Do you understand that?”

Anya’s flush rose up to her eyes, and she said nothing.

“Argus?” Prince Claude turned to his older brother. “Can’t you control your child?”

“Leave my girl be,” said her father sharply. “Father, have some wine.”

But Anya turned to look at Claude—his face so much like her father’s, but leaner, sharper. “Control? Control me?”

“Control you, yes. Disobedient children need to be controlled.”

And then all the anger and futility she felt inside the castle exploded out of her, and she pulled back her head and spat at her uncle’s feet.

The saliva lay, a wet insolence in a puddle on the floor. The whole court stared at it.

“Argus, dear brother,” said Claude. “If your daughter insists on behaving like a common street brat, something will have to be done about it.”

The king sighed. “Send her to bed. We’ll speak tomorrow.”