“My father is the rightful ruler of—”
“Your father betrayed you and sent you into exile.” Teague’s voice sharpened. “The queen won’t rest until your family is dead. And there’s only one way to change that. You have to take the throne.”
The boy recoiled. “I can’t do that. I just want my sister to be safe.”
Teague’s smile stretched wide and feral. “The hunters are closing in. It’s only a matter of time before she’s dead, just like your mother. I can keep her safe, but I will only do so if you make the right wish.”
The wish that would put Teague one heartbeat from the throne and set his plan into motion.
The prince considered Teague in silence, his eyes haunted. Finally, he said, “And if I don’t wish to be the king? If I wish for my sister’s safety instead?”
Teague’s smile winked out. “Then I will decline to grant your wish, and will leave you to the mercy of the queen’s hunters.” He leaned forward. “All you have to do is wish to be the king of Súndraille. No one would have power to hurt you or Princess Arianna again.”
No one but Teague.
“In the stories, wishes always come with a price.” The prince squared his shoulders as if braced for a blow.
“Everything comes with a price.” Teague stepped closer. “But I’m all that stands between your sister and death. Is there a price you wouldn’t pay for her life?”
The prince closed his eyes as if something pained him, and then said quietly, “No, there isn’t.”
Magic burned beneath Teague’s skin, as cold and absolute as the triumph that filled his chest. Removing a scroll of parchment from his inner pocket, he unfurled the wish contract and quickly pricked Thaddeus’s finger with the tip of his dagger. Pressing the boy’s bloody finger to the debtor’s signature line, he whispered, “Go ahead, dear boy. Make the wish.”
THREE WEEKS LATER
ONE
THIS CORSET WAS going to be the death of her.
Arianna Glavan, (suddenly official) princess of Súndraille, leaned against the long wooden table in the center of the busy palace kitchen and threw chunks of butter into her bowl of flour, remembering at the last second not to wipe her fingers on her fancy silk dress.
How any girl with her rib cage cinched in a vise was supposed to dance her feet off, much less eat from the buffet table, was a mystery Ari had no desire to solve. It was bad enough that she was going to have to stand in the receiving line with Thad and greet the nobility who, up until the royal family’s unexpected death three weeks ago, had treated her brother with thinly veiled contempt. To smile at them with bones cutting into her waist while her lungs labored to take a full breath was more than she could bear.
Especially when she planned to eat at least one of every item on the buffet table. Stars knew, it was the only thing she was looking forward to tonight.
Quickly cutting the butter into the flour with her fork until a pastry dough formed, Ari passed the bowl to one of the kitchen maids, who’d just finished whipping up a sauce to go with the basted lamb shanks, and turned to her best friend, Cleo. “Help me out of this.” She gestured vaguely toward her dress.
Cleo tugged at the blue scarf that held her curly dark hair out of her eyes and returned to pitting the bowl of dates in front of her. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Thad already knows I lied about you being sick last week for Lord Mitro’s banquet, and attending your brother’s coronation ball is far more important than that. You have to go. You’re supposed to be a real princess now.”
“I meant help me out of this corset.” Ari motioned her friend toward the enormous walk-in pantry that was nestled on the far side of the kitchen, opposite the hearth ovens whose heat flooded the room, leaving everyone who was working with flushed cheeks and glistening brows. “Please, Cleo. I’ll probably die if I have to dance while wearing this.”
“Fine. But if you get me in trouble again, you’d better buy me a year’s worth of art supplies.” With a quick glance to make sure Mama Eleni—head cook, undisputed boss of anyone who set foot inside the kitchens, and Cleo’s mother—was distracted by the crepes, Cleo wiped her fingers clean on her apron, ducked past a trio of maids carrying trays of thinly sliced apples baked into cinnamon-dusted florets, and followed Ari into the pantry.
When the door was firmly shut behind them, Ari swept her hair into a messy knot at the top of her head and turned her back to Cleo. “Unbutton me, but make it quick. Mama Eleni will have heart failure if she finds me undressing in her pantry.”
“She won’t have heart failure.” Cleo’s fingers flew down the row of tiny pearl buttons along the back of the dress, and golden silk, several shades lighter than Ari’s skin, sagged away from her bosom, revealing the bone-ribbed torture device her new lady’s maid had sworn Ari couldn’t do without. “Mama will make sure we have heart failure.”
Ari wiggled her shoulders, and the gown’s tiny scalloped sleeves edged down her arms. “You have to unbutton it further. The corset is tied at my waist.”
“Cleo? Ari? Where are those girls?” Mama Eleni’s voice cut through the air.
“No time to unbutton. Give me the scissors,” Cleo said as someone answered Mama Eleni. “If Mama finds us and gives me hearth-scrubbing duties again, you’re helping me. I don’t care if you’re supposed to act like a princess now.”
“Maybe as princess I can order Mama Eleni not to punish you.” Then at least there’d be a benefit for having traded her comfortable anonymity as the bastard daughter the king was happy to forget existed for the trappings of a royal life.
Ari reached for the scissors that hung from a ribbon beside the door and handed them to Cleo, who paused for a second. “This looks expensive. Are you sure you want me to—”
“I can’t breathe, my ribs feel like they’re touching my spine, and my stomach is being squished so tight, it’s leaking out over the top of this thing.” Ari turned to let Cleo see the situation.
“Stars help us, you look like you’re growing another set of breasts. Here.” She whirled Ari around and tugged hard on the laces holding the princess in place.
Ari choked. “Can’t. Breathe.”
“I can’t get any leverage. It’s laced too tight. How did Franci get you into this in the first place?” Cleo jerked the laces, and Ari began worrying that the raisin bread she’d eaten earlier was going to make a reappearance.
“There was . . . a lot . . . of pulling and . . . swearing.”
“I didn’t know Franci swore.” With a sharp snip, Cleo cut through the laces. Ari drew a deep breath as the corset loosened.
“She didn’t.” Ari tugged at the corset until she could pull it over her head. “I did.”