Page 12 of The Dead Queen

“Ouch!” I flinch, pulling my arm away from her. A small drop of blood wells up at my wrist.

The seamstress looks horrified. She covers her mouth with her hands. “Your Highness, I am so sorry. Please forgive me!”

“It’s fine.” I wipe the spot away with my thumb. “It’s nothing.”

From the way the women’s eyes dart toward each other, I know they don’t believe it’s nothing.

It’s an omen, they’re thinking.

Blood spilled before the wedding is bad luck. Like wearing the color red is supposed to be good luck. Never mind that I’d been performing amputations and healing gaping wounds for weeks before I even knew I was engaged. Superstitions are not logical in that way.

I hold out my arm for her to finish. She picks up silver shears with ornately carved handles to snip the ends of her thread. When she’s done, she places it in a silk-lined box alongside golden thimbles inlaid with tiny precious gems and delicate crystal-tipped pins.

When the hem is secured, the women step back. They analyze every inch of me, from the high collar to the floor-length overskirt. I catch a glimpse in the gilded mirror. I look frightful, like a vengeful spirit here to curse the family. My grimace does nothing to dispel the illusion.

The seamstress must see my tension. She places a hand on my arm. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

I know she means well, so I give her a smile. Still, deep down, I know she’s wrong. My grandmother wouldn’t be any happier with this arrangement than I am.

“Are we finished?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. I have things to do today, on my last day of freedom.

The seamstress and her assistant help lift the gown up over my head as I wiggle out from underneath the tulle.

I make a quiet escape out the door while they fret over the proper way to remove the minuscule wrinkles I made in the fabric.

The palace is humming with preparations. Everyone seems to be infected with a sense of urgency. Everywhere I turn, there’s a flurry of activity.

Decorators balance on tall ladders as they hang lush garlands. Along the grand staircase, more workers weave ribbons through the carved banisters. They create elaborate patterns that cascade down the steps like a frozen waterfall of royal copper and cream.

As I pass the kitchens, the air is heavy with the aroma of roasting meats and baking bread. Pots and pans clang like discordant bells, punctuated by the sharp commands of the head cook. A small army of kitchen boys toil over mountains of candelabras and ornate platters, their polishing cloths moving as quickly as a moth’s wings.

Maids scurry up and down the halls, their arms full of fresh linens and downy pillows. They dart in and out of long-empty guest chambers, leaving behind the crisp scents of lavender and lemon. They dash past me, their faces flushed and eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and barely contained panic.

Clearly, I’m not the only one Father neglected to give an appropriate amount of notice for the engagement ball.

It’s nearly noon, so I quicken my pace, knowing that father is about to break from his morning audience with his advisors. My heart races, partly from the brisk walk and partly from anticipation. I need to catch him in a good mood, before the stress of the day puts me at a disadvantage.

But when I arrive at the massive oak doors of the audience chamber, I’m left disappointed. The room is empty save for a few lingering nobles engaged in hushed conversations. They’ve already recessed for the afternoon.

A clerk emerges, his thin arms straining under the weight of papers and ink pots. His robes, once crisp, are now rumpled from hours of note-taking. He looks mildly alarmed when I approach, his eyes widening in recognition.

“I’m looking for my father.”

He swallows hard, his large Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck.

“The hounds,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He nearly drops his papers in his haste to escape my presence.

Of course. I should have known. King Corsac cares more about his hounds than any natural person should. His obsession with those beasts borders on ridiculous, but right now, it’s a blessing in disguise. At least I know where to find him.

I gather my skirts, the silk rustling as I bunch it in my hands, and break into a run. My soft leather shoes fall silent on the stone floors as I race for the nearest exit. Nobles gasp, startled, when I run past them, but I don’t care.

I loathe the kennels. Calling my father’s pets “hounds” is like calling the corpse wolves Pomeranians. The creatures are an unnatural species of fox, bred for centuries to be the most cunning, vicious versions of their kind.

The gate squeals like a dying animal as I open it to the underground staircase that leads to the kennels. This part of the castle used to be a prison before they built newer cells in the city. It’s damp and dark down there, the air thick with the stench of decay and despair. Father prefers it this way. He says it makes the foxes more eager to please when he drags them out into the light for hunts.

Chitters and animal screams echo up the staircase long before I reach the corridor at the bottom. It’s black as midnight down here, so I draw upon my light power. A small golden orb lights my path. Thick iron chains hang from the walls, rusty with age and what might be dried blood. I have to watch my step to keep my slippered feet dry from the puddles that pepper the ground,their surfaces slick with an oily film.

The smell of the kennel is overwhelming. Every breath makes me choke. Piss, feces, rotting meat—all mixed together in damp darkness. The stench seems to seep into my skin, and I know I’ll be scrubbing for hours to rid myself of it.