Page 12 of Reign

I thumped his chest with my fist. “Urgh! For a moment I thought you were being honest.”

“What’s going on?” Henry waddled out of his bedchamber, rubbing the sleep from his half-open eyes. “I was sleeping,” he mumbled, still caught somewhere between dreamland and here.

“Sorry,” I said, ruffling his slumber-styled hair. “Finn’s making up fables again.”

Henry’s eyes snapped open. “Can you tell me one before bed?” he asked, a cheeky grin appearing on his face.

Finn nodded, beckoning to me with one hand as he gently guided Henry back to his bedstead with the other. I nestled under the still-warm blanket and pulled Henry onto my lap. Finn stood before us, lit eerily by the flickering candlelight. He puffed out his chest like he was a traveling minstrel about to give a grand performance for a round of applause and one measly gold coin.

Clearing his throat, he began. “There once was a little boy who dreamed of fighting on the far shores of Cambas. His mother pleaded with him not to go, but the boy didn’t listen. He ventured into the unknown, with nothing but himself. After many days of walking through treacherous terrain, he finally reached the coast. It was after nightfall, and he didn’t know where to go. Before he could look up to the sky and find the guiding star, something dark blotted out the moonlight. A creature with the body of a horse but the face of a man loomed over him. The boy gasped—it was a nuckelavee. The demon was so deadly, just its breath could wilt a field of crop. The boy tried to run, but it was too late.”

Henry crawled to the end of his bedstead. “What happened to him?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in curiosity.

Finn crouched down so they were eye to eye. “The nuckelavee touched him—just a tap.”

I leaned over. “Like this,” I said, punching Henry lightly on the arm.

He yelped. “Ow! That hurt!”

Finn chuckled as he sat beside Henry, nodding at me—my cue to entertain.

I leapt onto my feet, gasping as I ran to our pretend stage. “That’s all it took!” I exclaimed, staring down at my skin. “The boy looked like a poppy field—small red dots blooming all over him. It wasn’t long before he was coughing up blood and black bile. That’s when he wished he’d never left the Wetlands, because now he was going to die.”

“Die of what?” Henry asked, his brown eyes as round as sunflower heads.

Finn leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Poppy pox!”

I grappled my throat, pretending to choke. Henry giggled as I reached out to him. “Help,” I croaked, but Henry shook his head, grinning.

I collapsed onto the damp planks, rolling back and forth while I faked frothing at the mouth. After one final grunt, I went limp, poking my tongue out and letting my eyes roll back.

Henry leaped off the bedstead and landed on top of me, tugging at my eyelids and pinching my nose, trying to break my act. I stayed dead still.

“If you want to prove she’s faking it, you have to do this,” Finn said.

I heard Henry giggling, and a moment later, four hands tickled my sides. When we were younger, I couldn’t stand such antics, but now I managed to resist retaliating to their touch.

Finn stopped squeezing me. “Or you could just let a spit bubble drip onto her face,” he whispered to Henry, quiet enough that Mother wouldn’t hear.

I abruptly sat up. “It’s a miracle—I’m alive.”

At that moment, Mother appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the faint candlelight. Even in the low glow, I could see the darkness that circled around her eyes.

She sighed. “That’s enough. He’ll never sleep if you two keep telling him gruesome tales.”

“A little bit longer,” Henry pleaded.

“There’s always tomorrow night,” Mother reminded him as she tucked the sheet under his chin.

“Is it true?” Henry asked, fear flickering in his eyes. “What if Father catches poppy pox?”

“Don’t fret about Father,” Mother reassured him, smoothing her fingers over his rosy cheeks, still flushed with laughter.

Henry furrowed his brow, unconvinced. “What’s he fighting again?”

“The men are pushing back the evil that’s trying to make its way inland,” she reminded him.

“Is it wizards?” Henry murmured. “Avice told me they make bad things happen.”