Page 29 of Yellow Belly

“Of course not! I wouldn’t—” She stopped and scrunched up her face as if experiencing a minor pain. “Oh. I guess I sort of did.”

“Sort of?”

Dianora threw a glare at Stefano as if this were entirely his fault, but he couldn’t find it within himself to be angry at her. She was full of energy and concerned primarily with her own world, which was to be expected from a young person who was also somewhat spoiled. Stefano could understand that well.

She threw herself dramatically into Verzant’s empty chair and kicked her bare feet. “Do you remember that golden ball you once gave me? Such a pretty thing. Well, Sunigilda threw it into the pond. It was an accident, of course. She’s really terrible at that sort of thing, actually. Which is odd because she’s such a wonderful musician, and you’d think⁠—”

“Dianora.”

Stefano had the sense that the king often spoke to his daughter exactly like that, with a mixture of forced patience, firmness, and fondness.

“Well,” she continued with a flap of her hands, “the ball disappeared in the pond, but then the frog appeared and told me it would retrieve the ball for me.”

“And you made a promise?”

She looked pained. “It wanted a kiss. Ew.”

“So you promised a kiss if it retrieved your ball. Did it fulfill its side of the bargain?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her arms crossed. “Although I don’t think it was a very difficult task, for a frog.”

Verzant frowned at her. “That’s not material. The frog did as promised yet you did not. That behavior is unbecoming of anyone, especially a member of the royal house.”

“Yes, Father,” she murmured, hanging her head.

“Did it occur to you to wonder why the frog requested this of you?”

Judging from her expression, it hadn’t.

“My daughter, it is the duty of all adults to look beyond themselves and think of the needs and wants of others. This is especially true for you, who will someday soon be responsible for the wellbeing of an entire country.”

This parental lesson in responsibility was all very well and good, Stefano thought, and he wished his own father had taught in this manner. But it was vexing to be spoken about rather than to. And even more importantly, every moment that passed meant more misery for Henry.

Wishing to speed things along, Stefano leapt onto the little table that held the wine bottle and glass. He inadvertently knocked into the glass, sending it crashing to the floor and causing Dianora to recoil against the back of the chair. But before Stefano could say anything, someone pounded on the door and swung it open.

Two men rushed inside. One of them was the advisor Ebuka, looking angry. The other, thin and dressed all in navy blue, looked even angrier. “Your Majesty!” they shouted in near unison.

Verzant had placed himself between the intruders and the princess. “You’re interrupting. This had better be important.”

“I told you—” Ebuka began, but the other man elbowed him.

“I’ve been trying to speak with you for hours, sire. It’s that damned Thanytsian prince. I believe he’s here and is trying to get his hands on the princess.”

“The prince!” Verzant exclaimed with a glare in Stefano’s direction. “Why am I just hearing this now?”

The three men began yelling at one another, arms waving. While it was interesting to see people interacting with their king so freely, Stefano had no patience left. He croaked as loudly as he could.

Dianora grabbed him off the table. “Oh, honestly!” she said before pressing her lips briefly but firmly against his and then she threw him against the wall.

Chapter Fifteen

Stefano felt as if he’d been taken apart and then reassembled hastily and poorly. His bones ached, his skin stretched and pulled in uncomfortable ways, his innards felt hollow. Even his hair hurt, and that⁠—

Wait. His hair?

Too afraid to open his eyes, he moved a hand to his head and felt the familiar curls plastered to his skull with sweat. Felt them with his fingers, all five of them, including a thumb.

Choking back a sob, he opened his lids, but the room was so dark that he could see nothing but vague shadows. He lay on a hard, narrow cot, his nakedness covered by a scratchy blanket that smelled musty, as if locked away in a cupboard for years. A stone wall abutted the cot on three sides, and although there was a small window high above his feet, it let in nothing but weak moonlight. There were no sounds except for his own harsh breaths and racing heart.