By the time I return to Sylas’ room with cleaning supplies, he is gone, but a note remains ordering me to have more soup made and brought to his office. Grumbling, I clean up the space, taking everything needed to the wash. My presence surprises the cooks. They whip up another bowl of soup in a flash. His Majesty isn’t exactly difficult to cook for.

Upon arriving at Sylas’ office, he sits similarly to how I first saw him. A single window is open along the side of the room, letting dim rays of light cascade across the floor. Sylas pours over papers that I ignore as I slam the tray on his desk.

“More soup, as requested, Your Majesty.” I push the tray across the table, uncaring of the papers that fall. Right now, I’m enjoying the irritation on his face.

Sylas takes a single sip, and then pushes the bowl towards me. “I don’t like it. Make me another one.”

“Are you going to be so rude to not only the cooks but also the rest of your staff? The kitchen is busy preparing meals for everyone else.” I turn my nose up at him. “A grown man shouldn’t be so picky about his food.”

“I know the kitchen staff is busy, which is why I expect you to remake it.” He reads over a paper and marks his name at the bottom, tossing it onto a pile beside him.

“I am not a trained cook.”

“As my personal attendant, you are meant to attend to my every need. Isn’t that correct? That should include my meals. If you aren’t fit for the position, you are more than welcome to leave.”

“You don’t even need these types of meals.”

“Is that your way of backing out?”

“No, sir, I will get more food right away.” I rip the tray off the table, grinning at the few specks that fall on his papers. He wipes the soup off with his thumb, then stiffens when I declare, “But when I get back here with soup better than you’ve ever had, I expect you to be honest about the taste.”

“So be it. I will give you my honest opinion.” I’m about to stomp out of the room when he calls, “Are you not going to pick up the papers you pushed off my desk?”

An immediate frown falls upon his features when I wave my hand and the papers return to his desk. It felt so natural to use that I forgot how I’ve set aside my magic for so long, how I expect everyone to judge me, but not Sylas. His annoyed stare isn’t because he distrusts a witch. My magic doesn’t put him on edge and it makes me want to let loose, let my craft sing through the air and be free as it once was.

“Isn’t it so useful to have a witch around?” I tease, thinking of the books in the library and all the new spells I could learn.

“Irritating, more like it.”

It takes all my willpower not to stick my tongue out at him, so I hurry out of the office before I do just that.

On the way to the kitchens, I mentally berate myself for such childish behavior. Harvey asked for my help, but what can I do? Sylas doesn’t want me here. We aren’t meshing well. What am I meant to do? Continue irritating him? That will get me an eventual firing in the form of him literally booting me out the door or he ordering someone else to do it.

Upon entering the kitchen, the cooks share concerned glances. One approaches me, worrying over their hands. “Is our cooking not to his liking?” they ask. “We made it as we usually do.”

“Oh no, he wants me to make the soup myself because I think he is testing my skills. I doubt it has anything to do with your work.” My words do nothing to settle their nerves. Poor things. He has all the staff spooked.

They give me space to cook and set out the usual spices. When I’m about to make a broth, I set the spices aside and search for sweet ingredients instead. The cooks take no notice of me snatching rolls to coat in sugar and creating a sweet concoction.

My mother baked many sweets for Sylas, so I recognize some items in the kitchen and add what I can to the bowl. When I taste my culinary delight, it isn’t delightful at all. My teeth may rot, but that means Sylas should taste the sweetness and love every bite.

Proud of myself, I grab the tray and scurry back to his office.

“Remember, you must give me your honest opinion,” I say when setting the tray carefully on his desk this time.

“It smells sweet,” he states.

“My mother baked sweets for us often. You loved them.”

“We were children.” I want to believe I didn’t hallucinate the softness in his voice, but his following words are as frigid as ever. “We are not children anymore.”

“Don’t be so dull. Children are not the only ones who like sweets,” I argue, then nod toward the bowl. “Go on. Try it.”

Picking up the spoon, he stirs slowly and his nose curls. “Did you poison this?”

“Poison wouldn’t work on you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I did not poison it.”

“Cursed, then?”

“If you do not take a bite soon, I will feed it to you myself,” I snap.

With a heavy reluctance, Sylas brings the spoon to his mouth and sips. Out of instinct, I reach for my necklace to pinch between my fingers. He says nothing, then takes another bite.

“What do you think?” My hope is great when I know it shouldn’t be.

“I think it’s fine.” His grumbled tone says otherwise, putting a smile on my face.

“Just fine? Is that your entirely honest opinion, Your Majesty?”

Sylas takes an overwhelmingly deep breath. I can taste the frustration in his voice. “It is good, Mr. Laywell.”

Those words make me want to scream with victory. I barely contain the urge and my voice sounds strained by mirth when I ask, “Would you like this meal again tomorrow?”

His silence is even more telling than his muttered words. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but you will make it, not the cooks.”

“Are you worried they would not take their king as seriously if they knew he liked sweets so much?”

“Get out,” he orders while reaching for the sugary bun. The way he dunks it into the bowl tells me it is equally delicious to his taste buds. I would die of a sugar high if I ate half of that.

“Someone seems a little sensitive.”

“Out. Now.”

Raising my hands in defeat, I head for the doors where I wait far too smugly outside.

Sylas summons me when he’s finished to retrieve the dirty dishes. Before leaving, I am surprised to find him watching my departure. That pinning stare almost prevents me from speaking, but the joy of seeing his expression urges me to say, “Just so you know, I am considering myself winning right now.”

The bridge of his nose wrinkles and I swiftly shut the door before he could yell at me. This may not technically be vengeance, but boy, is it still sweet.

However, my joy vanishes because I’m not paying attention. In the hall, I nearly collide with a vampire. Her short silver hair, the edges perfectly straight, hugs a heart-shaped face. Her skin is pale white and her eyes such a dark red they are nearly black.

“Good afternoon,” she says.

I bow my head. “Good afternoon.”

The stranger brushes by me without another word. The doors close roughly behind her. The short moment of hearing her reminds me of the other day, of the woman Sylas spoke to when I hid from him. She spoke of rebels and Ezra, Viktor’s surviving heir, last week. Could she have brought more news?

I am tempted to eavesdrop, to press my ear to the door and listen in, but it appears I do not have to. A fierce roar, monstrous and haunting, tears through the halls. The doors of Sylas’ office rattle. Shadows slip through the cracks, alive in their thrashing movements. Gloom throws open the doors and Sylas’ raging figure bounds out. Every step threatens to bring the walls down around them. She pursues him and I jolt when he hollers, “My shade, attendant.”

“Shade”? Right, the parasol. Alyssa mentioned it.

Sprinting into the office, I set the tray aside and grab the parasol from its resting place by the door. Sylas and the stranger have turned the hall corner. I chase their silhouettes. Not far, thankfully, otherwise, a wheeze would take me. My chest already feels heavier, and the back of my throat tickles.

Sylas slams a door open that leads outside. I open the parasol and cast him in shade. He’s in such a foul mood, a bristling rage that singes the air.

“Violet.” He snaps, and the vampire moves without further orders. Violet rushes in our opposite direction, disappearing into another building. Then Sylas shouts, “Prepare my carriage!”

I thought he was speaking to me until a maid scurried ahead of us. She runs as if a ghoul has taken chase.

“Where are we going, Your Majesty?” I dare to ask.

His smile is wicked. “To an execution.”