“I hope the groom drops dead,” I whispered to my cousin Faewin, the bitter tone of my own voice a welcome distraction from the wedding unfolding in the front of the stately palace chapel.

Faewin gasped, her lips rounding into a perfect O shape. “Persephone,” she admonished in a shocked whisper, “You shouldn’t say such things! What if you bring a curse upon yourself for voicing such horrible wishes?”

I rolled my eyes with a scoff. “Please. Everyone knows I’m supposed to be the one marrying Prince Emory. Not Princess What’s-Her-Face, up there.”

The royal couple stood under the wedding canopy, as pretty and perfect as a pair of garden statues, looking for all the world as though they were made for each other.

I wanted to expel the contents of my stomach.

Violently.

Why did Prince Emory have to be so attractive? Standing next to the Princess, his fair hair shone even brighter in comparison.

“She’s supposed to be this great beauty, you know,” I whispered to Faewin, “Personally, I don’t see it.”

Princess Calliope was pretty enough, I admitted to myself, grudgingly, if you liked that sort of thing. But could pretty ever reach the heights of beauty? I didn’t think so. Nothing about her was extraordinary, her features so symmetrical that the overall effect circled back around to plainness.

Next to me in the pew, Faewin sighed, but not unkindly. “I know you’re still upset because Prince Emory jilted you, but that was over a year ago.”

She turned her head, clear blue eyes meeting my green ones with compassion. “Perhaps it’s time to move on, Persephone.”

“Sure,” I said, “no grudges here! Why would I be upset that a mere six months after dumping me, he proposes to Princess Calliope?”

Faewin didn’t have a response to this, having heard it all before. My hands clenched around fistfulls of fabric making up the skirt of my gown. “She’s not even from here.”

Marrying another woman from Biwyth would have been one thing, but no. Prince Emory had taken it upon himself to marry an outsider.

Someone who didn’t grow up here. Someone who wouldn’t care about this kingdom; someone who could never understand it like I did.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt rage filling my body. If anything, I was angrier than when I had first received the invitation last month.

“Love is patient, love is kind, love is not jealous,” the priest was saying, “Love does not brag and is not arrogant.”

I snorted, loudly enough that an older woman in the pew ahead of ours turned to glare, spectacles winking at us admonishingly in the light from the stained-glass windows. Once she was facing forward again, I nudged Faewin. “Prince Emory deserves better than Calliope. And that’s why I’m going to make sure he does do better—and that the manipulative bitch gets what she deserves.”

Faewin cocked her head, suddenly on guard. “What are you planning?”

I grinned mirthlessly. “A wedding present that will fix everything.”

The priest’s words rang out amid the crowd. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The wedding reception was appropriately grand, of course, the ballroom decked out for the occasion. I spared a vengeful thought for whichever idiot had first come up with reception lines, before forcing myself to join this one. Emory and Calliope were working their way down the line, and all I could hear from the other guests was chatter about how the groom was handsome, the bride glowing, and how theirs was the wedding of the century.

I wanted it all to be over just as much as I wanted them to never reach me. When at last faced with Calliope, I dropped into a quick curtsy, using that as my excuse to avoid making eye contact—the truth was, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle it without spitting in her face. “Congratulations,” I said, my pasted-on smile feeling like a swollen bruise, “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

My stomach roiled. Calliope’s smile was wide and fake, her eyes distant. “Lovely to see you, Persephone.”

It was an obvious lie, but at least things couldn’t possibly get any worse. She moved onto the next guests, but then Emory was right in front of me, his gaze taking in the length of my body like a welcome drink of water. “Persephone,” he greeted me, his hand reaching for mine.

Heat rose up the back of my neck as his eyes lingered on my low-cut neckline. He raised my hand to his lips, stroking across my palm with his thumb, not breaking eye contact for even a moment.

I knew I should pull my hand away—it would only be proper—but I found myself entirely unable to move from his ministrations, the two of us frozen in this twisted tableau. God, but I’d missed this feeling.

And, in a moment, it was gone. Her gaze chilly as deep winter, Calliope pulled her bridegroom towards the next duke and duchess pair.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rend something; I wanted to tear my hair out.

If I wasn’t already planning on briefly stepping out, I would have certainly come up with an excuse, but luckily I already had one ready for Faewin. “I can’t stay here,” I told her, “It’s just too much. I need to get some air.”

Faewin squeezed my hand in sympathy. “Want me to come with you?”

Faewin was my closest cousin and dearest friend, and had been a shoulder to cry on these past months. But I wasn’t ready to tell her what I was really up to. This needed to stay a secret. “No need,” I said, “if anyone notices I’m gone, cover for me, will you?”

She enveloped me in one of her trademark hugs, the ones I could always feel through my whole body like a warm blanket. “Of course,” she reassured me.

I looked back at the newlyweds, right on cue as Emory laughed at one of Calliope’s clearly idiotic observations, and squashed down my disgust. If I moved towards an unassuming side exit next to a tower of champagne flutes, surely I could slip away unnoticed.

My stomach clenched with nerves as I stepped onto the path leading towards the gardens. Could I have been followed? Was it at all possible? My gaze darted right and left before I was satisfied that none of the late afternoon shadows were connected to hidden spies.

I made my way towards the gazebo, the breeze tousling the strands of hair that had escaped the confines of my updo. The wooden structure, just up the path, was partially cloaked by hedges and thus perfect for my purposes. Hemmed in by shadow I could see the outline of the man I was here to meet in this clandestine gathering place—the infamous assassin known only as Marlowe.

He turned around before I had even announced my presence, seemingly picking up on my approach from the lightest sound of my feet against the path. My breath hitched as I took him in—tall, yes, but striking beyond that, with dark eyes that glinted under his black hood and a scar on his right cheek that spoke of a lifelong affinity with danger.

Not to mention the hilt of a dagger visible under his coat.

He smiled, looking me over. “Did you get all dolled up for me?”

I felt my cheeks flame with newfound heat, but fought it. I needed to be professional. “Is everything set for tonight?”

He looked past me. “You’re alone?”

“I can assure you,” I chuckled miserably, “no one paid me the least bit of attention. All they care about is sucking up to the prince and his new bride.”

I fished out the bag of coins hidden in the folds of my gown and passed it to him, careful to avoid brushing against his fingers. I couldn’t afford turning red again, and this man needed to take me seriously.

Marlowe tucked the bag away. “I will do as you asked,” he says, suddenly all business, voice detached and confident.

My smile bloomed before I could stop it, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Wolfsbane should get the job done,” he told me, almost offhandedly, and then, like a phantom, he was gone.

I returned to the palace ballroom, hoping no one noticed I was missing, but everything was much the same as when I left, various lords and ladies chattering and laughing over cake and each other’s company.

Later that night, I was relaxing in my guest room at the palace. The full moon shone in through the bay window next to my bed. Alone, I raised a glass of champagne and toasted to my success.

“Before the sun rises tomorrow, Prince Emory will be a widower, his bride dead of a mysterious ailment, and I will soon take my proper place as Emory’s wife.”

The champagne was cool and refreshing, a fitting way to end the day, and I smiled, imagining just how different the next month was going to be compared with this miserable one. I moved to place the glass down on a side table, intending to dress for bed, but as I stood up, the room began spinning around me.

Panicking, I stumbled against the table, the glass flute falling from my fingers and shattering. I fell to my knees, barely registering the liquid seeping into my gown, clutching my throat—I’d been poisoned!

Blood pounded in my ears as my world went dark.