I woke up with a groan, my head throbbing. The sheets had wound their way around my ankles in the night, and my throat and mouth were so dry that swallowing hurt. My stomach heaved. I shifted my legs experimentally, eyes still closed, but just the thought of getting out of bed at that moment was enough to feel exhausting.

I didn’t exactly relish the idea of being indisposed while visiting the palace, but as I lay there, stewing in my own misery, something warm and furry nudged me in the face.

“Belial,” I croaked, reflexively holding out my fingers to pet my favorite housecat.

Which would mean—I wasn’t in the palace at all.

I was in my own bed.

Puzzled, I nudged the sheets down with my feet and sat up slowly, the pounding in my head easing slightly as I rubbed my temples. My sleeves were frilly and long, cinched at the wrists, but I had no memory of coming home last night, or of changing into my nightclothes.

Could I have been that drunk? I swallowed around the dryness in my throat and stepped gingerly onto the plush rug next to my bed, the cat winding around my ankles all the while. I couldn’t really blame myself for overindulging; if ever there was a time to drink to oblivion it’d be as everyone and their mother in Biwyth toasted to Prince Emory’s wedding.

But something wasn’t adding up.

My dress lay draped on a chair across the room, which would have been all fine and good, except for the fact that it wasn’t the gown I had worn to the wedding. Had I perhaps come home earlier and changed out of it?

I moved to the window and pulled back the drapes. Bright sunshine filled the room, making me wince; birds called their songs from the nearby trees. I didn’t know what time it was—were the prince and princess on their honeymoon, already?

I shook my head at my own mistake. There wasn’t supposed to be a honeymoon. If anything, it was an ideal day for a funeral—Calliope’s funeral.

Yesterday’s wedding came back to me in fits and starts. Being in the chapel with Faewyn, feeling sick to my stomach as my prince betrayed me for Calliope.

She had promised to love him in sickness and in health—and how generous of me that, due to my interference, Calliope had by now surely had a chance to put the “sickness” part of that vow to the test.

Wolfsbane, the assassin had said. What was his name? Marlowe. I remembered our secret meeting in the gazebo; how his words and his gaze had reddened my cheeks.

But none of that answered my main question—how did I end up back here, in my own room back in my estate, my cat bumping up against my calves and demanding to be pet?

“Let’s figure out what’s going on, Belial,” I told the cat, letting him nuzzle my hand for a moment before grabbing a robe from my armoire and slipping it on. The silk settled gently against my skin, a comforting touch in a world where nothing else was quite making sense.

I glided down the stairs and into the parlor, intent on finding Faewin, but she wasn’t there. Figuring that she was likely in the library, I turned down the hall and headed in that direction. My thoughts lingered on my closest friend and cousin—I had taken her in when her parents lost their inheritance. Back then, Faewin had nowhere else to go, and I’d relied on her for support ever since. She’d been especially good to me over the past six months, after Prince Emory had broken my heart.

I swept into the library, the cat right behind me, and sure enough, Faewin was standing by the old-fashioned secretary desk, looking at something.

Something which she quickly hid behind her back the second she saw me.

“What’s going on?” I asked, cocking my head.

Faewin smiled, dimples forming in her cheeks. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

I rolled my eyes. “I can tell you’re hiding something. What is it?”

Faewin hesitated. “I think you should have some tea, first,” she said, before taking my arm and beginning to lead me in the direction of the dining room.

I’ve been called many things over the course of my life, but stubborn has probably been the most accurate. I planted my feet and refused to move. “No,” I demanded, “Tell me what’s going on, Faewin.”

My cousin shifted uncomfortably, one hand picking at a loose thread at the front of her gown. “Are you sure you want to know?”

I held out my hand. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

Faewin sighed, but placed a creamy white envelope in my hand. “It arrived this morning…from the palace.”

A smile fought to emerge across my face, but I fought it down. It wouldn’t do to be so jubilant in the face of death. “I wonder what it could be?”

Ha! What else could it be but the tragic announcement that Prince Emory’s beloved bride was dead?

I grabbed the letter opener from the secretary desk, trying my best to rip open the seam as calmly as possible. Even so, I couldn’t help the beginnings of a triumphant smile from surfacing—that is, until I saw what the letter actually said.

It was an invitation.

You are Invited, the gold-embossed script proclaimed, to Attend the Wedding of Prince Emory and Princess Calliope…

I looked up at Faewin, who was biting her lip in anxiety of my response. “Is this some kind of joke?” I demanded.

“I had a feeling it would upset you,” my cousin said, frowning with empathy on my behalf.

My mind raced, unable to come up with an adequate solution that made the slightest amount of sense for the circumstances at hand. “But…the wedding happened last night! Calliope should already be—”

I shut my traitorous mouth before I could reveal anything too dangerous. Even so, Faewin was staring at me with no little concern. “Perhaps you were dreaming?”

For a moment, I wondered. Could Faewin be right?

But…no, I had been at the wedding just yesterday; I could almost still feel the chapel stone under my feet as the accursed couple exchanged vows. I’d been scheming ever since I got the invitation a month ago.

Faewin took my arm again, tucking my hand under hers. “Are you sure you don’t want tea? We can have your favorite biscuits.”

Just the thought of eating nearly had me retching. “I can’t,” I told her, extricating my hand, “I think I need to lie down for a bit. I’m not feeling like myself.”

I made my way back to my room, stopping every few moments to check and recheck the invitation. My name remained at the top, next to a date from last month. The names of Prince Emory and Princess Calliope stared up at me mockingly from the page.

It had to be a prank, right? That was the only possible explanation. Someone who knew about my history with Prince Emory—and, at this point, who didn’t?—must be playing a cruel joke.

My fingers bumped up against something on the back of the envelope. Of course—the wax seal!

I turned it over, sure that I’d be coming face to face with an ill-made replica.

It was Prince Emory’s seal, gleaming in crimson wax. I’d know it anywhere. He’d certainly sent me enough letters once upon a time.

I opened the door to my room with a bang, feeling on the verge of tears as bits and pieces of yesterday continued to come back to me. I remembered meeting Marlowe in the garden gazebo…I had paid him with a bag of coins I had kept in my gown.

My gown—I dropped the letter, which fluttered to the floor like a falling leaf, and began rifling through my armoire. There was the gown, towards the back.

It was entirely empty of the hidden bag of coins.

I nearly screamed, staggering back, and caught my reflection in the mirror. The woman in the mirror looked about as confused as I felt. Was this all some kind of nightmare?

I needed to go to the palace. It was the only way to find out if Calliope was alive or dead.

My mind finally set on a task, I stripped off my robe and my dress, pulling back my hair—and gasped.

The woman in the mirror had a dark mark on the side of her neck.

Where in the hell had that come from?

I moved towards the mirror, squinting to examine it more closely.

It didn’t look like a bruise, rather, it was in the shape of…something.

A hooded flower…my eyes went wide. Wolfsbane.

A deadly poison.

The kind that Marlowe was supposed to slip to Calliope last night.

That mark could only mean one thing—this wasn’t a nightmare. It was far worse.

I had been cursed.