I stared in horror at the wolfsbane flower mark on my neck. Just when had it appeared?

The sudden footsteps of servants in the corridor rattled me out of my daze. Grabbing my robe from where it had fallen on the floor, I quickly pulled it on, pushing the collar up to hide the mark.

If anyone were to see it, they would know immediately that I had been cursed.

I collapsed into the dusky pink velvet-backed chair next to the window, numb with disbelief. How could this have happened? After everything Emory had done to me, why did I have to be the one to bear the curse? How was that fair?

Wolfsbane, Marlowe had said. And now that very flower had been inked onto my neck. The champagne toast I had made last night…I hadn’t woken up this morning with a hangover.

I was poisoned last night.

I had died.

And not only had I died, I’d been cursed to relive my own death again and again, in an endless loop, forced back into the inescapable depths of my own past.

I returned to the mirror and lowered the collar of my robe, exposing the mark. I rubbed it with my fingers, gingerly at first, and then harder, hoping it would vanish—no such luck.

Of course it wouldn’t go away. I didn’t have to be a scholar to know that the wolfsbane mark was never coming off.

I’d heard enough stories, growing up in Biwyth; the legends of those who had been cursed. But I’d always thought they were just that, stories—made up to frighten children.

Could they be real?

It felt almost ridiculous, worrying over all this in the sunlight, the songs of birds and the footfalls of servants absurd accompaniments to what I wasn’t entirely sure might not be total delusion. But how would I be able to find out for certain?

Under most circumstances, my first instinct was always to confide in Faewin. But I couldn’t risk asking anyone about curses, which could raise questions and incriminate me if it ever came to light that someone had hired an assassin to poison Calliope.

I needed to think. In all the legends I had grown up with, was there ever a woman who had been able to overcome the curse and thus rid herself of the mark that had been seared onto her skin?

I went back through each story I could remember, and in every single one, the villainess was always doomed.

But I wasn’t the villainess! If anyone were the villainess, it would have to be Calliope for stealing away Emory. So, why had things gone so terribly wrong?

My eyes found their way back to the mark on my neck. Wolfsbane. There had to be a reason for that particular flower finding its way to me.

The answer must lie with Marlowe.

Later that morning, I donned a high-collared dress and headed deeper into the estate. I was seeking out my loyal and trusted knight, Sir Garnier. As the one who had initially put me in touch with Marlowe in the first place, he would surely be able to point me in the right direction.

I could feel the temperature of the forge well before I opened the door to the blacksmith shop, the air around it shimmering with heat. Certain that I would be uncomfortable in my high-collared gown, I nevertheless stepped into the close quarters of the shop, and was relieved to find Sir Garnier there.

He appeared to be overseeing the repair of his armor, and as he pointed to something I couldn’t see from my vantage point, the blacksmith nodded and brought his hammer down with a bang.

I winced at the noise, already sweating in the cramped space, but before I could call attention to my presence, the knight looked up with a kind smile. “Duchess Persephone! What can I do for you today?”

I looked towards the blacksmith, who appeared as though he were trying very hard to remain invisible lest he miss some juicy gossip. This was not the place to have a top-secret conversation, nor was he my desired witness. “Sir Garnier. Would you do me the favor of stepping away for a moment? I have something I’d like to discuss.”

“But of course,” he said, with an obliging nod, and followed me out the door, the blacksmith pitching one of his tools back into the fire to reheat, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

I led him towards my garden, where the likelihood of being overheard was much lower. Still, I looked to my right and left, double-checking that we were indeed alone before speaking, as softly as I could manage while still being heard. “Do you know the infamous assassin, Marlowe?”

Garnier’s eyes widened. “Why are you asking me about such a notorious figure?”

I smiled, wanting to assuage his worry, but knew it was best to get straight to the point. “I’ve heard that assassins, like Marlowe, can be hired to take care of…certain things.”

Garnier smiled as well, but a shadow seemed to fall across his face. “Milady speaks the truth.”

I realized that I shouldn’t be too hasty—it would seem strange for me to immediately request to make contact with Marlowe without vetting him first. I bit my lip, making a show of considering. “Can a man like Marlowe be trusted?”

Garnier nodded, happy to confirm my inquiry on this point. “Although Marlowe is an assassin, assassins must be trustworthy. If not, they would never be hired.”

He cocked his head, looking me over. “But if you are in need of help, I am skilled with sword, lance, and mace.”

It was a kind offer, I knew. But I needed to replicate my exact steps if I wanted to get in touch with Marlowe this time around. “Thank you,” I said, with genuine gratitude, “but I am only seeking to talk to an assassin. As Marlowe is the most infamous of them, I would like to arrange a meeting with him.”

Garnier paused. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

The wolfsbane mark on my neck seemed to pulse with a hidden heat at his words. If I showed it to Garnier, he would instantly understand just what trouble I was in.

Revealing the mark, however, could have unfortunate implications. In the stories I grew up with, a curse mark was highly contagious, and if that were true, my mark could spread to other people…like my trusted cousin, Faewin. Or even to Prince Emory.

The man in front of me could have been just as susceptible, and I might yet have had further use of my brave, loyal knight. “I’m merely curious,” I said, instead, “could you arrange a meeting with Marlowe for this afternoon?”

A slight twist to Garnier’s mouth spoke of his reluctance. “I think it would be better that you stay away from assassins altogether.”

“Thank you for your concern,” I told him, gently, “But I really do desire a meeting.”

“Very well,” Garnier agreed, “I will send word.”

I thanked him and turned to leave the garden, feeling his eyes on my back all the while. Sir Garnier was loyal. He would not talk, that I knew; he was no gossip. I simply needed to bear the weight of his worry.

Faewin’s bright and clear voice rang out in greeting as I returned home. “Persephone,” she called, coming over to take me by the hand, “there is still the matter of the wedding invitation to attend to. I’ve been thinking about it, and…perhaps you should just decline.”

I scoffed, certain that declining would be a mistake. “No—I will accept the invitation.”

For her part, Faewin looked puzzled, and then sad, her brows knit together in an expression of consternation. “How can you be so masochistic? It’s going to break your heart to see Emory wed someone else!”

She was understandably concerned, and I knew that her worry came from a good place. “Think about it, Faewin,” I said, “not accepting would be showing Calliope weakness, and I refuse to let that happen. Let the royal family know that I will be attending the wedding.”

Faewin smiled, resigned to my decision, but there was a touch of grimness to her expression. “I hope you’re doing the right thing.”

She squeezed my hand before stepping away and sweeping out the door, on her way to a waiting carriage.

I sank into the chair in front of my dressing table, fiddling with my brush for want of something to do with my hands. I figured that I was, in fact, doing the right thing—by solving the problem of how to end this curse.

I had exactly one month before I was doomed to die, again. That gave me one month to solve the mystery of my own death.

What if I were to figure out exactly who killed me…and kill them first?