Chapter One
“Long live King Linus!”
A crystal flute is poised at my mouth; I can feel the kiss of glass against my bottom lip as my fingers clench tighter around the stem, already anticipating the bubbling crispness of champagne on my tongue.
“Long live the king!”
The jubilant chants fill the air from all directions, until every chandelier hanging in the Great Hall of Waterford Palace is rattling like hail against cobblestone. The strangled exhale that sounds from my left is so faint, I’m not sure how I hear it over the din.
Such a small sound; such enormous consequences.
My wide, wild eyes cut to my father — resplendent in his coronation finery, the ornate crown gleaming atop his salt-and-peppered hair. I watch in horror as his cheeks mottle into a deathly purple hue, as his foaming lips part like a fish out of water, gasping uselessly for breath.
His champagne flute hits the dais a second before he does, splintering into a thousand razor-sharp pieces all around my feet. The shards tear into my skin as I fall to the platform and scramble to his side. They score my hands, pierce the thick tulle skirts of my ballgown like shrapnel from an explosion.
I ignore the welling blood; that pain is of little consequence, compared to the pain in my heart as I watch the poison take its deadly effect on Linus’ nervous system.
All around me, the room is in an uproar. Sounds assault my senses, but they seem dull and distant. Far removed from my spot up here on the platform. Yells of horror pierce the air, high-heeled feet scramble across shining marble floors, courtiers duck for cover and call out for whatever gods they pretend to worship.
I do not run.
I do not pray.
I do not look away from my father’s face.
I hold his stare until his eyes go glassy, the scream building in my throat until I can no longer contain it.
“HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP US!”
But there’s no one to help.
Nothing to be done.
Because… he’s gone.
The king.
Dead.
Before he ever truly got the chance to rule.
My father.
Dead.
Before I ever truly got the chance to know him.
My eyes drift from the pink-tinged froth at the corners of his gaping mouth to linger on the deep slash wounds in my own palms. I stare at the blood on my hands until I can no longer stomach the sight. My head cranes back, my lips divide, and I unleash my anguish on the world.
I scream until my throat goes raw, scream until the sound runs out, scream until—
“Emilia!”
Someone is shaking me.
“Emilia! Emilia, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
The scream catches in my throat and turns to a sob as my mind spins through image after image, still bubbling fresh on the surface of my subconscious.