Before the four of us left the dining room, Faun, Haskel, and Dorian insisted I be prepared. I would spend every day building immunities, discerning small forks from big ones, being trained to use my magic, to dance… and to avoid death. All in preparation for the gleaming fangs of the summer court. Decorum, courtliness, life and death. A strange braid of silks and knives.
Haskel and Dorian excused themselves from the dining room soon after we came to our decision. I resisted asking where Dorian had to be. He wore his cloak and his riding boots; that was enough to know he was leaving the citadel.
What is he up to?
I doubted he’d tell me if I asked.
Faun and I broke our fast, but this time I sat in the high-backed chair at the table’s end. Rhiannon’s chair. Faun insisted I sit there; if a queen did not wear her crown and robes as though she deserved them, then who would believe she did?
It was fine logic. I still felt like a child in an adult’s seat.
Coffee was brought out—it had grown on me after all—but Faun stopped me with a hand over the rim before I brought the mug to mylips. She snapped her fingers at the male servant who’d delivered the carafe.
“Pour”—she pointed at the carafe and an empty mug—“and drink.”
When he made to drink the coffee black, she said, “With the milk.”
He added milk into the coffee and drank both together, upturning the mug until it was empty. Faun watched, spine straight, eyes predatory, and said, “You’ll taste every dish placed in front of the queen before she touches it. You’ll do this every morning.”
The servant nodded, departed through the tapestry door.
Faun slid my mug back toward me. When I didn’t touch it, she said, “Don’t worry—he’d have dropped before he got through the side door if it were poisoned.”
I stared at the fae. “How would you know that?”
“My mother was the queen’s apothecary. I could recite all the poisons in Feyreign by the time I was eight.”
Was.Wasthe queen’s apothecary.
Perhaps Faun sensed my next words, because she diverted herself to pouring tea. “Rhiannon was poisoned several times. But she had enough immunity to survive.”
Finally, I drank. Coffee had become a soothing ritual. “How did she gain immunity?”
“The mycelial knot.” Faun dropped two squares of sugar into her cup and stirred. “She hated the indignity of vomiting at the dining table.”
I raised my brows. “The mycelial knot?”
She tapped her spoon on the rim of the cup. “It’s a fungal network that coats your esophagus and stomach. Rejects most poisons, herbal or magical. A Sylvanwild specialty.”
Suddenly I felt like I sat with Elisabet during a biology lesson. Half the words didn’t penetrate—only the practical part: “If you have the mycelial knot, then why make that servant taste everything?”
“I don’t much care for yakking at breakfast.” She raised the cup toher mouth and took a savoring sip with eyes half shut. “And that servant was one of Rhiannon’s favorites in the kitchen and in the bedroom. He’s immune toeverything.”
Gods, I really didn’t know these people at all.
The servant returned carrying two trays—one with fowl and potatoes, the other with rashers of ham and white cheddar. He set them on the table, lifted a knife and fork, and prepared himself small helpings of each. He ate without sitting, and only when Faun nodded did he depart.
“He wasn’t loyal to her.” Faun speared a rasher and transferred it to her plate. “But you could kill him if you like. Replace him with a new royal taster.”
I set down my knife and fork. “You’re joking.”
“Yes, and no.” She cut into the ham. “He knows too much of the citadel to be sent away. So if he displeases or betrays you, it’d be safer for you to end him.”
I swept a hand toward the tapestry. “He’s done nothing wrong.”
“Yet. But he knows how vulnerable you are.”
My appetite had left me. I sat back. “How vulnerable am I, Faun?”