The woman staring back at me from the mirror on my dressing table looked anxious, and I certainly felt that way, gazing at the mark on my neck. The vein-like roots of the wolfsbane flowers had inched further along my shoulder and onto my arm.

A noise in the hall outside my room startled me nearly out of my skin, and I scrambled to cover myself. It had been three days since Marlowe had agreed to help me break the curse.

I hadn’t heard from him since. And time was clearly working against me, with the mark growing more and more each day.

There was no more noise from the corridor, so I cautiously peeled back the collar of my gown and took a closer look at the mark. It was clearly growing more entrenched, as if staking out its territory. Perhaps if I were very still, I might even be able to feel it snaking across my skin.

I shuddered at the thought. Each day gone was bringing me closer to the wedding…and to my imminent demise.

Sitting at my vanity in the late afternoon light, I felt paralyzed at the passivity of my situation. Though I was tempted to reach out to Marlowe, the thought of returning to the tavern just increased my anxiety. That option was out.

Next, I considered asking Sir Garnier, but that might only rouse his suspicions. He was, of course, loyal, but with the curse weighing down on me, I wasn’t at liberty to assume anything of anyone.

Earlier that day, Faewin had asked me about what kind of gown I would like to have made up to wear for the prince’s wedding. “I know it may be emotionally difficult for you to be there,” she had said, “So why not come prepared with a wardrobe that will at least lift your spirits? Why not feel free to wear whatever you like?”

I tried my best to smile, but it was challenging knowing that the night of the wedding would bring about my untimely death. “I’ll just wear one of my existing gowns,” I told my cousin, “There’s no need for alterations. I don’t want to make a fuss or look like I care too much about how I look at the wedding. I don’t want her to have any reasons to feel smug.”

That wasn’t true of course, but I needed Faewin to buy it. I would prefer to have the dressmaker sew me a fabulous, eye-catching gown that proved once and for all that I was far more beautiful and deserving of a prince’s love than Calliope could ever be. But it wasn’t to be. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the dressmaker—what if they saw the mark? Surely there would be gossip. There would be more than gossip. It simply wasn’t safe.

“Well,” said Faewin, with a nod, “If that would feel best, then of course that’s fine!”

Back in my room, I studied the curse mark for a while before finally concluding that staring at it was simply making me more anxious. Surely I would feel better doing something productive. I tried to busy myself, heading downstairs to the library to do some research on curses, but I found little to reassure me.

In every tale I encountered, the curses always prevailed. It would seem that the lesson in such tales was to refrain from acting in ways that would bring about a curse in the first place, but it was, of course, far too late for that.

My favorite little house cat, Belial, came into the library to wind his way around my legs and demand that I pet him. I sat for what felt like hours poring over a stack of dusty old books, one hand scratching Belia’s ears, every approaching horse causing me to look up and out the window for signs of Marlow or one of his messengers. As the dinner hour approached, I was just putting the books away when I heard the distinct footfalls of several horses—could that be him? He didn’t travel with an entourage, as far as I knew, but that didn’t necessarily preclude it from possibility.

But the sight that greeted me when I looked out the window was truly the last person I had expected to lay eyes on that day.

A small entourage of guards flanked Princess Calliope on her horse. Nervously, I checked my reflection in the glass door to ensure the curse mark was fully hidden as one of the guards helped the princess down from her mount.

“Duchess Persephone,” Calliope said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I bristled internally but immediately sank into my most gracious bow. “Princess Calliope! What a pleasant surprise.” I hoped my voice did not betray my unease at her arrival.

Calliope looked around at the front gardens. “Your estate is so beautiful at this time of year.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” I managed, “But, surely you didn’t ride all this way to admire my estate when you have your own palace lands and gardens to look at any time you please.”

Calliope’s clearly forced smile faltered. She gestured for her guards to step back, and then looped an arm through mine, leading me around towards the back of the estate. “You know,” she said, “It’s no secret that I’m marrying a man you’re in love with.”

I nearly choked on my tongue, startled by her bluntness. “That’s not—wh—”

She pressed a palm over my hand. “There is no point in denying what we both know is true.”

Cautiously, I looked at her. “You came here to tell me that?”

Calliope stopped and faced me, dropping my hand. “Persephone, the fact of the matter is we don’t trust each other. And unless we do something about that, I suspect it will fester, and perhaps reveal itself in some ugly way.”

I looked away, guiltily. My words to Faewin as the wedding had unfolded echoed in my memory— “I hope the groom drops dead.”

But I had never intended to kill Emory, only Calliope. And I hadn’t even succeeded in setting up the plans in order for that to happen.

Oblivious to my torturous inner monologue, she continued on. “That’s why I’m inviting you to a tea party at Prince Emory’s palace. We can get to know each other, and perhaps reach some sort of understanding.”

I blinked, my brain stuck on the word “tea.” To be honest, I had barely processed anything else she had just said. Tea with Calliope? It sounded absurd!

She gave me a quick nod. “I’ll see you there.”

The assumption rankled. Once Calliope had ridden off, I returned inside, wondering what in the hell had just happened. I couldn’t imagine ever having tea with that woman. The very idea was sickening! Just trying to remain polite in her presence was a feat that took all of my strength.

I floated through the rest of the afternoon as though in a haze, half-convinced that Calliope somehow knew about my plot to kill her—which would make no sense, since I hadn’t even hired Marlowe to kill anyone this time around!

“I’m not hungry,” I told Faewin that evening, when she asked about dinner.

Faewin slipped into the library, settling next to me on the settee. She leveled a concerned look in my direction. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a bit troubled,” I admitted, “Calliope invited me for tea at the palace.”

Faewin cocked her head, taking this in. “Perhaps the princess is right,” she said, “Perhaps it will help mend the rift between the two of you.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” I allowed, but suspicion had settled over me like a familiar cloak.

That pervasive suspicion followed me into bed that night as my mind was overwhelmed by a frenzied spiral of thoughts. What was Calliope planning? Did her nod of assent that she would see me at her tea party hold in it a hint of triumph? What did she have to be triumphant about?

What if she was planning to poison the tea?

It was a ridiculous thought. If Emory were ever to suspect his precious fiancee of killing me, he would turn against her—even though he was marrying Calliope, he still had feelings for me, after all.

But the bitter irony was clear: one way to break up the happy couple would be for me to die at Calliope’s hands. And if not death, what other path could she possibly have planned for me? Did she imagine I would become a benign acquaintance? A friend? It was preposterous to imagine such a thing.

I must have tossed and turned for hours, trying to push all thoughts of the wedding, the prince and princess, and the tea party out of my head. Drowsiness was finally settling into my limbs when a sudden noise brought me back to full alertness.

I sat up, peering through the darkness at the appearance of an imposing figure on my window ledge.

Marlowe?