Page 63 of A Game of Veils

I step out at the edge of the herb garden I’ve encountered during my occasional strolls outside. My eyes are going bleary, but with several hasty steps amid the tight rows, I spot the tufts of thyme in a dense patch.

I don’t need that much. As I bend down to snap off a few sprigs of leaves, I quietly spit the scrap of bark into the dirt.

When I straighten up, a wave of dizziness rocks me. I stiffen my limbs against it and skirt the watching princes on my way back into the kitchen.

Their stares follow me. Lorenzo makes a rough sound in his throat that I can’t decipher.

Raul follows me to the cupboard where I pull out a mug. “What in the realms are you playing at, Princess?”

He’s kept his tone jaunty on the surface, but it’s hardened underneath. Is he getting annoyed with my lack of explanation?

Perfect. The frustration can be spread all around.

The kettle is already steaming. I drop the thyme into the mug and pour in just enough boiling water to fill the vessel by a quarter. Then I start my journey back to my room, clutching the mug in one hand and the bulb of garlic in the other.

I’d thought I felt terrible before. I hadn’t known how much more capacity for awfulness my body contained. My initial measures must have held off the worst of the symptoms more than I realized.

With every step, the feverish heat turns starker, raking claws through my flesh and fogging my vision. My stomach starts up its roiling again. The throbbing in my head expands down my back and through my very bones.

I’ve probably made the illness even worse by pushing myself to keep moving. But if I’d just lain there in my bedroom, I might have been dead by morning.

My awareness of my princely followers dwindles as I retreat even farther into the shrinking calm inside me. Bastien is demanding an explanation and Raul cajoling me, and I just keep striding forward, step after step, as quickly as I can.

I didn’t bother to lock my bedroom when I left it. With a waft of gratitude for that oversight, I push the door open with my shoulder and walk inside.

Just a little farther. My tools and the other ingredients wait a mere ten paces away.

But as I wobble toward them, the princes barge after me into the room. Because of course they still have no concept of privacy.

“Whether you speak to us or not, we are going to get answers,” Bastien insists.

The fever has eaten away at the cool place inside me so it’s little more than a scrap of stillness. The battle raging inside my body rises to a roar.

My control is slipping from my fingers.

“Get out!” I shout, or maybe it’s only a mumble, my tongue tripping over itself.

Either way, it makes no difference. Bastien marches even closer.

With my last bit of strength, I set the mug on top of the closed trunk.

And my legs give beneath me.

I crumple to the floor, my limbs gone so limp I can’t even grope out with my arms to soften my fall. My skin smolders, and my stomach lurches. I’m vaguely aware of retching a sputter of acid-laced water onto the carpet.

I think I hear my name. My mind wavers in and out of darkness, the impressions of shapes and sounds around me fragmenting.

Fingers brush against my forehead and jerk away. Bastien: “She’s burning up with a fever.”

“What the fuck? But she seemed?—”

“She was so quiet—the effort it would have taken her to talk… If I’d realized?—”

“She couldn’t really have been hiding that bad an illness.”

My thoughts spiral away. I gag and retch again. Pain batters me from all sides, as if beating me up for daring to fight.

I almost had my cure. I know what I need to do. But I can’t—I can’t?—

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