Page 62 of Of Song and Scepter
I chant it in my head as I wait for her to approve the temperature of her bathwater.
A dead princess in this court would raise suspicion, and I’d be suspect. It’s much easier to hide a body in the Drink—not so much in the upper rooms of a marble palace stranded in the air, where blood doesn’t dissipate but pools, thick and obvious.
I could drag her into the kitchen closet, feed her to the fishery. But the chef sees everything, and he’s friends with the prince. Soren might not like me so much if I murder his future wife—again—even if she is a lying, conniving bitch. I’d be executed on the spot. Is that better or worse than facing the goddess of death?
If I kill Odissa now, I’m as good as dead.
Clio flutters about near Odissa’s wardrobe, the housekeeper’s presence in the room the only reason for our civility this morning. If she wasn’t here, I wouldn’t be kneeling on the hard floor, pouring rose oil into water.
But if I can’t kill Odissa, what Ishoulddo is run, make a break for the Frost Kingdom and live off the price I’d get for the collection of treasures I’ve hidden in the fishery. Leave Odissa here to die at the hands of the Eater of Souls, should she fail. And she will fail if I stay here, because I just fucked the one thing that’ll save her from Tephra’s teeth.
The magic of my oath seizes my throat, and I cough against its grip.I’m helping her!I scream at it.She cannot succeed if I stay.The pressure doesn’t lessen, only spreads, until my entire body numbs with ice.
Odissa runs her hands through the bathwater.
“Too cold,” she says. Two minutes ago, the water had been too hot, and I’d drained half the tub, adjusted the heat on the faucet, and refilled the giant basin.
If we didn’t have an audience, I would shove this rose oil up her entitled, stolen ass. But because we have an audience, we must perform.
I press my nails into my palm to keep from ripping out her little silver throat. With numb fingers, I turn the knob for the hot water only. Soon, steam fills the air, swirling between us. The water level laps dangerously high at the rim of the tub. If she gets in now, she will surely overflow it. I reverse the knob, testing the water myself. If this isn’t fucking perfect, I don’t know what else to do.
She frowns at my work, noting the water level, then touches the surface of the water gingerly. I stare at her, waiting for a response.
“That will do,” she snaps.
I wait, watching her fingers skim along the surface in figure eights.
She clears her throat. “It’s too full.”
I count to three, watching her squirm in her borrowed skin, before I unplug the drain and let some water out.
“Good, good. That’s good,” she says, flopping her hand at me like a fish with a death wish.
It’d be easier to leave, arguably, than sticking out this assignment for Tephra knows what reason at this point. Am I really that terrified of the consequences of breaking my blood oath? After a life spent dealing in the death of others, the thought of my own death shouldn’t strike fear into my heart.
I need more time to get my treasure in order, yes—if I am to survive on my own, I want to be set—but that isn’t the whole truth.
As the thought crosses my mind, I already know why I’ve stayed this long. It has to do with a certain Coral Prince and his capacity to make me feel alive. Free. When I’m with him, I can forget for a moment who I am, where I come from. The terrible things I’ve done to get here.
Odissa disrobes and sinks into the tub. Then, she signals for me to begin scrubbing. I soap the sponge and push it across her wet skin in rough, efficient circles, eager to complete the task. I dunk her soapy arm to rinse it and move on to the next.
“Don’t forget to get between my fins this time,” she says, flicking her tail in my face, perfectly clean and barnacle-free. I flash her my best grimace as I thread the sponge between her fins.
“Does Your Highness have a preference of hue for this evening?” Clio calls out from next to the wardrobe. She lifts a few skirts, displaying them for Odissa.
Odissa studies the options, tapping the base of her chin. “The pink one, of course. It is the prince’s favorite color.” Though thathardly narrows the selection; with the exception of her wedding gown, all of Odissa’s new dresses are pink.
Clio smiles. “Certainly. Perhaps the darker shade of pink? I know we do not have much for the deeper tones of your court. But it is your marriage ball, after all, and I’m sure your brother, His Majesty, would like to see you in the Abyssal colors one last time. Would he not?”
Clio pinches the hem of a dark magenta dress, lifting it from the array of silks.
I see the moment Clio’s words sink in—the corner of Odissa’s jaw flexes, her teeth clamping shut.
The Abyssal King is on his way, and when he gets here, he will meet his sister, mysteriously lacking the ten guards he sent with her, and a handmaid he neverauthorized.
“Yes, of course,” Odissa says. “Has my brother arrived?”
Her gaze slides to meet mine, and I read in her eyes the same panic that now grips my chest.
