Page 47 of These Vile Hearts

“What?” I feign disinterest, inwardly cursing myself. Years of bowing to my brothers has ingrained the gesture in me when presented with a person I simultaneously loathe and fear.

“You bowed to the girl just now,” he clarifies. “You’re meant to be the king. Shouldn’t she be bowing to you?”

Shooting him the most disgusted look I can manage, I wave him away. “I offered her a gentlemanly gesture. Yes, I am meant to be king, but I also intend for her to fall in love with me. If I want your advice, I will ask for it, Tamarind. Otherwise, you may remain silent. Don’t forget that your fondness for talking out of turn is the reason you’re stuck with me.”

All emotion drains from Tam’s face like blood from a slashed throat. He offers a brusque nod, backing a step away. I get the urge to apologize but fight it down. We aren’t friends anymore. We haven’t been friends for quite some time.

If I do manage to rid myself of this curse, what would a friendship with him even look like? For just a moment, I let myself daydream about a future where I could actually have some semblance of a normal life. A life where Tam and I sneak off into a nearby mortal town—or maybe venture a bit farther, into their larger cities—drinking and causing problems only the fae can cause. Party with the carousing ironfae. Find a couple mortals to flirt with, to kiss under their too-bright city lights. And then make our way back to the forest, arm in arm, laughing drunkenly about nothing.

The soft wind of beating wings rustles my hair, pulling me out of my reverie. A hawk lands on the railing along the path, its beak clenched around a golden scroll.

“What does my dear brother have to say to me this morning?” I mutter to the hawk. It tilts its head, stretching its neck further.

I unfurl the scroll as the bird flies away. In perfect black script are only four words sandwiching an ominous trio of dots.

Lovely choice…Your Majesty.

15

Maddox

Fern’s rose cream stew tastes like cream of mushroom would if it were made with potpourri. What I wouldn’t do for a burger and fries right now. The worst part? I already took three units of insulin when I got back to my room, so I have to eat the flower soup.

Evodia enters the room in a loose-fitting white shift. Her lilac skin shimmers with a dewy morning glow, and her face morphs from tender to stern as she makes her way around the room, checking in with each of the orchids like a mother of many. She offers me only a curt nod and nudges Fern in my direction. Seems I have yet another fae watching my every move. Though if I had to choose between Drosera and Fern, I’ll take the latter ten times over.

Every Magesté dancer and orchid sits at the two wooden tables in the cramped dining room. Thanks to Fern’s quick whispered words, I learn not all dancers are orchids and vice versa. Some dance on the stage; others dance only in the bedroom. But they all eye me distrustfully. Everyone except the mortal named Daisy, who is smiling down at her stew like it’s said something funny.

Four rows of arborfae and dryads of various genders size me up, the mortal girl who is clearly not under any sort of dryad enchantments. The mortal who cansee. Every part of me screamsother. My curved ears. My imperfect pores. The trio of zits on my chin.

Evidently, Evodia already gave them the rundown while I was off cavorting with dead bodies and the king, who is never alone. But she insists on introducing meproperlyanyway.

“Everyone.Thisis Oleander,” Evodia announces, tapping me on the shoulder as I force another swallow of flower stew. She peers down at me. “Stand up so they can see you.”

I rise to my feet, faking confidence. A smile, but not too wide. A regal yet polite wave, pretending I don’t loathe every last dryad before me.

Evodia continues. “She will be helping out here for a fortnight, so make her feel welcome.”

A few orchids exchange loaded glances. I arch a brow in their direction, so they know I saw.

“Well, after last night’s calamity, I say thank the forest gods,” one dryad calls out, raising their glass to me. “Welcome, Oleander.”

Evodia goes around, pointing at each of them, giving their name and assignment. I forget half of what she tells me.

“Where exactly are you from?” comes the voice of Cornelia, the lead dancer. She flicks a lock of rose-pink hair off her tan shoulder, watching me with eyes the color of burning coals.

I surprise myself by answering honestly. “Arborfell.”

At the sizzle of tension moving through the room, I regret it immediately. Perhaps it has something to do with it being a town full of loggers…

An orchid with silvery blue skin and white hair folds their arms and leans forward on the table. “You are far from home.”

Living in a place doesn’t make it a home.

Cornelia stands before I can respond. “No matter. You are here now. Welcome to Magesté, Oleander. Try not to burn it down in one night.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Fern pipes up. “I’ll be with her the whole time.”

Shockingly, this statement does not appear to reassure any of them.