Page 43 of The Midnight King
He presses something round into my hand, then whirls me around and pushes me gently into the Prince’s arms.
“There you are at last,” says Brantley. “Why have you—”
But before he can say anything else, I hold up the item Killian gave me—a tiny ball of chocolate studded with peppermint chips—and I pop it into the Prince’s open mouth.
Two of the guards standing by the wall stride forward, probably thinking I’ve poisoned him, but the Prince gestures for them to wait. They halt a few paces away while he chews the candy.
“By Fate, that’s good,” he says. “I usually don’t enjoy sweets, but that was tasty. Not poison, I trust?”
My stepmother’s command takes over my tongue, but even as cruel words escape my mouth, I realize that I can control their volume, so I keep my voice to barely a whisper. “I wish it was, you pompous bastard.”
Did he hear me? Did the spell work? I hold my breath, biting my lip.
Then the Prince laughs, more heartily than he has since I met him. He waves the guards away, and they return to their posts.
“The origins of candy are quite fascinating,” he says.
“Wretchedly boring, you mean.” I hold my breath, but thanks to the spelled candy, he doesn’t seem to notice my rude interruption.
He dances with me for the next hour, explaining the history of sweets and the process for making various types of candy, along with a detailed description of a town to the north that is well-known for its chocolate. By my stepmother’s command, I’m forced to interject insults and curses as my side of the conversation, but thanks to my Faerie godfather’s intervention, none of it perturbs the Prince. In fact, he seems to find me more charming than ever… which is unfortunate, because the longer I monopolize his attention, the more vicious stares I receive from some of the other women at the party.
Not everyone hates me, though. A number of the women don’t seem to care whether the Prince likes them or not. They’reenjoying themselves immensely with the other eligible men present, and I’m convinced more than a few marriages will be announced in the coming months.
Unfortunately, it seems as though none of those engagements will involve my stepsisters. I have no idea how they will explain tonight’s events to Gilda, or what her reaction will be. When I see Gilda again, my Faerie godfather’s glamour should still be in place, and should still make me appear injured and ragged to her. But tomorrow that glamour will have dissipated, and I’ll look normal and whole again. No human could heal that quickly. She’ll know I’ve had access to magic.
Added to that concern is my growing dread about her words to me earlier: that she would never let me go. I always knew she might not uphold her end of our bargain, but now she has made it clear, spoken it aloud. I have no doubt she’ll carry out that threat, even if it means keeping me prisoner once she’s in full control of the Prince… if she ever achieves that goal, which is looking less and less likely, as he showed no interest in my stepsisters tonight.
After dancing a while, Brantley and I leave the ballroom and stroll through the halls together. I maintain silence as much as I can, letting him pour out all the intricate knowledge stored in his mind. The longer I listen to him, the more I admire the vastness of his brain, its capacity for preserving details. He’s truly brilliant and sincerely kind, if a bit awkward in social situations.
Though I don’t have any romantic inclination toward the Prince, I can’t help liking him and feeling a little protective over him. I’m glad he isn’t interested in my stepsisters. Now that I’ve gotten to know him better, I couldn’t bear letting him marry either Vashli or Amisa. I couldn’t live with myself if I let my stepmother bind him and control him, the way I’ve been bound and controlled.
A servant approaches from a side hallway, intercepting us with a respectful bow. “Your Highness, my apologies for interrupting, but the lady’s family is departing and would like her to join them in their carriage.”
“I can send the lady home later, in one of my carriages,” offers the Prince, with a glance at me.
I struggle not to respond, knowing whatever comes out of my mouth will be an insult—but I can’t resist the force of my stepmother’s command. “I don’t want to ride in one of your ridiculous carriages, you arrogant ass.”
The servant’s eyes widen, but the Prince only laughs. “Very well, as you wish. But I will send a carriage for you tomorrow evening. I would like you to come early, before everyone else arrives.”
“I suppose I have no choice since you’re the motherfucking Crown Prince.” I wince inwardly as the servant’s jaw drops.
“So kind of you, my lady.” The Prince bows to me, then lifts my hand and kisses it gently. He doesn’t try to kiss me on the mouth, and I realize that, despite his affinity toward me and his clear appreciation for my beauty and my gowns, he hasn’t displayed any signs of sexual attraction. Perhaps he doesn’t feel it as strongly as other men do, or he experiences it in a different way. Or perhaps he prefers men, and he’s anxious about showing such a preference since he’s expected to produce heirs.
“Have a wretched night,” I mutter to him as I turn away. The servant escorts me back toward the front of the palace in stunned silence, so I venture an explanation. “The insults are part of a little game the Prince and I were playing.”
“Oh,” says the servant. The tension eases from his shoulders, though he still looks at me like I’m very odd indeed.
My stepsisters are already in the carriage, and when I climb inside, they both wrinkle their noses. “Ugh, Cinders, you smell wretched,” complains Amisa. “How could the Prince bear it?”
“What did you do to him?” says Vashli. “Why didn’t he throw you out of the palace?”
I adjust myself against the seat so as not to crush the lacy wings they cannot see. Instead of answering their questions, I stare out the carriage window, letting them work themselves into a frustrated frenzy until we stop in front of the grand townhouse where my stepmother has spent her evening.
She enters the coach wearing a smug smile and a fur coat I’ve never seen before. “Mother had great luck tonight, my dears,” she says, chucking Vashli’s chin and patting Amisa on the head. I’m surprised Vashli doesn’t bite her fingers right off—she looks as if she would like to.
Clearly Gilda has enjoyed more than her fair share of wine this evening. That could work in my favor, if she’s drunk enough to be happy but not so drunk as to be violent. With her, there’s a tipping point.
“Oh Mother, it’s dreadful,” Amisa wails. “Cinders looked awful at the party, but no one seemed to care! The Prince didn’t throw her out! He was supposed to be furious that she would appear in such disarray, smelling so terribly, but he never seemed to notice!”