‘They’ll think I’m cursed,’ I whisper, loud enough for them to hear as I hang my head, molten curls nearly swimming in the gravy boat as it sails by my plate.

  ‘My fuzzy peach.’ Father’s voice floats over the ribbons of beef towering between us. ‘No one could think a thing as lovely as you could ever be cursed.’

  With all my grace, I lift my wet-rimmed eyes to meet his. Under the cover of the mahogany table, I pinch the meat of my thigh. Right on cue, he reaches out to me with four gold-choked fingers, their plump flesh hovering over a platter of slivered fruit, waiting for me.

  I blink. A single tear staining my puffy pink sleeve before I lay my hand in his. Something about the feel of his skin, prickling hair laid over too-soft flesh, just makes me want to cut something.

  ‘Such gruesome murders are the work of a monster, that is all,’ he goes on, pastry raining from his beard. ‘When I catch him, and I will catch him, I’ll string his guts from our hall and throw a ball beneath them. You and your betrothed will dance beneath my justice. Saints, we may even have a wedding there.’

  I flinch, copying my mother’s every reaction as she pushes her plate away. Silver and crystal platters clink between us. Never one to be outdone, she holds her napkin up as if she might vomit. She should take a trip down to the harbour walk sometime. One whiff of that fester and it would stick in her nose like a pin. She’d never need to fake it again.

  ‘This, my sticky bun,’ my father says, offering me a pleading look between flashes of scorn for my mother, ‘is not your fault.’

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say, voice soaked in honey, ‘if we just postpone the engagements? Only for a little while. Just until we catch the so-called Virgin’s Avenger and—’

  ‘Where did you hear that name?’ Mother’s shrill voice kicks up to the rafters, and even the chandelier ripples.

  ‘Nowhere, my Queen, I—’

  ‘If you are going to lie, child, lie better. Where?’

  ‘It matters not, Livian. All monsters have names,’ father says, the crockery fleeing the brush of his belly as he eases himself up. ‘All the better to slaughter them by.’

  I sit straighter, head bent to receive my kiss, just as a trio of guards clatter to his side. They hold out their arms to stop him—then think better of it.

  ‘Get away, damn you. Off with you all. She’s not cursed. I’m perfectly fine.’

  The guards ducking to avoid the fat hand now swatting the air.

  ‘Now, I am needed in the war room. I will see both of my beauties this evening. In white, just as we discussed. And Peachy-pie, don’t forget the rubies. The announcement will go ahead as planned. In dark times, tradition and honour will light our way. Let them see we are not affraid. Our family has not defended their throne from the hordes just to be torn down by one coward’s blade.’

  Like moons to a sun, silver-clad servants orbit my father, dusting crumbs from his stretched doublet. Their fussing eclipses his bouldering form—until the doors do.

  I wait three seconds before I ask, ‘May I be—’

  ‘Princess Pia, you are dismissed.’ my mother snaps, a single talon grooming her brow as she admires her reflection in the carving knife.