"But you might not wake up in the morning."

  "The little princess will certainly rouse me with her terrible morning temper. Besides, Beth Keton habitually kicks me out of bed at dawn. I assure you I won't oversleep, my lord."

  "I'm just a scholar... not a—"

  "Please, help me, Scholar." she implored.

  He nodded with knightly solemnity and rose to his feet. Scholar Vito approached his workbench with newfound purpose. "I'll prepare a potion for you. Primarily using mandrake flowers, supplemented with auxiliary herbs—"

  "No, no, no!" Kristina Petrova interjected sharply, shaking her head. "Mandrake flowers simply won't suffice."

  "Then perhaps hibiscus would serve better—"

  "That won't do either."

  "But hibiscus extract could fell a bull!"

  "It's not potent enough." (Not reliable enough.) "Use Drowsy Goldbloom. The yellow-petaled variety... yes, the Drowsy Goldbloom."

  Vito Scholar's hand jerked, sending a beaker crashing to the floor. "Drowsy Goldbloom," he echoed, turning to stare at her with widened eyes. "That's used for hunting dragons."

  "Yes... smaller draconic species," Kristina replied, her gaze beseeching. "Please, Scholar. I beg of you."

  "Concoctions derived from Drowsy Goldbloom are strictly controlled substances! Without proper authorization, they cannot leave this laboratory!"

  "So you're saying," the woman inquired with calculated calmness, "it's here, within these very walls?"

  "Only those possessing dragon-hunting licenses may requisition it."

  "Surely you could—"

  "Every single vial must be rigorously documented!" Vito Scholar exclaimed, frustration coloring his voice. "Besides, humans have absolutely no legitimate need for Drowsy Goldbloom!"

  Kristina Petrova summoned fresh tears with practiced ease. "So what you're truly saying is, you refuse to aid a desperate woman in her hour of need," she choked through a sob. "A woman condemned to nightly wakefulness, who fears dismissal with each dawn, who lives perpetually under threat of execution for the slightest misstep." She turned away dramatically, gripping the chair's armrest for theatrical support. "I foolishly believed you possessed a knight's gallantry," she added with bitter self-reproach. "But no, it seems my request was simply too presumptuous."

  The short-haired maid proceeded to the door, her hand lingering deliberately on the handle, reluctant to push it open. She was waiting, anticipating the boy's intervention. (If he refuses me now, I'll simply return when this place stands empty.)

  The silence stretched painfully. Finally surrendering, she began to push the door. "Kristina." Relief flooded through her, a triumphant smile spreading across her features.

  "I believe I've earned the right to address you so familiarly," Vito Scholar declared, retrieving an ornately carved box from a locked cabinet. The container was substantial, its surface adorned with intricate engravings. Within lay a precise row of small glass vials, each containing pale amber liquid. He selected the leftmost specimen. "We now share a secret, Kristina."

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  Kristina Petrova maintained perfect composure, betraying none of the giddy excitement typical of a young woman freshly smitten. She approached him with measured steps, adorning her countenance with tears and the faintest of smiles. "Thank you, Vito." Rather than accepting the vial, she embraced the boy. "You are both knight and hero. My knight, my hero." Vito returned the embrace with awkward rigidity; she was the first woman besides his mother he had ever held. "I have nothing worthy to offer in return," she murmured.

  The boy contemplated an appropriately chivalric response. "Perhaps... a kiss would suffice?"

  She kissed him without hesitation. The scholar, utterly inexperienced, didn't even part his lips, surrendering completely to her expertise. Kristina accommodated his innocence, closing her eyes and bestowing upon him the most tender, virginal kiss—devoid of carnal desire, suffused with the illusion of pure devotion. (Foolish child.) Though merely performing, she found herself experiencing a curious rejuvenation, a youthfulness that radiated from within. Love, she reflected, was medicine for all female afflictions save one: poverty.

  Vito Scholar's lips remained sealed throughout. "Are you satisfied, my valiant knight?" she inquired as he struggled to regulate his breathing.

  "Your kiss was... exquisite, Kristina."

  The short-haired maid delicately extracted the vial of Drowsy Goldbloom from his trembling fingers. "I shall repay you properly, Vito. A single kiss cannot possibly balance such extraordinary kindness."

  "The potency of Drowsy Goldbloom is tremendous. Use but a single drop per application," the boy cautioned, his face flushed crimson. "Remember, never exceed the dosage."

  "Of course," she replied with honeyed softness. "But should I be so unfortunate as to fall into endless slumber, I trust you'll be prepared to wake me with a kiss."

  The scholar floundered momentarily, speechless. "I must depart, Vito. Lady Hubbard will flay me alive otherwise." She proceeded to the door, but Vito called after her once more.

  "I eagerly anticipate your... next kiss, Kristina," he declared, summoning what appeared to be every ounce of courage he possessed.

  The short-haired maid offered him a parting smile before turning away. (Poor, naive child,) she thought dispassionately. (There shall be no next time.)

  "When the hell are they going to serve the food?" King Porchet Malen Owen of Popodovis drummed his pudgy fingers against the long table, his substantial belly quivering with indignation. "How much longer must we languish here?"

  "Until our remaining royal colleagues grace us with their presence," Queen Shirley Farland of Megonian replied, a sleek smile playing across her lips. "King Porchet, I suggest moderating your appetite. The Godmas are hot on our trail—being fleet of foot might serve you better than a full stomach."

  "If those southern dogs dare cross the Kulen Mountains, we'll see who chases whom," Porchet growled, seizing his goblet with needless force and flooding his mouth with beer. Much of the amber liquid found its way into his coarse, bristly beard. "Those cowards wouldn't dare go near the Throat Road."

  "Only because they're prioritizing Cynthia's capture," interjected King Noland Lister Russbinder of Arisindra, whose unremarkable black hair stood in stark contrast to his wandering gaze, which brazenly explored Queen Shirley's décolletage. "Without subduing Cynthia, any attempt on the Throat Road would be suicidal folly. With Duviliel and Cynthia mounting a coordinated assault from both flanks, the southerners would face certain annihilation."

  "You presume Duviliel will commit forces," King Moore Byron Lawrence of Dud observed dryly. The elderly monarch reclined languorously in his servant's embrace, savoring the residual sweetness of lemon cake upon her fingertips. "The ring finger," he murmured softly, and the maid obediently raised it to his lips. "Contain your judgmental stares, esteemed colleagues. Though autumn adorns my brow, winter has yet to claim my vitality." The gaunt, nearly bald sovereign straightened momentarily to offer a morsel of cake to the young woman beside him. "I find myself curious about when Duviliel's youthful king intends to rescue his beleaguered sister." His attendant diligently suckled his extended fingers.

  "Were I in his position, I'd dispatch reinforcements to Cynthia without delay and crush the Godma vermin beneath my heel," King Porchet huffed dismissively. "I wouldn't squander precious hours on frivolous assemblies like this so-called Seven Kings Meeting. What kind of meeting is this?" He gestured expansively. "Two monarchs absent, and our purported host nowhere to be found." Porchet jabbed a sausage-like finger toward the table's head, where an ornate chair adorned with ivory and rich velvet stood conspicuously vacant. "What scheme is that cunning fox Royce orchestrating this time?"