Seven Deadly Sons

Ameline. (30)

I caught her eye from where I stood, though I could tell she couldn't see as far as me. "As I said, too good to be true. Do not forget."

My bedroom door shuts with a simple, soft click behind me.

Sighing, I lean my back against the wood and try to draw some energy from the earth with my palms, but feel no more grounded.

I suck the tears back inside, knowing this is not the time and never the place to cry.

Weakness is always bad.

One slips out, still, which I brush away as I walk over to the bed — still as much of a mess as it was this morning, prior to my whipping. I ache to lay down, for just a moment, and take in the relaxing surroundings; knowing running water, a soft bed and food are all within grasping distance.

I know I will not get up again if I do sit. So, I walk on and search for anything to store some supplies in. I'm not sure if I can or will be able to take the little dog of mine, but search anyway for some of his supplies also. The handbag I had made for him is not too big, but could do with adjustments.

I steal two sets of doublet, jerkin and ruffs and one set of breeches with a leather coat. If they tear, I will just have to find the means to mend them — the prince is not so much taller than me that they'd have to be shortened, rolling them will do the trick.

Ill have to stop by my sleeping quarters below the court-island to collect my boots and mule, and perhaps travel through the kitchens for some dried meats and flatbread; hard cheese should sort both Oliver and I for the journey too.

Just as I find a duffel bag of a sort beneath the chaise, the door flies open — slamming against the painted wall. Some of the pattern cracks and falls, and I focus on this rather than the new occupant. Oliver runs up to my heels, licking happily.

There isn't much space left in the bag. I snatch up a stoppered bottle beside the sink and re-fill it, watching the water rise.

"Speak to me." says the prince.

"No."

I see the reflection of his black shape on the bottles convex surface. "You will have to, if you mean to live the next fortnight."

Shoving the cork into the bottle and searing the metal piece, I snap "I wouldn't have to question my survival if you hadn't suggested such a ridiculous idea," and storm off toward my bag.

Huffing, he follows me. "It's the best outcome you could've hoped for!"

Bottle, bag. Spaniel, dog satchel. "You have to believe I tried for you."

"Why would I believe that? You've made it clear my life is insignificant to your scope!"

He frowns, then scowls, snapping back at me; "I never tried to murder you! I think some repercussions were necessary." He puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to turn me around as I aggressively fold clothes.

"Repercussions? You whipped me, asshole!" I throw his hand off, then storm to the bedroom to strip off the stupid dress I was still in, slamming the door behind me. "If you dare open this door, you'll wish I had succeeded in your death."

I hear him let out an exasperated uagh! from behind the door. He tests the handle anyway, so I shove the table to block it causing yet another sound of aggravation.

"I don't think whipping is nearly as bad as stabbing you in the heart!"

"I beg to differ!" Tearing off the dress, I throw it on the bed and begin tugging on a set of his breeches with a fitted black shirt of silk that fits cool against my skin.

The door has gone quiet bar the slight tapping of Oliver's paws coming over to the door, which he proceeds to scratch and whimper at.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not. You've never been sorry a day in your life, I guarantee — prince of fury."

"I really am sorry—" I throw the table over and open the door in one fell swoop, sending the prince almost flying through the door.

"Make it up to me then." I cross my arms, "Change the Kings mind."

He opens his mouth to reply, loosing down as if searching for an answer in my outfit. He reaches out, palms up — no answer, so I sail past him.

Collecting my things, and my whimpering dog — who I have since decided is coming, he hasn't stopped following me; ears perked, puppy eyes shining — in two arms, I turn around at the door to look at Kismet one last time. He is framed by the door and looking entirely unmoored, a look I commit to memory.

"If you don't find a way out of my sanction, the next time I see you I'll make sure you stay dead."

My voice breaks on that final word, and I have to turn as quick and loud as I can on still bear feet to make up for it. Though I hear Kis come to watch me leave, I do not turn back.

I was not lying when I said he would stay dead. I admit.

I cannot afford to fail again at the plan; the one the King clearly knew of and found so preposterous it wasn't worth trying to stop me.

What even was the King's sin? What was the Queen's? I only knew of one person with any semblance of that knowledge: Tierney.

If I try and lose against one of them, that was as sure as any death sentence. As any sentence to return to Earth.

With a heavy sigh, I resign myself to a fortnight of research and plotting.