Poisoned, p.1
Poisoned, page 1
For Mallory Kass, my wonderful editor,
with gratitude and admiration
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Eighty-Nine
Ninety
Ninety-One
Ninety-Two
Ninety-Three
Ninety-Four
Epilogue
A Look at Stepsister
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Once upon long ago, always and evermore, a girl rode into the Darkwood.
Her lips were the color of ripe cherries, her skin as soft as new-fallen snow, her hair as dark as midnight.
The tall pines whispered and sighed as she passed under them, the queen’s huntsman at her side. Crows, perched high in the branches, blinked their bright black eyes.
As the sky lightened, the huntsman pointed to a pond ahead and told the girl that they must dismount to let the horses drink. She did so, walking side by side with him. Lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the soft hiss of a dagger leaving its sheath. She did not see the huntsman lift his face to the dawn, or glimpse the anguish in his eyes.
A gasp of shock escaped the girl as the huntsman pulled her close, his broad hand spanning her narrow back. Her eyes, wide and questioning, sought his. She was not afraid—not yet. She felt almost nothing as he slid the blade between her ribs, just a slight, soft push and then a bloom of warmth, as if she’d spilled tea down her dress.
But then the pain came, red clawed and snarling.
The girl threw her head back and screamed. A stag bolted from the brush at the sound. The crows burst from their roosts, their wings beating madly.
The huntsman was skilled. He was quick. He had gutted a thousand deer. A few expert cuts with a knife so sharp it could slice blue from the sky and the delicate ribs were cleaved, the flesh and veins severed.
The girl’s head lolled back. Her legs gave out. Gently, the huntsman lowered her to the ground, then knelt beside her.
“Forgive me, dear princess. Forgive me,” he begged. “This foul deed was not my wish, but the queen’s command.”
“Why?” the girl cried, with her dying breath.
But the huntsman, tears in his eyes, could not speak. He finished his grim task and got to his feet. As he did, the girl got her answer. For the last thing she saw before her eyes closed was her heart, small and perfect, in the huntsman’s trembling hands.
In the forest, the birds have gone silent. The creatures are still. Gloom lingers under the trees. And on the cold ground, a girl lies dying, a ragged red hole where her heart used to be.
“Hang the huntsman!” you shout. “Burn the evil queen!” And who would fault you?
But you’ve missed the real villain.
It’s easily done. He’s stealthy and sly and comes when you’re alone. He stands in the shadows and whispers his poison. His words drip, drip, drip into the small, secret chambers of your heart.
You think you know this tale, but you only know what you’ve been told.
“Who are you? How do you know these things?” you ask.
Fair questions, both.
I am the huntsman. Dead now, but that’s no matter. The dead speak. With tongues blackened by time and regret. You can hear us if you listen.
You will say that I’m telling you tales. Fairy stories. That it’s all make-believe. But there are more things afoot in the Darkwood than you can imagine, and only a fool would call them make-believe.
Keep to the path, the old wives say. Stay out of the forest.
But one day, you will have to walk deep into those dark woods and find what’s waiting there.
For if you do not, it will surely find you.
The day before …
“Tally ho!” shouted the queen, spurring her fierce courser on.
The hounds had flushed their quarry. A gray wolf broke from the cover of a blackbriar patch and ran for the deep woods. The pack swept after it, baying for blood.
The bravest members of the hunting party followed the queen, galloping hard to keep up with her, but the princess, riding a swift, nimble palfrey, boldly streaked past her. She chased the wolf at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of trees, her skirts billowing behind her. She jumped a stone wall, a stream, a tangle of brush so high, there was no telling what lay beyond it. Her hat came off; her black hair unfurled like ribbons of night.
The queen couldn’t catch her. Nor could the princes, Haakon and Rodrigo. I saw them flashing through the woods, the queen in white, her nobles in rich hues of russet, moss, and ochre. I saw a baron crouched low over his horse’s neck, his hands high up in the animal’s mane. He narrowed the distance between himself and the queen, but just as he was about to pass her, his horse stumbled. The baron lost his balance. There was a cry, then a sickening crack as he hit the ground.
“Leave him, huntsman!” the queen shouted. “Leave anyone who falls!”
The man lay crumpled under a tree, his eyes closed, his head bloodied. I thundered past him; the rest of the riders did, too. Only the princess cast a look back.
We trailed the hounds, navigating by their cries, swerving through the woods as they changed direction. I lost sight of the queen as she rode through a pocket of mist, then found her again, some moments later, with the pack. And the princess.
The hounds had surrounded the wolf. The creature was huge and fearsome. It had killed two dogs already. Their broken bodies lay nearby.
And him? Oh, yes. He was there, too.
He was always close by. Watching. Waiting.
I heard him in the wolf’s low growl. Felt him in the nervous stamping of the horses. I saw him rise from the depths of the princess’s eyes, like a corpse bobbing up in a river.
And then, without warning, the wolf charged the horses, snarling. The palfrey whinnied and reared, but the princess kept her seat. The courser’s nostrils flared, he flattened his ears, but he stood his ground as the queen jumped down from her saddle.
Circling the fray, she shouted at the hounds, exhorting them to attack. They did, barking and slavering, snapping at their prey’s haunches. The wolf rounded on them, but it was one against many. The hounds knew it and grew bolder, but one, small and slight, hung back from the pack.
The queen saw it; her eyes darkened. “Fight, you coward!” she shouted.
The hound tucked its tail and retreated. Furious, the queen snatched a whip out of a groom’s hands and started after the dog.
“Your Grace! The wolf is escaping!”
It was Prince Haakon. He’d just caught up to the pack. The queen threw the whip down and ran to her horse, but by the time she’d swung back into her saddle, the pack—and the princess—was already gone, in hot pursuit once more.
For a long and treacherous mile, the princess pursued the wolf, until a ravine brought them up short. She stopped her horse a few yards from the edge, but the wolf ran right to it. When it saw the sheer drop, it tried to backtrack, but the hounds closed in from the left. A tangle of blackbriar, a good ten feet high, ran from the woods to the edge of the ravine, creating a wall on the right. The frantic animal paced back and forth, tensed itself to jump across the chasm, but saw that it was hopeless. Shoulders high, head low, it turned and readie d itself for its last fight.
The princess had moved closer. She could see the scruff of white at the animal’s throat now, the ragged edge of one ear. The wolf looked up at her, and she saw the fear in its silvery eyes. In a heartbeat, she was out of her saddle. Striding among the frenzied hounds, she drove them back, yelling at them, stamping them away, until she’d created an opening for the wolf.
“Go! Get out of here!” she shouted at the creature.
The wolf spied a small opening at the bottom of the blackbriar. The thorns were curved and cruel; they carved stripes in the desperate creature’s snout and tore at its ears, but it pushed under the dense vines and disappeared. The hounds rushed after it, but their snouts were tender, their hides thin; they could not break through.
The princess thought she was alone; she thought that no one saw this, but I did. I’d caught up to her but stayed hidden. I hunted many things for the queen, not all of them wolves.
I saw the princess lean her head into her horse’s lathered neck. I saw a deep weariness settle on her shoulders like a shroud. I saw her press a hand to her chest, as if to soothe a fierce ache under her ribs.
How it cost her, this charade. How it would cost us all.
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Shouts echoed. By the time the queen drew up, with Haakon and a few other riders, the princess’s back was straight again, her weariness buried.
“I’m afraid our sport is over, Stepmother,” she said with feigned regret, nodding at the ravine. “The wolf chose a quicker death.”
The queen rode to the edge and looked over it, frowning. “What a pity,” she said, “that we are robbed of our kill.”
Her eyes traveled to the hounds, then to the blackbriar. Her gaze sharpened. The princess did not see what had caught the queen’s attention, for she was climbing back into her saddle, but I did. Snagged in the thorns was a tuft of fur. Gray fur. Wolf’s fur.
The queen’s frown hardened. “Blow for home, huntsman!” she commanded.
I sounded my trumpet, and the hounds set off, noses skimming the ground. The small, frightened one, her tail still between her legs, skittered along at the edge of the pack. The riders followed, chatting and laughing.
As the hoofbeats faded from the clearing, there was a dry, rustling sound, like the whispering of silk skirts. I looked up and saw a crow, blue-black and shrewd, drop down from the high branch where he’d perched.
He let out a shrill caw, then flew off into the Darkwood.
I hear his call still, echoing down the centuries.
It sounded like a warning.
It sounded like a death knell.
It sounded, most of all, like laughter.
There was blood on the reins.
Sophie saw it as she handed them to a groom.
She turned her palms up. Four thin crimson crescents lay across each one, gouged by her own fingernails. Terror had flooded through her as she’d galloped through the woods. The horse she’d ridden was so fast, so high-strung, it had taken all her strength to control her. With every hoofbeat, Sophie had been certain she would fall and break her neck. She’d been frightened as she’d faced the wolf, too. The creature was huge; it could’ve torn her to shreds.
But her horse, the wolf—neither was the reason for the cuts in her palms, and she knew it. Her legs were still trembling even though the hunt was long over.
“Stupid, stupid, girl,” she hissed at herself.
What if the queen had seen her let the wolf go? What if someone else had? Her stepmother had eyes and ears everywhere.
Quickly, she pulled her gloves from her jacket pocket and slipped them on. The bold, fearless girl who could outride the princes, the huntsman, even the queen herself; the heartless girl who was keen to chase down an animal just to watch a pack of hounds kill it, that girl was a lie. The cuts were the truth, written in blood, and no one must ever read it. Rulers were ruthless. They did not show weakness or fear. They did not cry. They made others cry. Hadn’t her stepmother told her that a thousand times?
Sophie was standing in a large cobbled courtyard shared by the stables and kennels. She glanced around it now for the queen and her retinue, but they had not returned yet. Good, she thought. The hunt itself, the small talk made during the ride back, the constant pressure to be captivating and witty—it had all exhausted her. She wanted nothing more than to slip away to her chambers, get out of her sweaty clothing, and sink into a hot bath.
Servants had set out a long, linen-draped table in the courtyard. It was laden with meat pies, roasted game birds, smoked hams, cheeses, nuts, and fruit. Sophie made her way past it, head down, hoping to go unnoticed.
“Hail, bold Artemis, goddess of the hunt!” a voice bellowed from across the yard.
Sophie’s heart sank. So much for my escape, she thought.
She looked up and saw Haakon making his way toward her. Handsome Haakon, golden-haired and bronzed, his face as perfect as a marble god’s. Rodrigo was right behind him, his full lips curved into a seductive smile, his dark eyes full of promises. Sophie smiled brightly at them; she had no choice. One of these men might well become her husband.
The morning’s hunt was the first in a series of events over the next few days to celebrate her birthday. There would be a ball tonight as well, here in Konigsburg, at the palace. It would be a glittering affair with members of her stepmother’s court and rulers from all the foreign realms in attendance. She would turn seventeen tomorrow and inherit her father’s crown. Once she was queen, Sophie could marry, and her stepmother was determined to make Sophie an advantageous match with a powerful, titled man.
“The young prince of Skandinay, perhaps,” the queen had said when she’d first raised the topic. “The emperor’s nephew. Or the sultan’s son.”
“But, Stepmother, I don’t even know these men. What if I don’t fall in love with any of them?” Sophie had asked.
“Love?” the queen had said, contempt dripping from her voice. “Love is nothing but a fable, and a dangerous one at that. Your suitors should recite the size of their armies to you and the strength of their fortresses, not silly poems about flowers and doves.”
There was a reason why her stepmother wanted a powerful husband for her, a shameful reason, and Sophie knew it—the queen thought her weak. The entire court did.
Sophie had grown up hearing the whispers, mocking her for being a shy, softhearted child. They’d begun as soon as the queen had married Sophie’s father and had only grown louder over the years. The poisonous words had lodged in her heart like blackbriar thorns. They echoed there still … The princess will never make a good queen … She’s not smart enough … not tough enough …
Haakon swaggered over to Sophie now. He was the eldest son of the king of Skandinay, and her stepmother’s first choice for her. He lifted the tankard of ale he was holding to her. “Fair Artemis has won my heart, but, oh, cruel, selfish deity! She will not give me hers!”
Rodrigo snorted. “Can you blame her?”
“I pine. I languish. I starve for love,” Haakon said, pressing a hand to his heart. Then he leaned over the breakfast table and tore a leg off a chicken. “I endure unending torment. Give me your heart, cold goddess, and end my torment!”
“That is impossible, sir,” Sophie said, her eyes teasing, her voice so breezy and bemused that no one would have guessed how desperately she longed for the quiet of her chambers.
“Why the devil not?” Haakon asked, gnawing the chicken leg. “Good-looking lad like me … Why, I’m probably a god myself. I must be.” He frowned, then nodded. “In fact, I’m sure of it. I’m the god … mmm, Apollo! Yes, that’s the fellow!” He pointed at Sophie with the chicken leg. “What a pair we would make, the two of us.”
“If you recall your classics, and I’m certain that you do—” Sophie began.
“Scholar that you are,” Rodrigo cut in.
“—then you know that Artemis swore she would never marry. And were she to break that vow, I doubt it would be for Apollo. Since he is her brother.”
Haakon wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”
“Very,” said Rodrigo.
Sophie laughed despite herself. It was impossible not to. Haakon was a bright, golden sun who pulled everyone into his orbit. He was arrogant and annoying but astonishingly beautiful, and beautiful people are so easily forgiven. Every woman in the palace was in love with him. Sophie was a little, too, though she hated to admit it.
More members of the hunting party trotted into the courtyard now. Grooms and hounds followed them. Sophie thought she heard the queen’s lord commander among them, barking orders. Haakon and Rodrigo turned to the party and waved some of the riders over. As they did, Sophie heard a smaller, softer sound than clopping hooves or Haakon’s booming voice. She heard footsteps. They were quick but shambling.
