KINGSLAYER

♕ 5 | 9 ♕

Alexander moved the curtains aside to peer out the small window. "The street is right below. We'll be hearing the sounds of the festival all night."

"I am still not going." As Queen, I did enjoy revelry, especially when it was in my name. I enjoyed having the luxury of taking my pick of who to focus on in the room only to have the assurance they would already be watching me. But as I said, my fears became more real. Also, the idea of having the streets filled with couples showcasing their love for the world to see was not my personal cup of tea.

"Yeah, you're not going—" He plucked something from his pockets and plunked them onto the rickety side table—"without these."

I made a noise of dry realization. The fool could not keep himself from thievery for even a day, for on the table lay the little jars of cosmetic powder—onyx, maroon, and a burnt orange. A bribe, clear as glass.

"They're for me," he clarified, setting them up in a neat row.

Fine.

"Of course." I struggled to keep the absurd smile off my face. Snatching the darkest one, I turned away fast enough to not catch a glimpse of the triumphant look I knew he wore.

Going to the oval looking-glass hanging on the opposite wall, I unscrewed the tin cap to reveal the flat black powder inside. Scooping a bit on the end of the horsehair cosmetics brush Alexander also swiped, I applied it over my already-thick lashes, enhancing the almond shape of my eyes. When I dragged it out at the points, it made my face look leaner, more feline in the way I liked. If the world was an uphill battle, I felt ready for war.

I dabbed some of the dark red color over my lips in the way I learned from watching my handmaidens do so many times. Their skill always made me look perfect, not a single hair out of place. So naturally, I had to learn for myself.

When I was done, I admired myself for a moment. The slitting shape of the black kohl gave my already-upswept features a lift. And once I sucked in my cheeks ever so slightly, my cheekbones were like knives. Like many things I applied to my exterior, beauty was just a facade. My mother never failed to remind me of that: that even the most perfect things could break. But the power it gave me felt real.

I finally turned away from my entrancing reflection, wiping the horsehair brush clean with my fingers. "Here." I tossed it to Alexander. "Use it if you wish." I should have felt my familiar resentment at the way his eyes lingered on me for half a second after, but it was replaced by a pang of triumph. My first victim of the night, no matter how unwilling.

He sifted through the few jars as if debating how to proceed, appearing thoroughly confused. "Whatever you do, do not make yourself more hideous," I instructed him. "I cannot have you polluting my image by association."

"I'll look good. Why are you implying otherwise?"

"Because you have all the painting skills of someone with no hands."

His laugh filled the room. "I'll have you know that I own quite nimble fingers, thank you." When he paused, my heart sank. He flicked the brush to me. "But if you are so convinced that I will flounder, do it yourself."

Oh, no. The miscreant knew the impossible situation he placed me in, I saw it written in the the arrogance all over his face. If I refused, he would question why, which would lead to humiliation. If I agreed, I was willingly getting into close proximity, when that was precisely what I hated most.