It is the season for love and murder in the court of Ravaeryn.
After a chance encounter one winter night, Lady Catarina de Fontaine had fallen hopelessly in love with Julian, the Crown Prince. However, upon discovering his untruthfulness, she immedi...
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1712, De Fontaine Manor, Lorewell
"Will the Prince ever come back?" Rosie murmured through sobs and hiccups. "It has been two full days, and I fear that without the antidote, our poor miss would not survive another day."
Her words reflected the thoughts of every person in the room, though none of them actually dared to voice them out. They all knew that if the Prince failed to return by tonight, they would have to prepare for a funeral the next morning.
"You mustn't say that," Tristan reprimanded. "I trust the Prince. He will return before sundown, I am certain."
But as the golden sun slowly descended down the horizon and the skies were swallowed by darkness, Tristan began to doubt his own words. He had prepared all the ingredients necessary to make the concoction that would save his cousin's life, but without the key ingredient, the Flower of Anaise, there was no use.
He could not stomach looking at the frail figure on the bed, and instead, he resumed sitting on the floor, pestle and mortar in hand, grinding the mint leaves to mush.
Other than the sound of the mint leaves being crushed, there was only the ominous ticking of the old grandfather clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, it went. The ticking echoed throughout the room, like a death knell. Every single tick reminded him of how close his cousin was to death, and it sickened him.
He hated how her life had been robbed so easily, so unfairly. Even her last moments were to be spent in cold nothingness, without a single glimmer of light or warmth to accompany her. She was stuck in her own head, a dark abyss that she would eventually succumb to.
Little did Tristan know that she was awake the entire time.
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I wish that they would put that old clock outside. It is beautiful, I know, but it is so loud that I could barely sleep. Oh dear me, sleep? That is all that I have been doing for the past few months. If only I could speak! If I were to die soon, let me die upon a silk bedsheet, not this scratchy linen mess. If it were not for the poison coursing through my veins, I would actually refuse to die until they change the bedsheets.
