My first love was a murderer before I ever got to her,

Tongue so sharp and serpentine, and I waltz to remember her.

And I heard a curse being born, forming each finger and forming each thorn.

Things never got better -

Practicing lies to drip like red wine off her lips.

This is a story about your grandmother, Artem, but before that I have to tell you about your mother.

Otherwise, you won't understand, and what a sin that would be.

Your mother was beautiful, and I have no doubt that if she drew breath today she would still be so. The day I learned of the verdict, the day I led her to her death beneath the ground, I looked at her one last time, and I tried to remember what she looked like, although I knew all that she had thought and planned and did.

Last. Such an awful word. It hangs in the air, does it not? Listen to it, the crisp finality of it. There is no going back from last, Artem, but even then I didn't realise this simple fact. I looked at your mother, and found I could not contemplate the idea of never doing so again.

I had not expected her to be both the poison and the poisoner, and I found myself studying her pale skin and black eyes for some sign that it was true. You have her eyes, you know. Black as sin. Perhaps I should have known. I should have seen it coming.

That day before the murder, I leaned toward her unconsciously and something about her scent, sweet as rot, made me dizzy. I stepped back abruptly, lest I fall. I had no choice. I looked her in those black eyes for the last time, Artem, and I...

Well.

That was my mistake, you see, because I chose her. Your grandfather never had that opportunity. Oh, he had the illusion of choice, like a wavering mirage, a mistruth dressed in appearances and unreality. He had thirty five girls in front of him and he was told he was free, free to pick any of them as his wife. But what kind of a freedom was that? It was the same kind of freedom as giving a caged bird a view of the sky. So long as he doesn't move too precariously on the perch, will he ever notice? Or will he spend all the while longing, aimlessly?

Those girls had their own curses, of course. My mother, with her poison kiss. But there were others. They wore their demons on them, clinging to them like shadows, like fog that refuses to be burned away by the rising sun at dawn. I think you would have liked some of them, Artem. The way my father described them to me, they were stars. Each of them, a burning light.

But my mother burned brightest. That was why he chose her.

I wonder if you will guess which one she is? You aren't like her at all, you know. She was calm. She had ice in her veins, where you have molten lead. It isn't a fair comparison at all.

She was strong. She had ribs of steel and a heart encased in iron. She could have walked through the seven circles and emerged unscathed. At least, afterwards that was the case.

But at the beginning, when she entered the palace, she was a scared, cursed girl like the rest.

Of course, you wouldn't know what it was like for them to be summoned to the palace, would you? It was not an aberration, Artem, like your Selection was. This was an honour. The highest honour. A sign you were destined for great things. A sign you were destined for the throne.

There were thirty five of them. By the end, there was one. And, Artem, not all of those girls left that high-walled cold-floored palace alive.

But you were expecting that, weren't you? I remember. That was always your favourite part. When I told you this story as a boy - that was the only time you listened. Strange, isn't it? Strange as silver sparrows. That's what my mother would have said. She liked to toy with words, try them and test them, almost as much as she liked to toy with people. She liked sibillance. The hush of it, like acid rain.

I should have seen the signs. That was my fault, Artem, not yours. I should have seen the signs.

When you said you wanted to restart the Selection... How could I tell you? How could I tell you? How could I tell you?

The last Selection had been fifty years ago, and it had brought blood.

You know, the elders of the provinces remember it still - in nightmares and half-waking dreams, as though it remained painted on the canvas of their eyelids - but they do not speak of it; the youth speak of it - in whispers and in mutters, with eyes cast furtively this way and that - but they do not remember it.

They are fortunate not to.

Our hearts crave war, after all.

Shh. This will be a long night after all, Artem, if you keep trying to interrupt me like this. Allow an old man his memories. Let me speak. Ease yourself. Would you like a drink?

Haha. No. I suppose you wouldn't, would you. Forgive me. My mind is idle, and drifting.

You know I am above that, don't you? I have no need of venom. I have other things to take its place, you know, the fever-pulse of vain honour and the ignominious nobility of a futile chivalry, like a wooden breastplate, weighing me down without protection. I never wen into a battle with poison on my breath or lies on my tongue, boy, and you'd do well to remember that the next time you find yourself in the dark whispering that old mantra to yourself - what if, what if, what if.

Where was I? The girls. Of course. Thirty five in all, and although they all matter, not all of them are inportant. Certainly not to the telling of this story, my son, and your eyes look so heavy, threaded with lead, that I fear you won't stand to listen to any unnecessary details. So with the girls we shall begin, and you shall listen well.

Well, where to begin? I'll begin with the curses.

Listen closely, my son.