"Of all the irresponsible and foolish behaviour you've displayed over the years, this has to be your crowning achievement!" Queen Aisha barked furiously, tugging at Marrok's hair with a comb. She had a habit of doing that when she felt angry towards him, in an attempt to tame his red mop that he had inherited from her.
As expected, Marrok was in for a world of pain upon his return. It probably didn't help that he had been carried back unconscious in the arms of a guard. He was interrogated over and over again, but he couldn't seem to clearly remember how he had come to pass out on the street; all he could fathom was a beautiful girl and her tropical perfume.
His mother, usually serene, had become a screaming banshee in her rage. His father, for his part, looked like he disapproved, but he had a mischievous glint in his eye that told Marrok that he had done something similar when he was his age.
"I thought we've warned you time and time again not to consort with Lord Abrasax," said the king.
Marrok stared down at his hands, and he felt his cheeks flush. It was always odd, when anyone addressed James by his formal title. "He's my friend. And this is the first time in a while that he offered to leave the palace. He was doing quite well, I like to think," he admitted.
Aisha slammed the comb down on a side table, much to Marrok's relief. The worst was over. "He's a delinquent! And, not to mention, the lowest of his house. You're to be twenty years old next April, Marrok, and we won't be here forever; it's about time that you've begun to build relations with the leaders of the High Houses."
"And to prove this point," his father added, "I have some good news for you."
Marrok leaned back in his chair, apprehensive. "Oh?"
"Lady Cynthia Delacourt has accepted a marriage proposal between you and her lovely daughter. The wedding has been scheduled in three months' time, and then you'll hopefully have a fine princess to keep you in line."
The prince smirked down at his lap. Of course, the king's insistence on a bride for his only son had been the main topic of conversation at court for a while now. Every house had put their best girls forward in the hopes of tying into the royal bloodline, but in the end, King Tybalt had set his eye on Jannali Delacourt, heir to the wealthiest house on Luna. Marrok suspected that he had chosen her because the royal family was facing financial troubles from his parents' excess spending, but he knew that neither of them would admit it either way. Such a rumour spread across Luna would put a great dent in the royal family's armour.
As far as Marrok could remember, he had never met Jannali Delacourt, but from what he had been told, she was quite the bore. She rarely attended galas or parties and was always silent at court functions. She was not part of any clique and there was no real demand for her hand amongst the noblemen. It was a strange match, the prince decided. He had expected to be betrothed to a popular chatterbox.
Marrok looked up to the king, forcing a smile. "Father, this is indeed great news. Another thing I won't have to worry about."
Aisha's anger vanished like a feather in the breeze, and she sighed. "Oh, my little boy is getting married! Dearest, I request that you appoint me head wedding planner, if you don't mind. I would like to ensure that everything is perfect."
"That would be splendid, Mother. Thank you," said Marrok. Aisha nodded graciously. It was the one thing Marrok respected about his mother—her passion for parties had formed a sort of bond between them. The king called for his attendant to jot down the order before he forgot it himself. Aisha began to chat excitedly about the upcoming nuptials, and Marrok shrunk further in his seat, not even bothering to hide his indifference.
Ugly J loved bones.
It was the weirdest of things, having begun when she was just a child, keeping scraps from chicken at that night's dinner and killing small animals, their skeletons becoming shining additions to her collection. She loved running her razor-sharp nails along the white of the bones, hearing the lively scratch that came with it. They were like wood, but they also came from blood and flesh.
Before long, animals and leftover chicken turned to people. She had committed her first murder when she was just eleven, and had been collecting human bones ever since. Every victim she claimed, she took a piece of their spine that was then added to a chain. Over the years it became a necklace that was always kept draped around her neck, accentuating the graceful slope of her collarbone. She never took it off, and wore it under constant glamour. All her victims, as soon as they knew she was approaching, would tense with fear when they heard the tapping of her heels and the clanking of her human bangle.
It was a year after she claimed her first victim and started her necklace that she set her sights on a larger target. Evening had settled around the Delacourt estate, and she stood outside in the dark. She knew that Lord Delacourt had a routine like clockwork, and that he would be alone in the sitting room at that precise time. It was the perfect set up, for the perfect murder, and soon she would be able to adorn her necklace further. At the thought, her fingers came up to her necklace and she scratched away at the remaining crusts of blood on the newest charm.
Perhaps I should become a jeweller, she mused.
As silent as a mouse, she sneaked around the back walls, the route perfectly mapped out in her head. There may not have been security cameras, but there were most likely microphones hidden in the walls, listening to every noise.
She silently snuck in through the cellar door, the scent of wine making her head spin and her throat beg for the red liquid. She barely kept herself away from popping a bottle open and downing it in one gulp. The house wasn't nearly as complicated as it looked on the inside, and she found herself at the door of the sitting room without much difficulty, quiet and unnoticed.
The door creaked as she pried it open, and Lord Samson Delacourt stared at her with wide eyes as she stepped into the room. He surely didn't recognize her through the glamour. She grinned and shut the door.
"Who are you?"
She let out a laugh, and her giggles grew even more callous as Samson's face grew more and more afraid. "What are you doing here?" he mumbled, nearly trembling. "What do you want from me?"
The man's voice was cut off with a gurgle as she stood and plunged a cruel-looking dagger into his back, blood spurting from the wound and tainting the glass floor red. She let out a howl of laughter at the sight of Samson's crumpling body, at the satisfying squelch as he fell to the ground with a flop. His heart was stopped, his breath gone, his life drained away. She tucked her hands in her sleeves, coming out with a razor-sharp scalpel, posed to cut. Slash, slash. The lord's shirt was nothing but scraps of silk on the floor as she held him by his muscular chest, digging out the dagger and slipping in the smaller weapon, moving the skin and flesh away until she found the white of his spine. She ignored the bursts of sticky crimson as she pried out a piece of bone, round and glistening with blood.
Her eyes gleamed. Can't leave without the prize.
To his surprise, the king and queen had arranged for Marrok to spend time getting to know his fiancée before the wedding. And in a sense, Marrok was glad; none of the rumours had prepared him for how boring Jannali truly was. That morning, he had waltzed into the throne room with the intent of spending the day with James, only to be met with Cynthia Delacourt's beaming smile. She stood opposite of his parents, who sat draped on their thrones. The girl—Jannali, he assumed—stood abreast to her mother with her nose in a book.
Marrok gulped and immediately composed himself. Cynthia's smile widened and she curtsied. There was an awkward pause as Jannali remained standing, not ungluing her eyes from the volume in her hands.
Cynthia cleared her throat. Jannali looked up and turned her page. Her eyes shooting daggers, Cynthia discreetly elbowed her daughter's ribs.
"My apologies, Your Highness," said Jannali, slamming her book shut. She held it demurely in front of her as she dipped into a curtsey of her own. A shiver ran down Marrok's spine—the action carried a condescending air, and it couldn't help but feel familiar. He quickly waved the feeling away and bowed in turn.
"I am delighted to meet you, My Lady," he said, forcing the barest amount of life in his voice.
Jannali held out a hand, a gentle flush to her pale cheeks. It was as if someone had dipped her in a vat of white paint; her hair, nearly a silver shade, was delicately braided down to her hips and her dress was the purest silk, inlaid with crystals. Her striking violet eyes were topped with smouldering lashes. Marrok gently kissed her hand, not once breaking eye contact.
"Likewise, My Prince." She pulled her hand away, and only then did Marrok realize that he had still been holding onto it.
Pleased that the two had been acquainted, Tybalt and Aisha led Lady Delacourt on a tour of the private gardens, with Marrok and Jannali following a good distance behind. Jannali said nothing, staring ahead with her book clutched to her chest. Marrok glanced at her periodically, unwilling to be the one to start conversation. It pained him that he would have to spend the rest of his life with this girl—she might as well have been a mute!
"You two are awfully quiet," the queen chirped, her arm hooked through her husband's. "What were you reading, My Lady?"
Jannali looked down at her feet, then back up at the queen. It might've just been Marrok's imagination, but she nearly seemed irritated at her disruption. It was odd, given how amiable Aisha was—she had a habit of charming anyone she met. Jannali's cold stare irritated the prince; he didn't appreciate such treatment of his mother.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty." She dipped her head. "You must be mistaken, for this is a notebook—I hate reading."
"Oh? What for?"
"And how come you were reading it earlier?" Marrok cut in, quite rudely.
Jannali smiled for the first time that day. She opened up the note to a middle page and held it up for them to see. Marrok's eyes widened as he took in the complicated formulas scrawled across the paper. It was enough to make his head hurt. "I like to think that I have a talent of sorts in the sciences. My tutor is expecting me to do well on my next exam, and I wouldn't want to disappoint him."
"Her father, may he rest in peace, would be very proud of her," Cynthia added, coming to walk next to the queen. "Lord Delacourt had enjoyed studying chemistry as a young man."
Jannali sent a glare in her mother's direction. Cynthia remained oblivious, talking more to Aisha now about her husband's many accomplishments. Marrok watched with slight amusement as Jannali closed her book and resumed her blank stare, obviously irritated. He didn't quite understand her reaction; Lord Delacourt had been assassinated over three years ago. Surely it shouldn't bother her anymore.
"She seems to get on your nerves," Marrok joked, in a vain attempt to break the tension.
Jannali shrugged, never once looking at him.
"What do you plan do to in the sciences?"
She glanced at him. "I don't plan to do anything. It's just a hobby." She held her head high and narrowed her eyes. "My future has taken a sudden abrupt turn."
The prince nearly rolled his eyes, but he managed to smile and held his hands behind his back. Mine too, dearie. Mine too.
