A Crown of Black Roses, page 1
a crown of black roses
e. g. trickey
Table of Contents
A Crown of Black Roses EBOOK
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Acknowledgements
Copyright © 2024 by Elyzabeth Trickey
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info].
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Holly Dunn
First edition 2024
To my mom,
You’re not allowed to read this one. Put it down.
1
Adrielle
Some poisons took incredible concentration to extract.
Adrielle Corvius bent over her desk, working by firelight alone as she positioned the stem of the black rose, her country’s most famous poisonous flora. She peeled back the velvety petals one by one until she revealed the pistil at the center.
Every part of it was lethal if ingested. The leaves, the hips, the petals, even the roots and stems, but the most potent poison came from the nectar. No one else could risk even touching it, but her hands were bare as she plucked the delicate pistil out of the way. It revealed the small pool of sweet liquid underneath so she could squeeze it out into a glass vessel.
When she was done, she even licked a lingering drop off her finger. Its floral flavor bit with a bitter edge. She thought it was like dark chocolate, in a way, and it was her own. The last person who could ingest it without a horrible death had passed away before she was born.
The petals joined several others in a bowl, which one of the kitchen staff would later fetch. Candied black rose petals were a part of every public meal, and they collected them from every harvest she pulled, preparing them with gloved hands and masked faces to be safe.
She kept the nectar. No one else had use for it.
It had taken half of the flowers on her tree to produce the tiny vial she’d collected. The contents, clear as water, were poured into an alembic and she turned on the oil burner underneath.
“Letter from your parents, Your Highness,” Rosemarie said from behind her.
Adrielle almost knocked over her entire refinery. “What have I said about sneaking up on me?”
“I assure you, I made plenty of noise while I was walking in. You were concentrating far too hard.”
Adrielle turned to face the head of her small team of maids. Rosemarie was almost entirely blind, only able to make out vague shapes and movements even in well-lit places, which Adrielle’s chambers were not. Despite this, she followed Adrielle’s movements with frightening accuracy from sound alone.
Of course, Adrielle’s skirts rustled with every movement, which had to have helped.
Rosemarie held out the letter for the princess to pluck out of her hand. Adrielle broke the wax seal as the tall maid swept over to the cabinet to pour a crystal goblet of wine. It was delivered in time for Adrielle to crumple the letter and throw it in the fire.
“I take it they’re on their way back from the winter castle,” Rosemarie said.
“Oh, yes. And as soon as they arrive, the wedding plans will begin.” Adrielle let out a small huff and strode to the balcony, shoving the doors open and stepping out to the railing to glare out over the road that they would be riding home on.
She had half of the year to keep to herself. Her parents and brother left the summer castle around the autumnal equinox and returned near the vernal, and they’d long ago lost the ability to force her to follow. The air still nipped her skin with a hint of winter’s frost, but the cool breeze still carried the perfume of greenery with it. Winter had outstayed its welcome, but plants sprouted through the dreary brown and the lingering piles of snow that hadn’t yet bothered to melt.
Below, the brightest, greenest spot in the early dawn, was her greenhouse. One of the few comforts offered to the eldest princesses of the family line, she used it to cultivate her poisons long into the winter.
She would be damned if she was going to be expected to abandon it for even one of those winters due to some man.
“Wedding?” Rosemarie appeared behind her, again as quiet as a mouse.
“They’ve found me another groom.” Adrielle sipped her wine; a rich, dark red, sweetened with Atropa belladonna.
“But your last one died less than a year ago.”
“Yes, tragic.” Adrielle smoothed her skirts; deep purple velvet was bustled up to her knees to reveal the lacy stockings and high-heeled boots she wore underneath. Even alone, she never dressed in anything less than her best. She never bothered to wear black for her departed fiancé, anyway; she’d gone out of her way to avoid the black pieces from her wardrobe.
Her parents had raged at her. They leveled her with threats, punishments, and withering frown that hadn’t touched her.
She was too old to not be married yet, they said. Twenty-one, when they’d first sought suitors for her when she was sixteen. Ornery, vicious, cold-hearted, and scheming were the kindest words bandied about when her name came up in conversation. She heard none of it, of course, but her maids did.
Her last engagement had lasted entirely too long.
“They’ll be here in two weeks,” Adrielle said. “They’ll be bringing Prince Keiran of Drustain with them.”
Rosemarie choked, stepping beside Adrielle and touching the railing to make sure she was a good distance away from the edge.
“Prince Keiran,” she said. “You’re certain?”
“It would be a funny way of spelling any other name, now, wouldn’t it?”
Her words were calm and even, but her teeth ground.
She understood there were few options for someone with a reputation as poor as hers, but if they’d chosen Prince Keiran for her, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Drustain had nothing of substance to offer in return for her hand in marriage, and Keiran famously carried his family’s curse.
Rumors flitted around it, and even the maids couldn’t pull enough information for her to ascertain which one was more or less true than the others. Some compared it to lycanthropy, others said it was a curse of death, yet others whispered of shadows and ghosts that plagued him.
Adrielle was sure that none of them were the truth, but whatever it was, it was enough that the king kept his other son, a famous lush, as his heir. She was sure that had to smart his pride, which meant it should smart hers that he was the one they were marrying her to. That had to be at least part of the reason for the choice.
She bit her lip, scraping off her blood-red lip paint, and drained the rest of her wine.
“What are the plans?” Rosemarie asked.
“Come now, Rosemarie, let’s at least wait for him to arrive before we scheme. It’s only polite.”
“You’re a regular master of etiquette, Adrielle.” Rosemarie folded her hands in front of her, taking in the cool air. “It smells like rain.”
“Good. I hope the royal retinue gets soaked.”
“Pettiness is unattractive.”
“Kindly spare me a moment to not shed a tear.” Adrielle retreated to her chambers, closing the door behind Rosemarie as she followed her back in. “I’ll be going to the greenhouse.”
“We’ll have breakfast ready when you get back in.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“If you keel over from lack of sustenance, all three of us are out of our jobs. You’re eating.”
Rosemarie strode out with all the confidence of a noblewoman, muttering to herself as she went. Adrielle frowned after her before heading to the greenhouse, as promised.
The air inside was damp and warm and full of enough poison to make a regular person ill. No one else was allowed in it, for their own good as well as her privacy. It was hers alone; one of few spaces that were. Hemlock and nightshade, foxglove and aconite, and dozens more, all cultivated by her. If it were larger, she may have even made it a goal to try to acquire a cutting of every poisonous plant in the world, but even with the hanging pots that had been added, it was full to bursting.
The black rose tree stood in the middle, in full bloom. It was the centerpiece of the greenhouse, the pride of Vilara. No other rose grew in its fashion, forming a tree without human intervention. Occasional plants grew around the countryside, but none grew as l
She closed her eyes, standing in the center of her garden and inhaling the perfume of the black rose.
Poison ran through her veins. It had been part of her life since she was a child and the first vial of larkspur extract had been forced down her throat. She’d been given no choice, but now she’d claimed it as her own. She prized the fact that she knew the flavors of these plants, using the berries in her wines and the leaves in her salads.
It was hers, and hers alone. Still wearing velvet and silk, hands encased in black lace, she wielded a small plant cutter and got to work harvesting.
2
Keiran
Athunderstorm hit halfway through Farrowmere, the capital of Vilara.
Keiran flipped up the collar of his coat, hunching his shoulders in the corner of the carriage that he’d been assigned to. Goddess forbid that the royal family needs to spend too much time in contact with him. Never mind that they were marrying him to their daughter, who by all accounts was far from their favorite child. He supposed they’d have that in common, at least.
Adrielle Corvius, the poisoned princess. She was the latest in a line of similar women of the Corvius line; each eldest daughter was immunized to every toxin they could get their hands on. It was said even the meals they ate in public banquets were tainted.
The previous ones had all died before thirty, their deaths attributed to general ailments
Keiran lifted the black velvet curtains of the carriage’s windows, peering at the castle as they passed through the massive gates of the outer wall. Against the dark, storming sky, it was nothing but a silhouette until a flash of sheet lightning threw the glossy black marble into harsh light. For less than a heartbeat, it revealed snarling gargoyles and high, peaked ceilings with imposing towers.
Most of it was dark. A few lights flickered in the windows at the far left on the bottom, presumably the servant’s quarters, and a few more on the third floor on the right.
Those were what he kept his eyes trained on as the carriage came to a halt. While the king and queen waited for someone to bring them protection from the rain, Keiran stepped out of the coach and ascended the stairs without them. The guards didn’t stop him as he shouldered the door open and stepped into the entrance hall.
It was unlit, as the dark windows would suggest. The slight echo of water dripping off his hair and onto the flagstones was the only indication that he was standing anywhere at all as he walked in the pitch blackness.
He knew he should have waited for a light, for a servant, for anything. Being in the dark wasn’t particularly safe for anyone, but Keiran knew the void and knew it wasn’t a good idea to stare into it for too long.
Shadows breathed and watched, just like a human.
Another crack of thunder and light shot through the windows with a strike of lightning. It threw the entrance hall into a stark black and white, revealing the imperial staircases and high ceilings, the carved pillars that stretched into darkness above.
The Corvius family had a long reputation for flaunting wealth.
When the light faded and his vision cleared, the door between the bases of the staircases was open, and a woman bearing an oil lantern stood in the doorway.
Her hair was as white as snow, but thick and smooth as it fell down her back in a shimmering ivory sheet. Her purple velvet dress was bustled with black ribbon, long legs appearing under the ruffled fabric. Glimpses of skin, appearing almost as white as her hair, showed through lace stockings before they disappeared into heeled boots. Silver studded with black diamonds glimmered against her throat.
Lips that may have been red but were almost purple in the dark curled in disgust, eyes so green they glowed in the lamplight narrowing.
He glared in response. Neither spoke.
It was expected, of course, for royalty to be beautiful, at least in the fact that they didn’t know hard work or the harsh effects of the sun from toiling outside. Lords were soft and ladies were delicate.
Adrielle was a poison flower, warning away any creature that might consider taking a bite. Her cheekbones cut like a knife, and her corset gave her an impressive hourglass. At the same time, Keiran was sure many people had learned how getting too close was a mistake that they wouldn’t get to make twice.
Her last fiancé died. He hadn’t managed to find any reliable source of information regarding the how or why.
Doors creaked open on either side, serving staff spilling in to light candles and lamps along the walls and stairs, and Adrielle disappeared through the door.
A moment later, the large doors behind him opened again. Keiran turned to face the rest of the royal family as they entered, protected by waxed sheets held over their heads by tall manservants. King Sarus, Queen Consort Talida, and the crown prince, Alaric, wore finery even for travel. The prince—who was young and small and hadn’t spoken a word to Keiran for this entire trip, took his leave, once again without a single sound passing his lips.
“Dreadful night,” Queen Consort Talida griped as she shrugged off her damp fur cloak. “Goodness knows why we come this early. Odious castle won’t be pleasant to stay in for at least two months.”
“You were haranguing me for weeks to return, Talida. Don’t pretend that I forced you to come here.” King Sarus turned his eyes, a poorer version of his daughter’s striking green, to Keiran. “Your room is in the east wing. One of the servants can show you there.”
Then Keiran was dismissed, just like that. The king and queen left, no more pleased by his presence than Adrielle was.
Had he cared about this at all, he may have been upset, but he didn’t want to be here any more than they wanted him here. He’d had no choice in the matter, and had never labored under the delusion that he would arrive to find a bride who was happy to see him.
His father had little to offer. From the outside looking in, this would come across as two royal families offloading their unwanted children: the cursed prince, and the princess who didn’t even get to be a widow before being deemed unmarriageable. The Corvius family got a small fortune in gold and imports, and the Lochlains were rid of the worst stain of their impressively tainted family history.
It might have been nice to be part of the plan, if only he hadn’t been disgusted by the reason he was chosen. He knew that even in success he wouldn’t find victory or pride. As soon as the Corvius crown was won, his brother would take it, because that was how it always went. Even when he was too deep in the bottle to know right from left, he knew when Keiran was getting dangerously close to feeling accomplished and was ready to quash it.
At least it meant none of this rejection stung. If the situation were reversed, Adrielle would have received the same treatment, plus some drunken lechery from Riocard.
When the thought crossed his mind, he was almost sad the situations weren’t reversed. If nothing else, he would have gotten a sense of satisfaction from seeing whatever Adrielle did in the face of unwelcome attention befalling his brother. The woman’s reputation was poor at best.
He didn’t bother to ask a servant to show him to the rooms that Sarus claimed were prepared for him. He went to the east wing alone. It was the only room that had a fire being lit in it by a pallid chambermaid.
As soon as he entered, she squeaked an apology and scurried out.
Glossy marble floors were spread with imported silk rugs. Silver sconces glowed with white tapers, already lit. The bed was large enough for five people, as long as they didn’t mind intimacy, and covered with velvet and brocade sheets in dark, muted colors.
A bottle of wine sat on one of the bedside tables, complete with a gilt crystal goblet ready to be filled. Keiran held it up to the light of the fireplace, squinting at faded, spidery handwriting that was well beyond reading. It alone was more of a welcome than he expected.
Not that he had time to drink tonight. He went straight to the balcony to unlock the glass doors. Nuala never quite chose the same way to enter, and he was sure it was out of spite. She had more than enough to spare.
He sat by the fire in wait, raking his fingers through his dark hair. Even the hearth was elaborate, carved with filigree, and covered with wrought gold. The iron gate before the fire was shaped into interlocking, thorny branches, complete with carved roses. Vilara was famous for the black rose, a potent poison that could grow only in their soil, and even then, it only bloomed in abundance with careful cultivation.
