Andreya was so stupid. She was so incredibly stupid she couldn't even comprehend how stupid she was.

She stood pressed against the wall of a servant's closet, gasping for breath and desperately rubbing her tears away. Her palms were stained with the paint on her eyes and every part of her was shaking.

She didn't love Reide. She didn't love him. She didn't even like him, and she knew she was lying.

She couldn't forget how hard it had looked for him to ask her. Do you love me? She still remembered the desire in his eyes, still felt everywhere their skin had touched, electrified and terrified at once.

She cursed him just as the music in the ballroom down the hall changed.

The dance had begun.

Andreya spent another precious moment relearning how to breathe, collecting her emotions and trying to straighten her eye paint without a mirror. Then she settled her veil back over her face and started back to the dance.

The ballroom was gargantuan, and thus was the crowd also, but it was nothing like the streets of Esdantenella or Feledir—these were all adults in fancy gowns and uniforms, all well-mannered and hoping to impress someone or other. And with half of them now stepping in sync to an Isantadi waltz in the center of the room, it was not hard to pass through the congregations remaining near the walls.

Nasavtean dresses had many pockets, but this gown had close to none. Still, Andreya had managed to slip the note from the dress box into her bodice earlier, and swiped it out now, leaning against the wall for only a moment to read it again.

"A woman versed in ancient mythology and folklore," she murmured to herself. "Herbology... poison..."

She cursed, glancing about the room at hundreds of women, every one meeting the nonexistent description on the note. She couldn't afford to wait for them to find her—the last dance wouldn't end for nearly another hour. But they had made perfectly sure she couldn't find them. Maybe they weren't even here.

Her heart pounded so hard it was dizzying and Andreya leaned her head back against the wall in despair.

She didn't know what she wanted, but this was not it—this tension, this yearning, this confusion. And she thought of him again, the way he had looked at her. Had he always looked at her like that? Her chest throbbed.

"Andreya!"

Her eyes flew open and she cried out in surprise, startling several other guests nearby. "Reide!"

He stood only a few paces away, slightly breathless, his gloves tucked into his shirt pocket and his masquerade mask probably lost somewhere. He looked markedly distraught. "I thought I'd lost you."

Andreya thought she'd lost herself. She took a step back and he leapt forward and caught her hand before she could run again.

"Wait," he said, and fumbled over several words, glancing between her and her hand, which he was still holding. Finally, he decided upon, "Will you dance with me?"

She blinked at him for a moment and half wished to run. But the other half of her was completely frozen at his touch, at his look, at his offer.

"I don't know how," she managed, and he allowed a quirk to his lips.

"I'll show you, just follow my lead."

When the song ended and the next one began—a slower, softer, musical sigh—he led her out among the other dancers and set her hand on his shoulder, her other clasped in his. She resisted a shiver when he took hold of her waist, and his proximity alone made her hold her breath.

Overwhelmed, she stared at his feet, attempting to mimic his steps and several times moving against the grain.

"Don't think about it." When she jerked up, he was smiling, just a little thing so she wouldn't be embarrassed. "Relax, it's just a dance."

"And it very well may be our last dance," she said, and meant it. But he merely smiled again, this time with a twinge of melancholy.

"Then let's make it the best."

But it was more than just a dance for Andreya. It was her not thinking—about what she had come here for, about her fear, about every reason she didn't want to be with him. She had cast those thoughts aside for a single second, and the moment she looked in his eyes, she could no longer retrieve them.

"I do love you," she blurted, and Reide missed a step, their twirl stuttering so they were just inches apart. "I do love you, Reide."

For a moment he just held her there, mid-twirl, staring bewildered into her eyes as she stared bewildered back. Then the music continued—though it had never really stopped—and they stood out of place among the next movement of the dance.

"Do you mean that?" he asked, and pulled her upright before another pair of dancers bumped into them. "You meant what you said on the balcony?"

She couldn't speak—couldn't say no, couldn't look away, couldn't care less about the rest of the dance. She only gave a small nod, and when he brought a hand to her cheek again, there was no bone left in her body willing to protest if he had kissed her right there in the center of the ballroom.

But then the song ended, and the music changed, and on the edge of the dance floor stood two Isantadi women, each holding a valise and a grim disposition.

The executioners were early.

Andreya's breath hitched and Reide followed her gaze, tensing when he spotted them. When she returned her eyes to him, the other dancers still spinning around them, Reide shook his head and squeezed her hand. "Don't. You don't have to go to them—"

But she had already pulled herself away from his touch and slipped away from the dance floor.

Before she could reach them, he grabbed her hand and spun her around. "Andreya, please, don't do this. If they end your curse, you're not going to come back. You didn't heal in Korsa—what if you don't heal now? It's a risk you don't have to... you don't..."

His voice gave out at her expression. Stubborn. Determined. Pleading.

"Let me go," she said, and he did, because he had no other choice.

The music continued to play, the guests continued to eat and drink and dance, and the ball continued on, even as Andreya and Reide went to meet the two women and they beckoned Andreya away from the crowd. The first woman introduced herself as Melena, the mythologist, and Tarelia was the poisoner. With the task for which they had been called, they skipped the formalities, for they were not, of course, pleased to meet Andreya, and they knew well enough not to ask how her day had been.

They followed the women out of the ballroom and to the gardens of the left palace, where no guest would be after dark and during the ball. They brought with them a handheld lamp and set it on the brick path of a garden whose plants Andreya didn't recognize in the dark, then Andreya sat on the edge of a small fountain in the middle of the garden and the women settled with their valises on the stone bench across from her. Reide sat beside her, rigid. Seeing him like that shot a pang of guilt through Andreya's chest, but she sat all the straighter for it, dismissing it and, in the process, making it only worse.

But this would make everything right. This would fix her. This would be her peace.

She had to believe it.

"I have found several scattered accounts of your condition in ancient documents, Duchess Marivatan," said Melena as she opened her valise, filled with books and aged scrolls, "and I believe what you suffer from is an anomaly with no known cause; however, there are a few similarities. If it isn't too painful to answer, you did not die of any illness or infection, did you?"

This will fix you. This will make things right. Andreya drew in a shaky breath. "I was murdered."

The woman nodded solemnly. "All of the accounts I've read that mention original cause of death say they died of unnatural causes. But that is the only commonality. The good news is, all of these accounts document people who are no longer living, so there must be a solution."

A solution.

Both Andreya and Reide went tense, but with two different images in mind—while Andreya assumed death, Reide hoped desperately for life.

This is what I want, she recited again. To make things right.

"So," Melena said, turning to Tarelia, who opened her own valise to a conglomeration of different herbs, "first, we shall try poison and study the results. It will be painless and quick, so if you do revive, you won't have to endure any pain in these trials."

Andreya's throat closed up and she gave a small smile to hide it, nodding as Tarelia started mixing the herbs together. Beside her, Reide took hold of her hand, and though she didn't dare look at him, a horrid feeling settled in her stomach and she delicately removed the veil from her hair, setting it next to her. Her hand was shaking.

She was scared.

Why was she scared? This was the right thing, and she had suffered much worse deaths than poison.

This is what you want. To make things right.

Reide squeezed her hand. "Andreya—"

"Please don't," she choked, and she knew his silence took considerable restraint.

Tarelia finished her poison and swirled the bowl, then offered it to Andreya. She lifted her hand to accept it, and now it was obvious she was shaking.

Why are you scared? You want this.

You want this.

"It will take about a minute to affect you," Tarelia explained quietly, her head bowed. "You will become increasingly fatigued until you lose consciousness. It will not hurt."

It will not hurt. Andreya stared down at the liquid, black in the lamplight, and the fear in her stomach roiled. Her eyes burned, her fingers were numb.

All you have to do it drink it. Set things right. Just do it.

Andreya took her hand from Reide's to bring the bowl to her mouth—the freezing porcelain touched her lips, the mixture smelled sickeningly sweet—

And then she drank it.

This is what you want.

She tried to place the bowl beside her, but it slipped from her hand and shattered on the stone. She flinched and instinctively grabbed again for Reide's hand, and she looked to him before she remembered she had promised herself not to.

She had never seen Reide Hafiless cry.

His eyes were wide in disbelief and brimming with unshed tears. "You actually did it..."

This was what she wanted.

I don't want this.

Andreya shook her head and a sob rose in her throat. "Oh, Reide..."

"Is there an antidote?" He swiveled to Tarelia with an immediate urgency and the poisoner and the mythologist both stood horrified at Andreya's sudden change of heart. A wordless negative. He jumped to his feet. "Why did you give her a poison without an antidote?"

"Reide..." Andreya still sat on the edge of the fountain and he dropped to a kneel in front of her, voice breaking.

"Andreya, you can still revive, right?"

She didn't know. She had fallen victim to exposure on the mountain, but just because she didn't heal didn't mean her curse was broken. Her non-answer broke the last shred of confidence Reide had, and he hung his head, cursing.

She was so stupid. He could have told her so—he had warned her so many times—but he only wrapped her in a desperate embrace and stroked her hair, saying nothing and meaning everything. I love you.

"I'll revive," she said, wiping his tears and still sobbing herself. "I'll come back, I promise—Reide, I promise you."

"How can you know?" He cupped her face in his hands and she smiled, vision still blurred with tears. "How can you promise me that?"

The truth was, she couldn't. She couldn't promise anything, and she couldn't stay awake to tell him so in anything more than unintelligible murmurs.

When she rested her head on Reide's shoulder, he lifted her up and patted her cheek and tried to keep her awake, choking up and denying everything—after everything, he still hadn't been able to stop her. After everything, his worst fear had still come true. After everything, he still loved her, desperately, hopelessly, endlessly.

And after everything, Andreya closed her eyes.

──── xxx ────

Soooo any thoughts? I probably shouldn't ask... 😅

Vote and comment if you enjoyed, and definitely let me know if you have any critiques or suggestions! This draft is more than a little rough around the edges, so all help is welcome help. <3