How to Poison Your Husband [COMPLETE! Cozy Romantasy With A Dash Of Murder]

Step 8b: ...poison the man who made your life hell

The Great Hall was alive with noise when Ivelle arrived, a sea of sound and faces that momentarily swamped her. Her eyes found Prince Eirifold across the room. He sat at the long, narrow table on the dais overlooking the feast, not quite at its center—that honor was reserved for the king and queen—but just to the right of it. Lillian sat at his side, face demure, the picture of a perfect princess. As Ivelle watched, Lillian leaned over to whisper something in Eirifold's ear.

Ivelle's stomach clenched. She searched for some sign that the mandragar was affecting him. But his movements seemed normal, if a little on edge. He whispered something back at Lillian, looking worried. Lillian smiled.

Ivelle's gaze traveled across the table. Next to Eirifold, Queen Ysette sliced her vegetables placidly, seemingly doing her best to ignore King Gorlin, who was swilling his wine with sneering unpleasantness. Every so often, the king would lean to his right and say something to Prince Harvald, Miriam's betrothed, and the pair of them would smirk.

Hesitantly, one hand still tight on Saffron's harness lest he try to make a run for it, Ivelle edged into the room, trying to catch Eirifold's eye. Unfortunately, her befeathered hat and garish jacket caught the eye of someone else instead.

"Jester!" The king beckoned her forward imperiously. "Come here."

Heart sinking, Ivelle made her way up to the dais, Saffron's little belled hat tinkling after her.

"My daughter-in-law tells me the prince is quite fond of you," said the king, waving a meat-bedecked fork at her. "Come closer. I want a look at you."

He leaned forward on his elbows, until their faces were inches apart. Ivelle had never been so near the king before, and she would gladly have traded the experience for pretty much anything else. King Gorlin might have been handsome in his prime, but the excesses of the monarchy (and his cask-a-day habit) had not done any favors for his skin or his stomach. He was, in essence, a beer belly on legs.

"You don't look like your jests are worth much." He took another bite of venison, frowning as he chewed. "I suppose the prince likes you for your other attributes, eh? Come closer, I said."

Terror buzzed in her ears. She tried to grasp onto anger instead. Anger, anger was an emotion she could use, anger wouldn't make her mind go numb and stupid when she needed it most. She inched forward, trying to keep a healthy distance between herself and the king, but somehow he managed to catch her chin in his hand. He turned her face back and forth, scrutinizing her like one might scrutinize a farm animal, to Ivelle's immense disgust.

"Never known my boy to take an interest in women. I was beginning to think he didn't have it in him." Releasing Ivelle, Gorlin clapped Eirifold on the shoulder. "Well done. Perhaps you might plant a bun in Lillian's oven next?"

Well, this conversation just took a turn for the awkward.

"I..." Eirifold shot Ivelle a look that was half horror, half apology. (Beside him, Lillian was twirling her spaghetti with a delicateness that was slightly too deliberate to be genuine.) "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Ivelle has been delightfully amusing, a top-notch jester to lift my spirits when I was unhappy, but I am, of course, thoroughly devoted to my beloved bride–"

"Lifting your spirits, is that what they're calling it these days?" There was definitely a hint of malice in the king's tone. He leaned closer to Eirifold, lowering his voice just enough that he was out of earshot of the rest of the crowd. "Honestly, I could care less who you tup in your spare time, as long as you spawn an heir to legitimize our hold over Castrena. Put a honeysuckle in her hoo-ha. A watermelon in her wagon. Don't make me have to beget an heir on her myself. Understood?"