Of Princes and Poisons (Book 2, The Culled Crown Series)

Chapter 4

The Registration Tent.

Third Corps, Vayelle.

Dee was right, after about an hour, the nerves faded away and things got easier. The refugees coming in didn't care that I was goddess-touched. They didn't point or stare. They didn't flinch when I came too close.

Mothers passed me their infants to hold while they fumbled through the forms. People thanked me for my help, for the kits, for the food, for the place to sleep—as if I were somehow the embodiment of Third Corps. People cried. Strangers held hands and helped one another. They reached those hands towards me and didn't flinch when my marked skin touched theirs.

But the best part about the registration tent was the children. They knew who I was—what I was—and they were enamored by me. They tugged at my clothes and wanted to hold my hand. They followed me everywhere. To them, I was a legend come alive. I was the embodiment of the stories they'd grown up hearing.

I sat on a wooden crate next to a young mother as she filled out her registration papers. She was older than I was, but had the education of someone much younger. She had cried when I helped spell her daughter's name on the form: Kate. K-A-T-E. And she was Marie. M-A-R-I-E.

She had never seen it spelled before but had always liked the sound of it.

I held her infant daughter in my lap, bouncing her on my knees as I spelled the answers for her and helped her read the chart. Yes, it might have been faster if I'd done it myself, but the afternoon was closing in around us and most of the mornings' refugees were already settled. Plus, I liked the way Marie smiled when she remembered a word or wrote out her own name.

In between helping with the forms, I talked with over a dozen children. They sat cross-legged in a small circle, a spattering of little boys and girls, all of them laughing and smiling—curious and blessedly unafraid.

One of the little girls tugged on the leg of my pants. "Is the prince handsome?"

I thought about Cohen and Uri, and even Dellacov. I wondered where they were and if they were safe. That same guilt inched across my skin, but I still smiled as I said, "Oh, yes. Very handsome."

She flashed me a toothy grin just as a little boy, maybe around six years old, said, "My dad doesn't like him very much."

"Mine either," one of the girls said. "My daddy says he's a..." she made a face as she tried to think of the word.

The first little boy rose up on his knees and yelled, "An asshole!"

One of the older girls smacked his arm, "Mama said not to say words like that."

"Ouch!" He rubbed at his arm and pouted. "But that's what dad called him."

Next to me, Marie laughed.

A little girl, no more than five, said, "He's one of them bad guys."

A boy with no front teeth and a runny nose said, "Uh, hey, you met 'em, right?"

Another tapped my knee. "Is it true? Is he real bad?"

All eyes turned to me, waiting.

Even Marie paused in her reading and glanced sideways.

For a second, I didn't know what to do. Of course, Cohen wasn't a bad person, but his family—his mother—had done terrible things. I'd grown up hearing Ambrose, and even Kace, say similar things about the royal children. When all you knew was starvation and suffering, it was easy to believe that everyone in power must be a terrible person. But Cohen hadn't been, neither was Uri or Britta.