THE FIRST GUARD who visits my cell is too scared of me to be any use at all. I badger him with questions and demands while he quivers and slides a bowl of greenish soup through the bars. He retreats back up the steps and I’m left to pace and scheme and consider all the many and varied ways this plan could fail. The soup congeals at my feet, like a pond scumming over.

The second guard is made of sterner stuff, refilling my water pail with hands that shake only slightly. He barely screams when I grab his wrist.

“Unhand me, foul creature!”

“I need to speak to the King.”

“And why would our noble King consort with an unnatural—”

“Because I have a final request. Even unnatural creatures are owed some dignity in death, aren’t they? Before they die?” I step closer to the bars as I say it, tilting my head upward and putting the slightest tremble in my lower lip. This is the exact fragile-wilting-flower act that got me out of at least 50 percent of my gym classes in high school.

I see the guard’s throat bob. He is no longer trying quite so hard to remove his hand from mine. “I—I will pass your request along.”

I let go of his wrist and sweep my eyelashes down. “Thank you, kind sir. And may I ask one question more?”

“You may.” He’s rubbing the place where my fingers held his wrist.

“The wedding. When will it be held?” Three days hence, the King had said, but that was seven days ago.

A suspicious line forms between the guard’s brows, as if it’s occurred to him that wicked fairies and weddings are an unfortunate combination. He must not be wholly convinced of my wickedness, because he says slowly, “Tomorrow, just after the dawn prayer.”

“Thank you.” I spread my fingers across my chest and sweep him the best curtsy I can achieve in unwashed jeans. He clunks into the wall on his way out of the dungeon.

I return to my unproductive pacing and scheming, stopping only to cough up weird, mucus-y lumps that I try not to look at very closely. If there were X-rays in this world, I bet my chest would look like a galaxy, the healthy black peppered with white stars of protein.

Hours pass. The King never arrives.

But someone else comes in his place. She descends the steps slowly, velvet skirts dragging across stained stone, rings shining hard and bright on her fingers.

The Queen stands on the other side of the bars, entirely alone, watching me down her too-long nose. There’s a steely chill in her eyes that makes it clear that my long-lashed, damsel-in-distress persona will get me exactly nowhere. I should have known Primrose’s spine didn’t come from her father.

I open with a grave “Your Majesty” instead. The Queen doesn’t so much as blink. I wet my cracked lips. “I would like to make a final request.”