A rider appeared out of the deep greenery and, seeing the governor in the path, brought his horse up short. Without dismounting, the rider leaned over his horse.

“Is it…?” the governor asked. Twitch.

“Done.” The rider patted the horse’s damp shoulder.

The governor glanced toward the doorway and the boy. “All ten?” Twitch. Twitch.

“All.” The rider looked toward the boy as well. “All ten heirs gone. Such accidents you arranged!”

“And did anyone see?”

The rider smiled. “No. None saw the men who did the pushing, the poisoning, the clobbering, the smothering. All as you planned. The new king”—he glanced again at the boy—“will seem to rise to his throne by misfortune. By accident. By fate or by chance.”

The thin little worm stretched itself then up the governor’s sallow cheeks, and the boy, still watching, wondering, forgot for a moment all about the sweetness and comfort of cooked cream, having never in all his life seen a worm twist itself about in such a brutish and terrible way.

II

INTERLUDE—THE DAY OF ACCIDENTS, OR HOW ELEVENTH CAME TO BE FIRST

Eighth was first. Stung by bees, a swarm, that somehow came in through the open chamber window. He was found swollen, pink-mottled, collapsed on his sheets, by the maid, who might have thought him still sleeping but for the crunching of bee carcasses under her feet and the overall disorder—the bed curtains having been torn from their posts, the water having been spilled from the pitcher, the chamber pot, even, having been heaved against the wall.

Fifth came next—a terrible fall. Terrible luck. The balcony rail gave way just where he was wont to lean, mornings, listening to birdsong, and he tumbled through the air, a big bird himself in his dressing gown, great white sleeves flapping, past the servant opening the shutters to clear away the fetid nighttime airs.

Seventh ate something disagreeable. Eggs, it was, only, the cook protested. Boiled in their shells! Still, he took to the privies, and then to his bed, and never saw noon after that.

Tenth followed fast. Kicked by his horse. At least it must have been so, for the stable boy came upon him laid out on the floor of the stall, a great red lump on his head, and the old mare half-saddled chewing hay in the corner.

Fourth never woke from a nap in the garden. Adder bite surely, said the doctor called to the body. Might those be fang marks there on the ankle, perhaps? I don’t know—don’t ask me—I’m sure they can bite through a boot.

Ninth so unwisely went swimming, and yet could not swim. Tunic spread wide all around, he was found floating in lilies—a flower in flowers—and the maid who discovered him could not stop wailing as she rocked the boy’s body. Why would he take to the water? she cried. What made him think he could swim?

Third after that—a ridiculous gaffe: He tripped on his own lace and fell on his own sword. Hidden by weeds in the field, too far away for his cries to be heard, he died a slow death surely full of regret for the lace he had too hastily tied.