The Sleeping Prince

by Melinda Salisbury

  “You’ll despise me forever because I wear his face,” he says. “And as much as you hate me, you can’t help but want me a little, because I look like him. Same eyes, same hair. Same smile.” His lips spread into a grin—that grin—and I know he’s beaten me again. “It kills you. Every time. And that’s why I can’t let you go. So you will learn to control yourself, or I will deal with it, my way.” His expression deadens, becoming as guileless as any predator’s, and my stomach lurches again.

  “Clean yourself up.” He stands without offering me his hand. “I think we’ll ask your Silas to dine with us tonight. What do you think of that, sweetling?” I stay silent, my heart beating strongly as I wait for the punch line. With Aurek there’s always a punch line.

  “Of course, he’d have to be carried. And fed. It would be quite unsightly, really. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind, though. You wouldn’t, would you? You took care of your mother when she ailed; it’s not so different. Of course your mother still had the use of her arms and legs, though she chose not to use them. Whereas poor Silas … He has no choice.”

  “Stop …” I whisper, my mouth filling with the strange taste that heralds vomiting.

  “I’d like to see it.” His voice is deeper, as though the idea pleases him. “You, cutting his meat, raising a fork to his mouth. Waiting for him to chew and swallow. Wiping his mouth for him.” Each word is like a needle, puncturing me. “I don’t know how far the Nigredo has advanced up his legs. Last I knew it was below the knee, but now … it could be up to his thighs. I wonder whether he’ll chose to stand or sit for the rest of his life? What would you choose, Errin? Sitting or standing?”

  I can’t help myself: I vomit. Heaving and gagging as my stomach empties itself on my ruined dress, on the floor.

  He takes a step back and I can hear the disgust in his voice. “You’re a mess. Go and bathe. I’ll have a new dress sent for you to dine in.”

  His boots stalk away, his footsteps ringing across the ballroom. Then they squeal against the wooden floor as he turns back to me.

  “Ah, I am a fool. I can’t invite him for dinner. He won’t have time. He has to make more Elixir to replace what I used on you. Still, I suppose he won’t mind, seeing as it saved your life. Take her to her room,” he orders a hidden person in the corner of the room.

  The door clicks neatly behind him as he leaves, and salty tears join the mess of blood and vomit on the once-beautiful dress.

  Silently the servant appears from his station in the shadows, dressed in a rough gray tabard and matching breeches. He stands over me, his dark eyes full of sympathy. His hair is shorn close to his skull, his jaw set as he offers a hand to help me up. I knock it away. I want no help from a coward who bends his knee to the Sleeping Prince to save his skin.

  Like I did.

  “Forgive me,” he says, stepping back to give me room to stand.

  I haul myself up and smooth down the dress. I wonder if it was one of Twylla’s, and then I wonder how she is, where she is. I hope she got away, far, far away from here. I look down at the gown and crumple the skirts in my fists. I wonder if she ever danced in this room.

  I walk slowly from the room. Even though I’m no longer injured my mind is telling me to be careful, that I’m still hurt. The guards at the door don’t look at me as I pass. The servant trails behind me, his presence an annoyance all the way down the corridor. When we reach the south tower, he trails me up to my bedroom. I try to slam the door in his face but he wedges himself in the gap.

  “Move,” I order, and he shakes his head, holding a finger to his lips and pointing down the stairs.

  “I said move.” I say it louder, but the servant stands his ground, refusing my command.

  “I need to talk to you,” he whispers. “Please. I have but a few moments. You’ll want to listen to me.”

  I look at him, then shrug, turning away as he closes the door.

  “Well?” I ask, looking back at him.

  “Is Twylla still alive?” His eyes are wide, his body leaning toward mine with the earnestness of his question. “Do you know where she is? Please. If you know anything …”

  “As if I’d tell you, traitor.”

  “Are you still a friend to her?”

  I stay silent, watching him.

  “All right. Are you a friend to the Sleeping Prince?”

  I look down at the ruined dress.

  The servant nods as though I’ve spoken. “Why did you stab him? You know it won’t kill him.”

  “Because it makes me feel better,” I spit, immediately wishing I could control both my tongue and my temper.

  As if he knows what I’m thinking, the corner of his mouth twitches as though he’s holding back a smile. “Or is it because you’re trying to collect some of his blood?”

  “What?” The room seems to shrink and I glance around, looking for something to defend myself with.

  “I’ve heard about you. You’re an apothecary. I know what Tregellian apothecaries can do. I know they can break potions apart, find what they’re made of.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  His eyes lock on mine. “You always try to hurt him in a way that will make him bleed. Always. I think you want his blood to test. To find a way to stop him. And I want to help you.”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “What if I said I knew a way out of here? What if I promised to help you get what you need, and then to get out of here with it? Would that change things? I can get you out of here, Errin. Whenever you wish.” He pauses, looking at me from the side of his eye and taking a deep breath. “It used to be my castle.”

  It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and then I look at him, scouring his face. Yes … Yes, in the tilt of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. The curly hair is shorn, and the clothes are simple and tatty, but now I see it: that face looking down from the back of a white horse, so many moons ago. “We all thought you were dead.”

  “One thing I learned from what happened to the Tregellian royal family is that if there are those at your gates who mean you ill, you have two choices. Run or die. And a dead king is useless.”

  “You mean to take back the kingdom?”

  “If a Sleeping Prince can awaken, then surely a dead king can?” He smiles, without moving his mouth at all. Something in his eyes conveys a big, bold grin. I find myself grinning back.

  “Why not indeed, Your Majesty?”

  “Call me Merek,” he says. “All of my friends do.”

  I find it hard to believe I was lucky enough to have one book published, let alone to be here again, a year later, still supported, guided, and talked down from the ledge by the following people:

  My agent, Claire Wilson, who has handled all of my “Claire. Claire. Help me” emails with such grace and patience. Half of the reason I haven’t lost my mind in the past year is because I am lucky enough to have you on my side. Thank you. And thanks again to Lexie Hamblin, I will miss you, and Rosie Price, who has it all to come …

  Team Sin Eater at Scholastic UK, and in particular my splendid UK editors, Genevieve Herr and Emily Lamm. Having one editor who gets what you’re trying to do is pretty lucky, having two is just jammy. I am that jammy. Here is a fun story: Early on in the editing process they sent me a list of edit suggestions, which I then argued against. Every. Single. Point. And my lovely editorial team (including Mallory Kass in the US) simply replied saying, “Okay. We trust you. You know the story best. If you say it won’t work, we know you’ll find another way.”

  Every single suggestion they made ended up in the book, one way or another. Every single suggestion they made was the right call. Because as I was editing, I realized I might know the story best, but I was far from the only person that knew it. They could see what I couldn’t, and The Sleeping Prince is so much better for it. I am so lucky to have these guys as my editors, and that they trusted me. I can never thank them enough for that and I’m so proud of wh
at we made here.

  Once again Jamie Gregory made me the most perfect cover, and I should probably offer him my soul or something. Jamie, I would if I had one. Magical Publicist Rachel Phillipps, who can literally work miracles and is one of the greatest people in the world. Thank you for being brilliant. Always brilliant. Pete Matthews, Team Sin Eater project manager and proofreader extraordinaire.

  Also thanks to David Sanger, Fi Evans, Sam Selby Smith, the Rights team, and everyone else who has worked hard on my behalf behind the scenes. One day I will know all of your names and I will fill pages of acknowledgements with them.

  On the other side of the world at Scholastic Inc., millions of thanks need to go to Mallory Kass, who, as mentioned above, has offered the kind of support every writer dreams of, as well as lending me her apartment in New York for a night. And buying me cheesecake. And wine. Thank you. And also to Saraciea Fennell, Bess Braswell, and everyone else who has supported me, in a non-wine way.

  Thanks to my lovely writing-friends-who-are-now-just-friends, especially Robin Stevens, crit partner extraordinaire. Massive thanks to my bros Sara Barnard, Holly Bourne, Alexia Casale, CJ Daugherty, Catherine Doyle, and Katie Webber, for a lot of fun and support and laughter over the past year.

  Thanks in particular to the following people who have done at least one or more amazing things for me this year: the Lyons Family, and the Allports too, Sophie Reynolds, Denise Strauss, Emma Gerrard, Lizzy Evans, Mikey Beddard, Bevin Robinson, Stine Stueland, Neil Bird, Franziska Schmidt, Katja Rammer, Julie Blewett-Grant, Romana Bicíková, Jim Dean, Lucy Powrie, Kate Ormand, Leigh Bardugo, Nina Douglas, Sofia Saghir, Chelley Toy, Laura Hughes, Auntie Penny, Uncle Eddie and all, Steven, Kelly and co., Auntie Cath and Uncle Paul. You are all magnificent.

  The very biggest thanks of all go to Emilie Lyons: the DCI Eugene Morton to my Sheriff Dan Anderssen. Bem bem bem … Really glad we didn’t get arrested in Portugal; let’s definitely not get arrested again. I’m also so terribly excited for you to see the All-New Shabby-Chic Melseum.

  Finally, Javert.

  I did not forget you. I did not forget your name.

  MELINDA SALISBURY was born in the 1980s in a landlocked city, before escaping to live by the sea. As a child, she genuinely thought Roald Dahl’s Matilda was her biography. When she’s not trying to unlock the hidden avenues of her mind, she’s reading, writing, or traveling. She lives in the UK and can be found on Twitter as @AHintofMystery, though be warned she tweets often.

  Copyright © 2016 by Melinda Salisbury

  Map by Maxine Plasse

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, June 2016

  Cover art © 2016 by Jacey and Jamie Gregory

  Cover design by Christopher Stengel

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-92132-9

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.