"What is wrong with you?"

Jules cringed—with that voice, Antoine sounded like their mother. The same viperish intonation, the words heavy with implications, the disdain and disappointment in each syllable.

"Nothing is wrong with me." Jules crossed one leg over the other, his copper-colored breeches creasing. He glowered at his brother, at his King. It was a dare—tempting him to yell, to sanction, to find a way to lock him up in the castle and halt his excursions.

He can try, but I can always get out.

"Everything is wrong with you! You are out of control! It needs to stop." The King, his face so youthful, so clean-shaven, seemed to harden and grow older with every heavy breath he took.

Such weakness made the Prince grimace. They were blood, they were brothers; but he didn't know the man before him, hunched in his Office throne, cheeks sullen and lips chapped. This fellow, who once had such a resemblance to their deceased father it caused most men double-takes, was someone else. A grumpy, groaning, grudge-holding boy; it irked Jules to the core. Antoine had become an unhappy monarch who'd married an atrocious French bitch and cast away the only woman who ever suffered through his moods and loved him anyway.

"I have not the slightest clue what you refer to." Prince Jules rubbed his knuckles on his crisp ebony frock coat. "You must have me confused with someone else, Majesty."

His tone would cause chaos; out of all Antoine's siblings, Jules had always been the rebellious one. Perfect Sébastien, seventeen and traveling abroad doing who-knew-what, never talked back like so. Sweet Cordelia, soon-to-be fifteen, would rather hold her breath than raise her voice in the King's presence.

Jules didn't care.

Someone has to speak up, to help Antoine see reason.

He'd taken his outbursts too far, but Sébastien used to be there to control him, scold him, remind him to bite his tongue. And he'd been away for a while. For too long. No one had expected him to keep true to his word, to not return until he was ready.

"I have refined my skills," the middle Prince had written, a few weeks past, keeping his location a mystery. "And oh! The people I have met! The ladies, the damsels, the aristocrats. Exquisite."

Jules had choked on his breakfast reading the note—Sébastien, the bookish and serious and shy boy, mingling with damsels? What had happened to him?

Antoine pounded a fist on his desk. "Are you listening to me? This is not funny."

Jules sucked his lips between his teeth as he realized he'd been laughing at the image of Sébastien trying to flirt with a woman. "I—"

"—no! No excuses! This is not some game, and you need to grow up! You are a Prince! Until Séb returns, you are the Prince." He blew out his cheeks. "It is getting harder and harder for me to conceal your nighttime adventures from court. From Mother."

Snorting, Jules stretched his legs, the tips of his polished shoes pushing under the desk. "Nighttime adventures? Is that what we are calling them?"

Antoine slammed both fists this time, knocking over his paperwork and quill and almost spilling ink. "Stop it. At once. This attitude has gone overboard. You are sixteen. Too young to be fooling around like you do, but old enough to know better. Mother and Father did not raise you like this!"

A hearty chuckle broke from Jules' throat. "Be honest, brother; Mother and Father did not raise us at all. Our servants and chaperones did! Our wet nurses did! Marguerite—"

"—do not pronounce that name in my presence!" Antoine shot to his feet, fire swirling in his gaze, nostrils flaring as his nails dug into the edges of his wooden desk.

The tiniest of twinges in Jules' heart prompted him to consider obeying, if only for a second. Because Antoine, annoying as he had become, was in agony. It bruised him to speak of Marguerite—even though he never did, since Mother had banned her name from court and from existence. But he would never cease thinking of her; thinking of why he hadn't chosen her, why he'd let some red-headed French temptress sway him. If he'd honored their father, if he hadn't changed his mind at the last minute, he wouldn't be so miserable. Marguerite would be there, would be alive.

It had been two years, and none of the siblings had recovered. Sébastien ran off to deal with his feelings elsewhere. Cordelia focused on her tutoring sessions and on shadowing her mother, becoming her copy. Antoine sulked about with a thunder-cloud over his head.

Jules wouldn't let Marguerite's death ruin him, nor would he tolerate watching his mother and sister-in-law rule Torrinni as they seemed to think they had the right to. Parading about spitting orders and brewing plots and schemes; he hated it.

He rolled his eyes, his patience reaching its limit. "Are we done? Can I go?" He thought of his usual mid-week courtesan, lying in her dimmed room, exotic candles burning, satin sheets wrapped over her voluptuous curves, her lips pouty and lacquered with liquor.

"Go? You mean scamper off to your inn to toy with one of your whores?" Antoine scoffed, marching around the desk and towards his window. "You are not leaving the castle anymore without my say."

Unfazed, Jules pressed into the armchair cushions. He peeked at the map of Europe on the wall; at the pins all over Giroma, the lines tracing through France, at Antoine's scribbles in Germany and Spain and the Italian territories.

"That is what you think."

He expected Antoine to lunge over and attack him, slap him, scream in his face, threaten to send him to the dungeons.

To his surprise, the King only shook his head, fixed on something outside. "I think you will destroy me if you continue these ruses." His tone softened, yet it laced with a strictness Jules had only heard once or twice in King Edouard's speeches. "Your gambling debts have tripled. Tripled!" He groaned. "You keep depleting our alcohol stores, and it is a wonder we have anything to serve our nobles. You insist on stealing jugs and bottles and crates and bringing them to that tavern, where they already offer alcohol, no?" He craned his neck to the side, sending Jules a terrifying glare. "Or have you dilapidated their resources, too?"

Jules licked his lips—discussing liquor made him thirsty. He wasn't supposed to drink at his age, but he was a Prince of Totresia! The son of the former prosper and innovative King Edouard; the brother of the current King!

No one questioned him. The cooks allowed him to snatch whatever he wanted from the cellars, said nothing when he grabbed pastries on his way home, looked away when he snuck through the kitchen at dawn. Nobody batted an eyelash as he squeezed through his secret passage—one even Marguerite had had no knowledge of, in her day.

He winced as he pictured her; the girl he'd harbored a slight crush on, and how beautiful she'd become. How, upon understanding she and Antoine loved each other, he'd stuffed his emotions away and prayed she would be their future Queen. A delightful and proper wife for his oldest brother. The people would have adored and respected her—unlike Adelaide.

The red-headed bitch, they called her in the taverns. The devilish witch, they nicknamed her at the gambling tables, at the horse-racing events. If Antoine had gotten wind of the mockery about his spouse, he did nothing. He remained married to her instead of sending her back to Avignon, where her dreadful father waited for news of an heir.

Jules tried, more than once, to knock sense into Antoine; but he was alone in his attempts. Clémentine refused to get rid of her—she has her uses, she liked to say—Cordelia was too busy with ladylike lessons to see the truth behind the French woman's act, and other nobles feared Antoine's rage if they spoke up.

If Sébastien hadn't left, he would have helped erase the scarlet-haired sorceress Queen. He would have enlisted Cordelia, too, to keep her away from the Dowager's dreadful influence.

Speaking of said Dowager—Sébastien would have chided her for her creeping about at odd hours to meet with strange noblemen in dark corners of the King's Corridor.

That was another story altogether; one Jules had no energy for or interest in, not anymore. He preferred to gamble, drink, and mingle.

At fourteen, after Marguerite disappeared, he'd had his first sip of absinthe—a glowing green beverage brought by a rich Swiss merchant at his favorite bar. At fifteen, he'd spent the night draped in cotton sheets with a courtesan named Selene—that Antoine later found and sent to southern Totresia. Now, Jules held the record for the most ale consumed in the smallest amount of time, a renowned hunger for having several women in bed at once, and the most notable gambling history in town.

Somehow, Antoine withheld it all from Dowager Clémentine.

Jules owed his oldest sibling a lot. But the constant whining and complaining caused him to crave rebellion. To no longer be part of the Totresian royal bloodline, to stomp all over the duties everyone waited for him to perform. One day, he hoped to abandon his post, like Sébastien.

And skip around with as many ladies and gentlemen as I please.

One lady came to mind: the young woman he'd seen meandering about the city, and not a low-born, half-dressed one. She was noble, with fine silks and pretty shoes and fancy feathers in her hair. She popped up every month, accompanied by one or two other gushing girls, though none as mysterious as she. Sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen, she bedazzled him. Whenever she saw Jules, she appeared interested, but kept her distance.

He never dared to disturb her—but she'd be at the bar tonight. He remembered, earlier that morning, one of his informants had sent word: "She is in the city, I spotted her! She will stop by, count on it!"

"Brother dearest, I understand your woes, I do, but your staff should be more attentive against thieves, hm? That does not concern me. So if you will allow..."

Antoine spun on his heels, eyebrows shooting up. Strands of his ash-and-chestnut tresses swept over his forehead as he frowned. "I will not. In here, I am not your brother, I am your King. One more mistake, Jules, one more idiot move, and I will tell the Dowager about this. You, her little favorite, whoring about town? It will not please her, and she will throw you behind bars, I guarantee it."

Cackling—she would not dare!—Jules hopped over to Antoine to clap him on the back. "Yes, fine, I will be more careful."

Not that he needed to—no one gave any consideration to his antics. All were too preoccupied about insulting Adelaide or spreading the gossip she claimed to abhor but urged them to whisper in the halls for entertainment.

Jules hastened to the main stairs, lept up to the Royal Floor, ignoring any who requested his attention. He had plans, big plans, and had to hurry and dress for the occasion.

***

After a scorching hot bath—a pleasure he indulged in whenever possible—Jules lathered on his spicy, impossible-to-resist cologne, brushed his mahogany curls back, slid a golden chain around his neck, and smiled. His slate suit clung to his lithe body, and his arms bulged under the fabric. His breeches were almost too tight to be worn in public. He fastened his worn-down ebony cloak over his attire, pulled up his hood, and set off.

He couldn't wait to see her. Often he'd wondered where she came from, who she was. He'd never noticed her at court, and assumed she was a student in some nearby school, or a sheltered courtier whose father wouldn't allow her into the castle.

I will be bold tonight. I will ask for her name.

He trotted down the service stairs—nearly colliding into Antoine on his evening stroll—slithered to the basement, snuck into the kitchens, and halted by the head cook.

"It is time," he muttered, startling the elder man.

The chef snapped, gathering all his staff, and shoved them out into the hallway. "We will wait five minutes, Highness."

Once they vacated the kitchen, Jules hurried to the hidden latch behind the larder and pulled. A murky, underground tunnel came into view between two counters, and without hesitation he slipped into it, sliding the door closed behind him. He no longer needed a torch to light his way—he knew this passage by heart. It connected the kitchens to the Torrinni Castle gates, and no one knew of it but him. Except for King Edouard.

When the young Prince turned thirteen—and had the reputation of refusing to listen to rules—Edouard summoned him to his Study and imparted on him the special knowledge, handed down from generation to generation. A royal tradition, a rite—and he chose Jules.

"I should reprimand you, but I must also pass on something you might find use for. A concealed spot beneath the castle. A sewer. An exit." Jules recalled the warmth of his smile, the mischief in his eyes. "In the kitchen, behind the larder, is a door. The cook knows it exists, but not where it is. You must give him the code, to signify you are the new keeper of the secret. Say, I am the master of this castle. I hold the knowledge. The privilege is mine. Let me pass. When you return, there is a string beside the door; pull it. It will ring a bell on the kitchen ceiling, and it signals the staff to evacuate, so the secret does not spill out."

Jules itched to test the underground channel, to see if his father was right. So one frosty, early spring evening, he snuck to the basement, scared the chef half to death, and uttered the code.

"Only the King had that information," said the head cook, smirking. "Meaning you are worthy, Highness. We will give you five minutes."

Jules lit a torch and explored. He found that the passage ended with a steep set of stairs leading up to a bolt that unlocked from the inside, and arrived before a bush near the guard towers at the left side of the castle gates. Outside, in Torrinni City.

He'd never been so excited to explore.

Two years had passed, and Jules now sashayed with confidence as he erupted outside and let the brisk late summer breeze brush over his cheeks. He pulled his coat up to his mouth as he pivoted to peek at his home in all its nighttime splendor.

No one will ever know.

He soon arrived at his pub, The Unlucky Totresian, in the less-than-appealing neighborhood of the Torrinni Prison. He stalked in, dropped his hood, and chuckled. "Drinks on me, gentlemen!"

The barkeep moaned, aware he'd end the night with less coin than he started; but everyone else laughed, swooping up to shake Jules' hand, to welcome him. He'd long since begged them to consider him a normal man when in the tavern, because he didn't want anyone questioning his true identity. It was easier that way; to better enjoy the overflowing ale and cheap wine, and the ladies and their inviting bosoms.

Ten minutes into his habitual dark beer, she entered. Well-bred and prim as she seemed, she never hesitated to barge into the ill-reputed tavern and feel at ease. Her wild brown locks curtained her face, her eyes bright like sapphires, and she wore a low-cut gown with black lace lining her pearly skin.

When she caught him eyeing her, she stiffened, but smiled. He melted into his seat, his temperature rising. He was far from innocent, but when he saw her, he could never control his speech and worried he'd make a fool of himself.

Not tonight—tonight, you will be brave.

She settled in a rear booth with her giggling friend. Jules got up, cleared his throat, tugged on his lapels. He winked at a bar-wench as he passed her, and skidded by a group of rowdy boys playing a card game he excelled in.

Upon reaching her table, he clenched his teeth and fought not to blush, not to smile wide like a child. "Hello, Miss. Enjoying your evening?"

She looked up at him, the most adorable flush creeping from her jaw to her temples. "Oh, Highness, yes."

He almost scowled at her, uncertain how she'd recognized him; but she also had no way of knowing he preferred anonymity while out drinking. "Please, call me J."

Biting her lip—prompting Jules' heart to flip about in his rib-cage—she shifted in her seat. "All right then, J. How is your evening?"

He had to have her; he had to succeed. Shrugging his hands through his hair, he leaned against the table. "It would be much better if you allowed me to share a beverage with you."

The girl emitted a faint squeak and moved down the bench, giving him room. "It would be an honor, High—I mean, J."

He tried not to pound his chest in victory as he lowered beside her, a whiff of cinnamon and cigars swishing into his nostrils.

Ah, she smokes? How uncommon and intriguing.

She was so tiny beside him; so svelte as she arched her back, her breasts ready to burst from her decolletage. "So nice of you to join us, J."

He tried hard not to get lost in her cleavage. "I beg your pardon, but might I know your name, my lady?"

Fawning, she extended her hand for him to kiss it, taking his focus from her breasts, at last. "I am Frances. Enchantée."

Jules planted a peck atop her palm. "Enchanté, indeed."

•••