On the night of the midsummer celebration, I was hiding out in my mother’s chambers, watching the people of Persea celebrate loudly in the streets as they did each year. A parade was in progress, as well as an open market lasting well into the small hours of the morning, and more alcohol would be imbibed today than any other day of the year. The children played merrily in the streets, and when the parents would get too inebriated, they would run off and go on little adventures doing tremendous little—though it would feel to them they did everything. Laughter oozed its way up the sheer brick of our castle, up the many stories and into my brazen ears.

The disdain in my heart filled my mouth with bile at the infectious sound.

My mother, the queen, sat at her mirror and brushed her hair to a tuneless hum whose sound was a tonic for my wretched heart. She glanced back at me, her pale green eyes slanting at me in a way that made me turn and look back to the people.

“You look glum,” she mused, returning to brush already shimmering hair.

I grunted and shrugged absently, as children my age were want to do.

“Do you wish to be down there, dear?” she purred, notes from her hum finding their way into her words.

“No,” I replied flatly. “They are too loud and dumb to entertain me.”

My mother laughed airily. “That’s not how you should speak of our people, Peppermint.”

“Oh? Well, they shouldn’t speak so poorly of themselves. I can hear their words from here, and they’re as crass as anything I would say, if not more.”

Sighing, my mother placed her brush on the vanity her mirror sat on and rose up. She was a towering woman, all legs and limbs, but elegant in the way she would glide across the floor. Her green hair shone brightly from all the oils and treatments she had given it for the celebration that night. “They may be less inclined toward eloquence, but they are the life of our kingdom. Avocado would be nothing without its people, as would any country. Remember that, Peppermint.”

I curled my mouth in disgust but nodded anyway. Arguing with my mother never worked out, and during an important day like this, it would be absolutely worthless.

“Have you seen your father yet?” she asked, grabbing my shoulder.

“He’s here?” I asked, sarcastically. “That’s new, I figured him dead.”

Frowning, my mother smacked my head lightly. It didn’t hurt, but I made a fuss of it anyway. “Hush. If he’s not here yet, he should be here within the hour. Last we heard, he was on the other side of the lake.”

Before saying, “I hope he drowned in it,” I thought better of it and said, “Well I haven’t seen him at all, no. Shouldn’t I be getting ready for this dinner thing we’re doing instead of searching for him?”

My mother sighed and nodded, pulling me up by the shoulder and away from the window. “Go to your room and get ready then. If you see him, tell him to come to see me in the dining hall right away. I have to speak to him and you know how he is.”

Glaring at no one, I nodded. I knew how he was, yeah. Like most boys my age, I hated my father. But I had good reason to. What sort of king isn’t around for his people? The same sort of father that isn’t around for his wife and son. That’s enough reason to hate him already, but there was more to it than that, something innate that could only be amplified by reason.

♣ ♣ ♣

I made it to my room without seeing anyone resembling my father, and once I got there I huffed a lot and looked out the window some more before putting on the outfit one of the maids had set out on my bed for me. It was white pants, a white shirt with a tall collar that went right up to my chin, and a green vest the same shade as my hair. The white was excessive and made me look extra pale, and the collar rubbing my chin was going to get annoying. But that was the price to pay to be royal. Mother always said keeping appearances up was just as important as making the right choices for the kingdom. You have to walk the walk before you can talk the talk.

Before I left my room to wander around until our dinner began, my door was thrown open, slamming into the brick wall like a raging bull. My heart pounded into my throat; was it my father?

When I looked up, the boy who met my gaze was about my age, maybe a little older. He had dark eyes somewhere between blue and purple, and he wore an outfit similar to mine but with a purple cape that looked too warm to be comfortable in the summer weather. He smirked at me, his expression dripping vitriol. “You wouldn’t happen to be Prince Peppermint, would you?” he asked, his voice cocky.

Hoping he didn’t notice my shaking, I growled and asked in a voice that would only be deeper in a year or so, “What are you doing in my room, Sumac? I thought my servants cleaned up the trash.”

The boy chortled, his fingers pinching his nose pretentiously. “Come on, I thought we were friends? Even if I’m not, you know to treat guests better than that, Minty boy.”

Without hesitating I shrugged and said, “You’re my mother and father’s guest, sure. But you’re no guest of mine. Get out of my room and leave me alone.”

Prince Sumac flipped the hair from his eyes and said, “Well, I suppose we will be seeing more of each other soon anyway. I just figured I’d say hello. But—” In the blink of an eye he was in my face, his arm on the wall blocking me from getting away. He gave me a wolfish smile, then whispered, “I would advise not speaking to me or the other guests in that tone. It’s… uncouth.”

I didn’t want to, but all I could think to do was nod so I did. Then, with a small flourish of his cape, he walked out, his footsteps echoing across the brick hallway.

Prince Sumac and I never had much of a relationship outside of these chance encounters. Some days it felt as if he liked me, others it seemed he was out to get me. It seemed that today he was here to make my night a living hell. His ghoulish face made him fit the part of a devil’s pauper.

In fact, back then I figured he probably was some kind of ghoul.

My mother and some of the servants would tease me and tell me that ghouls would come and get me if I was rude or if I didn’t attend my studies or whatever I was refusing to do that day. Once, my mother even thought it would be funny to drape a black blanket over her and pretend she was a ghoul one night after I had gone to bed. She got a good laugh out of it, but things like that stick with you when you’re impressionable.

Wandering the halls became a scarier thought knowing he was there wandering them too, so instead, I opened up a textbook on our country’s history and studied in my room until the feast began. I say that, but my imagination kept me from focusing properly, instead flickering back and forth from the words on the page to Sumac’s ghoulish face and the impending agony of sitting near him for an extended period of time. Nevertheless, I arrived at dinner on time. All of our servants were there, working tirelessly to make sure that everyone was getting served and the visitors from Cashew were being treated with respect—and getting more than their fair share of food. Every single seat in the dining hall was filled, that long table the length of maybe three village houses packed with an assortment of foods related to the season. The beverages were fruity and bright, the steak was grilled and the vegetables were fresh, in season, and not going into my picky stomach. Everyone was smiling, happily consorting with one another despite never meeting outside of more hostile engagements or “debates.”

Even as a child, I knew that this whole dinner was one big political move on our part.

Everyone would always go on about how Cashew and Avocado would either destroy each other or have to become allies, and it seemed they were finally making a choice. Probably for the best, too; I was always under the impression that the border, being as small as it was, was such a big choke point that any skirmish we took to them and vice versa would end with too many casualties on both sides, and at the end of the day we were fighting for resources. It made more sense to just reconcile and trade, a win-win for everyone.

With all of the hustle and bustle of the dinner and important conversations, it seemed like no one noticed the single empty seat at the edge of the dining hall. My father’s seat stared at me from across the table, inviting all sorts of thoughts. As much as I didn’t want to see him, for him to be as late as he was during such an important dinner was unheard of. My eyes flicked to my mother, searching her face for some form of emotional twitch to show that she was worried. All I got from her was a satisfied nod and smile as if she were modeling for a painting. She ate sparingly, but I assumed that was to keep her lipstick from smearing more than anything else.

Then I’d turn my glance over to Prince Sumac, and he’d lock eyes with mine, giving me the same look he was giving his grilled chicken.

After some time, I heard the man speaking with my mother—I think he was a duke from Cashew or something like that—ask her, “So tell me, is the good King Merano out still?”

Her smile winning all his attention, my mother shrugged and said, “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard how he works. He’s always traveling the world over, trying to bring peace as he says. He’s an amazing man!” She giggled, taking a long drink from her glass.

“Many would say he’s gallivanting, you know,” the man chortled. I snorted in agreement and kept eating my steak.

“I’m quite aware of the rumors about my husband,” my mother said. “But I can assure you his trips are purely business, and I take them as seriously as he does.”

“I bet you do,” the man said, smirking. He reminded me of the prince for a moment and once again I averted my gaze.

My mother, ever aware of everything happening in her presence, sensed my eyes and looked toward me. Her eyes widened and she got up and came over to me immediately, fussing with the two servers nearest us who were switching out the food for guests. “Oh, goodness. Peppermint, you look absolutely terrible. Doesn’t he?” she asked the two.

“He does look more pale—er, pale, rather, my Queen.”

“Yes, he does. Might have been something he ate?”

I shook my head, now feeling paranoid about my appearance. Did I wear my worry so prominently in my expression? Perhaps. As I have learned in my long life, I have never been a gambler. My emotions are unguarded, and I let them lay where they lie.

So after much fussing and a last request for some fresh mango juice to go, I was hauled off to my room and away from the guests. Echoing somewhere above the cacophony of the celebration I heard Prince Sumac say something to the effect of, “Karma must be hitting your stomach!” whatever that meant. Kids come up with the dumbest remarks sometimes.

Still, his snicker carried up the stairs with me, too.

My blood boiled, but I was too frightened to do anything other than obey my mother and walk with my servant to my room.

Once I got there I downed the juice and shut my drapes, so I might feel less like I was being watched, and sleep took me away slowly, rocking me away from the troubles of so many unwanted people and unwarranted celebratory shenanigans. Whisked through the wonderful realm of sleep, I enjoyed the sense of company I felt with the air around me and the cold, familiar walls of my mind. It was wonderful.

Then the smoke hit my lungs.