Upon walking through the library door, I ignore the piano completely and walk directly to the couch nearest to Khysmet’s chair and unceremoniously flop face down onto it.

“I take it your experiment didn’t go well?” Khysmet says to the back of my head.

Instead of answering, I just groan loudly for a few seconds. He snickers, but doesn’t ask any follow-up questions.

When I’m mentally ready, I turn my head to the side so I’m not talking directly into the couch when I ask this question.

“Hey,” I say, “you know the guy with the thin yellow stripes? The little one, not the big gangly guy. Really gravelly voice, wears a lot of rings. You know the one?”

Khysmet nods. “I know him.”

“What’s his name?”

“I believe it’s Myron. He’s one of my ministers, in the department of commerce if I’m not mistaken. Why do you ask?”

"It'll make it easier to find his room so I can put itching powder on his pillows and sheets, hide all his soap, and glue all his left shoes to the floor."

Khysmet closes his book and leans forward to better address me.

"I thought you were going for a sort of unimpeachably innocent stupidity," he says. "That would be missing the mark a bit, don't you think?"

I sigh deeply. He’s not wrong, of course. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t just go around committing acts of petty revenge on the whole castle. That’s hardly in the realm of exercising self-control.

“Khysmet,” I ask, “what do you do to keep yourself calm when people are being assholes to you?”

“Easy,” he says, leaning back and steepling his fingers with a self-satisfied smile, “I just remember that with one word I can crush them like an ant between my fingers in just about every conceivable way. It helps to remind the assholes in question of this fact as well – that generally makes them more agreeable.”

I prop myself up on my elbows to more effectively give him the most withering and disgusted look my face is capable of making.

“Hey,” he says, “you asked.”

Rather than dignifying that with a response, I just flop my face straight back down onto the couch.

“I do have a request that could potentially prove of use to you and your vapidity practice,” he says. “It’s a private dinner. Just myself and a small handful of others. They’re all from out of town, so the stakes are lower since you won’t need to worry about their sustained retribution should you slip up and cuss someone out.”

I perk up a little.

“That sounds promising,” I say. “When is it?”

“Two nights from now. I’d like to temporarily move the harp to the dining room and have you play that. You don’t have to try and start conversation yourself, but I would be surprised if no one comes to talk to you.”

“Who are your guests going to be?”

“The Marquess of Gaulkhend and his wife, daughter, and two of his sons.”

I hum thoughtfully. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to be there? This isn’t an important dinner that I’ll ruin if I lash out at someone?”

“Miss Catarina, if you ruin this dinner, I shall be overwhelmingly grateful to you,” Khysmet says. “The whole premise of this dinner is truly dreadful, and if it is cut short, I would be all the happier for it.”

This really grabs my full attention. I sit up and scootch to the edge of the couch eagerly.

“Dreadful how?”

He smirks. “Focus on your anger management first. I’ll tell you more on the day of.”

I pout dramatically and plead for even just a little hint, hoping in vain to sway him, but unsurprisingly, he doesn’t budge. Ultimately I give up and plod over to the piano, deciding to exercise my “anger management” right now by only occasionally playing intentionally discordant notes to punish him for his reticence, relishing his every wince.

******

By the time the dinner comes around, I have interrogated just about every member of the castle staff.

Most are unhelpful to me. There’s a lot of advice about taking deep breaths and counting to ten, which is not useless per se, but certainly not enough to stem the full extent of my rage – a fact that I know because it’s something I’ve already tried.

The second most common technique is just to focus on the consequences of talking back, the punishments that might be incurred, even possibly getting kicked out onto the street. This, ironically, has the opposite effect on me, spiking my anger to near-unprecedented levels on behalf of everyone on the staff, that this is something they have to face if they don’t bow down to those who consider themselves above the common folk. I need to go stand in a corner and count to ten while taking deep breaths to recover when someone gives me this advice.

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Some people offer mantras to repeat in my head, or say to picture myself in a “happy place” away from whoever is triggering my anger. But the single most beneficial suggestion comes from a completely unexpected source, given the suggestion itself.

“I just picture myself committing unspeakable acts of violence on the person that’s bothering me,” fifteen-year-old Cevine offers while sedately scrubbing some clothes in a wash bin.

It takes me a minute to process her words, and even then I’m still not sure I heard her right. Whenever I’ve spoken to Cevine – who incidentally seems a lot happier ever since Sulfeng was arrested for embezzlement and she was assigned to general cleaning and upkeep – I’ve never gotten any hint that she might have some sort of violent streak.

“Unspeakable acts of violence…” I say. “Like what?”

“Oh you know,” she says mildly, “like holding someone’s head underwater until they drown, or pulling all of their teeth out with pliers. Maybe taking a hammer to their kneecaps. Things like that.”

I close and open my mouth soundlessly for a couple minutes, totally unable to even begin to formulate a response to that. Eventually I just settle with,

“And… that works?”

“Oh yes,” she responds. “The trick is to picture it as clearly as possible, with as many details as you can, especially the different sensations. The warm, tacky feeling of blood, the weight of the weapon in your hand, the gurgling choking sounds and the strain of your muscles as you try to keep someone from getting away. Think about the coppery smell in the air… maybe even the taste of it.”

“The taste of it?” I choke out. “What is it in your murder fantasies that you’re tasting?”

“A couple times I pictured tearing Sulfeng’s throat out with my teeth,” she says with a self-satisfied smile.

I look at her with new eyes. Mentally, I make a note to never, ever mess with Cevine. Also possibly to never underestimate anyone ever again, because if Cevine is able to conceal a vicious streak so completely, literally anyone could.

“Where are you getting these ideas?” I ask her.

“I read a lot of mystery and thriller novels,” she says with a shrug. “Don’t knock it till you try it. I’m telling you, it really helps.”

It’s the most unique suggestion anyone offers me, bar none, and the only one that I’ve literally never even thought to try. I internally vow to apply it at dinner that night.

As for dinner that night, Khysmet waits until only a few hours beforehand to finally reward my patience. I don’t know what I expected when he referred to the premise as “dreadful”, but it’s much funnier than I could have hoped.

“You may have noticed,” he starts, “that I do not currently have a spouse, nor any sort of progeny set to inherit the throne should I find myself prematurely deceased.”

“I had noticed that, yes,” I say, my interest piqued.

“You might also be aware,” he continues, “that acquiring a spouse, then subsequently an heir or two, is in fact something that is expected of most nobility, a subset of the population among which I count myself. And perhaps you also know that arranging marriages can be a way for leaders of different administrative regions to curry political favor and secure monetary and material support for themselves and their people.”

I nod eagerly. “Yes, I am aware of all that.”

“Then it will not surprise you to learn that I frequently find myself prevailed upon to meet with the daughters of various nobles and entertain the notion of taking one of them as a wife.”

A toothy grin splits my face.

“That’s what this is about?” I ask. “You really call the prospect of talking to a woman who’s interested in you ‘dreadful’?”

He heaves an exasperated sigh.

“It’s not that simple. For one thing, most of them aren’t interested in me – they just want the title of Queen. And the whole premise reduces all of them to nothing more than pawns for their parents to push around, which is inherently sickening to me.”

I tilt my head in thought. Honestly, that sentiment increases my estimation of him, that he doesn’t want to be party to the use of women as material property to be exchanged. I didn’t have him pegged as a romantic type either.

“That makes sense,” I say, “but you shouldn’t just automatically reject these women before you even meet them. You never know when you might encounter someone you actually like, even in a situation that stacks the odds against actual human connection.”

He sighs again, displaying a level of wretchedness and self-pity I would not have thought him capable of before now.

“The kind of woman I’m looking for would never even agree to participate in this whole charade. And I can't very well go around asking to meet with women who have expressly declared they don't want to marry me, can I?" he laments, shaking his head miserably. "I may yet die a bachelor.”

I’m trying very hard not to laugh. Instead, I redirect to a different question.

“Who would become king then?” I ask.

“The throne would go to my brother, which I wouldn’t have a single problem with. He’s a very reasonable and intelligent man whom I respect deeply, and he would make an excellent king. He’s got two very young heirs already, and a third on the way. If I didn’t know it would go to him and his, I might feel a bit more pressure to procreate. As it is, I’m holding on to the hope of marrying for love.”

I fail to repress a snicker at the wistful tone in his voice. He glares at me, but there’s no heat behind it. I kind of like this sappy romantic side to him. It’s unexpected and oddly endearing.

“So why do you want me here playing the harp?” I ask. “Not just to create a romantic mood, I take it?”

“Absolutely not,” he says emphatically. “I want you here playing on the harp so that I have something to listen to besides cloying small talk. Also, as I mentioned earlier, I’m holding out hope that you might lash out at one of these people, perhaps even ending the night early should you say something truly cutting.”

I smirk. “I’m still planning on trying to keep it under wraps, but you may end up getting your wish despite my best attempts.”

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, smiling as though lost in a pleasant reverie.

“If you do let your self-control slip,” he says, “please, make it count.”