I looked soft, but my heart was black.
I had a bellyful of tricks.
When my cousin snatched my bird’s-nest soup, I handed it over with a smile—and two spoonfuls of laxative stirred in.
She got my soup.
She also got all the attention at dinner, in a cloud of her own stench.
When my younger sister demanded my courtyard, I hesitated for just one night, buried ten nests of snake eggs, and graciously gave it up.
She paid for her stay.
The snakebites kept her in bed for over six months.
Even when my younger brother said I wasn’t worthy of a fine match with a rich wastrel, I meekly agreed.
Then I knocked him out with a stick and delivered him to the wastrel’s bed.
He was the legitimate son, born to privilege.
Naturally, a grand marriage should go to him.
Being sweet, sensible, and softhearted had made my life remarkably smooth.
Until a duke’s only son proposed to me to hide the disgrace of getting a woman pregnant before marriage.
Everyone knew the marriage was a pit of fire.
I alone had my heart set on claiming the greatest prize in the duke’s household.
