The Mad Princess and the Dying Prince novel Chapter 19

The king narrowed his eyes, studying Seraphina.

For years, he had made a habit of thwarting Jareth at every turn. Whatever Jareth desired, the king denied; whatever he loathed, the king forced upon him. But seeing Lord Marquis's daughter so desperate to marry Jareth sparked a flicker of suspicion.

Lord Marquis had always been unswervingly loyal to the throne.

Logically, Seraphina should have been promised to the crown prince or another of the king's sons to bind their families closer together.

Yet Lord Marquis tacitly approved of his daughter begging for Jareth's hand? What did the Prime Minister stand to gain?

Was it possible that playing the benevolent older brother for so many years had actually convinced Lord Marquis that he and Jareth shared a deep familial bond?

Seraphina was, after all, renowned as a brilliant scholar throughout the Royal Capital.

"If you are too ashamed to show your face, you may lock yourself in your house forever," Jareth stated, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

Gasps filled the room.

It was a brutally callous response.

Seraphina was so stunned she forgot to weep.

"Your Highness?"

The queen mother could not hold her tongue. "Which lady do you intend to marry, Jareth? Is it some tavern wench or passing acquaintance you met on your travels?"

With a single sentence, she attempted to brand his chosen bride as a woman of loose morals.

What proper noblewoman would be traveling the countryside as a man's companion?

"Your Majesty, the old king is coughing up blood!"

A frantic shout echoed from the corridor, draining the color from everyone's faces.

Simultaneously, thick, bruised clouds rolled across the sky, plunging the world into a sudden, oppressive gloom. The air grew heavy with the promise of a violent storm.

The sudden shift in the weather sent a shiver of dread through the king.

Jareth was already sprinting out the door.

The old king lay against the pillows, his hair stark white, his face hollowed and mapped with liver spots. His breath was nothing more than a ragged thread.

Fresh bloodstains bloomed across the heavy velvet blankets.

"Father!"

Jareth dropped to a knee beside the bed and grasped the frail hand. He recoiled internally at the touch—it was as cold as a corpse.

His quest for a cure had taken him far beyond the realm's borders, preventing royal missives from reaching him in time. By the time he received the final letter and rushed back, he had no idea the illness had advanced to this horrifying stage.

Wiping his eyes, Steward Fulton whispered, "Your Highness, he has been holding on just to see you..."

He had more to say, but seeing the king and queen mother flood into the chamber, he swallowed his words.

"How is he? Where are the court physicians?"

The king bellowed his demands the moment he entered. Scanning the room, he noted the weeping servants dropping to their knees and the metallic tang of blood hanging in the air. A surge of exhilaration twisted in his gut.