It is only a matter of time.

I sit by the window in my chamber, watching the leaves of the persimmon tree slowly fall to the earth. A delicate rain. Time passes so slowly when you’re waiting for death. My husband, the king, has locked me in because I refused to take my medicine. At least, that’s what he insists on calling it. But I know better now.

For two days I have suffered from fits, and the king sent the imperial doctor to see me. To no avail. He prescribed a strange tonic that tasted bitter in my throat, but my fits remain uncured. In fact, I have only gotten worse, the fits longer and more violent now.

From my window, I can see the king and my lady-in-waiting walking the lawns by the fountain. The same fountain the king dedicated to me once. She is his latest favorite, one of many in his string of conquests.

As the tears blur my vision, I place my open palm on the cold glass of my window. I try to imagine the poison in my blood like a hungry snake, slaking its thirst on the fruit of my heart.