Step 1c: ... and identify relevant stakeholders

"This is demeaning."

"Quit whining." Ivelle didn't like their outfits any more than Ash did. The fabric was scratchy, and the colors were too loud for her taste. But she couldn't help feeling a tingle of glee as she tweaked the crow-sized jester's hat on top of Ash's head. "You look adorable. Oh my God. There are even tiny bells–"

"STAAHHHHPPP!" Ash's wings rose to cover his face in an unmistakable gesture of shame. "My social life is ruined! I'll never be able to show my face in front of the lady crows again!"

Barely a day had gone by since Lady Lillian had visited their shop, but it felt like much longer. The hours after Lillian's arrival had passed in a flurry of packing, boarding up the shop (not that there was anything of value for thieves to steal), and drinking to their good fortune. Now, they sat in a lavish coach, trundling along toward the palace, the grime of the Lower District growing farther behind them with each clip of the horse's hooves.

"Just think about the mansion we're gonna have someday." Ivelle leaned back in the carriage seat, resting her head on her arms with a happy sigh. In a short hour, they would be at the palace, where they would be staying for the weeks leading up to the wedding between Lady Lillian and the Prince of Estrella. "We'll be able to afford a pool. A pool and a rooftop deck! And the best part of it is, I get to design and build it all with my own hands."

"Meh," Ash grumped, not at all mollified. He yawned. "Maybe we'll get a mansion and maybe you can build a pool. If Lady Lillian doesn't bail after the free trial."

"She won't. No one in their right mind could possibly resist the sheer creative genius of our twelve-step plan."

At this, Ash let out his loudest snort yet. "Ya-huh," he said. "She'd better not find out you came up with that plan in five minutes after half a dozen bottles of wine."

"It was only one bottle of wine, thank-you-very-much! And those five minutes of creativity were five of the most inspired and brilliant minutes of my life!" Ivelle crossed her arms. "Plus, the important thing isn't the steps themselves. It's all in the execution."

She'd given the mechanics of poisoning Prince Eirifold a lot of thought last night. Definitely more thought than she'd given the gimmicky 12-step plan she'd scribbled drunkenly onto a napkin and shoved somewhere down in the recesses of her purse. Poisoning a prince was not for the faint-of-heart. No doubt Eirifold had wine tasters and food tasters and probably even suit-tasters (to ensure his clothes weren't smeared with any skin-permeating, lethal creams) at his disposal.

Fortunately for Ivelle, one of the perks of having a Certifiably!Evil mum was that you learned to think outside the box. She was quite certain they could pull this off. Or, worst case scenario, cut and run once Lillian gave them the first 50% of their earnings.

She wondered what her mum would say if she could see her now. Ivelle had pondered this often over the years, especially over the last few months when she'd started sending out fliers advertising her poisoning prowess. What would her mum think of Ivelle's current scheme? Would she be a tiny bit proud of her daughter–if not for any real accomplishments (yet), then at the very least for having the gumption to try something new?

Naaaaah.

Her mum had never been one for the warm fuzzies. Being proud of Ivelle for not giving up was as anathema to Ascoria as giving her daughter a participation trophy for getting fourth place in a spelling bee. Results were the only thing that mattered. Heavy, metallic results, with a molar mass of 196.96657 and the chemical symbol Au.

"We don't wait for good fortune to fall into our lap; we take fortune into our own hands." It was her mum's favorite catchphrase, second only to: "Every minute you spend boohooing about how sad your life is, a tax collector siphons another gold piece into the king's treasury and out of reach!"

Sometimes Ivelle couldn't believe her mum was dead. Her mum was the last person Ivelle had ever thought capable of dying. If she hadn't seen the arrow strike her chest -- if she hadn't watched her mum's cold, dead corpse being lowered into the ground by Saffron's most odious henchmen -- Ivelle would have insisted her death was fake news.

"We're here!" Ash crowed.

Ivelle shook herself. Now was no time to be dwelling on the past. After all, they had a lady to meet and a prince to poison! She stared out the carriage window, drinking in her first view of the palace. It loomed in front of them, huge and polished and imposing.

"Game time!" Ivelle rubbed her hands together. "Remember, once we're inside the palace you have to be a good crow and only talk when other people aren't around. You saw how Lillian nearly swooned with terror when you opened your beak yesterday. This pack of nobles with all those pretentious scepters up their asses are sure to have conniptions if they hear you."

She hopped down from the carriage. Doors loomed ahead. Enormous, polished doors with no sign of a knocker.

"Er..."

The coachman, a brown-haired, blue-eyed fellow with bronze skin, hopped down from the front of the coach, handing off the reins of the horses to a lass who Ivelle could only assume worked in the stables. "I will lead you," he said, to Ivelle's great relief. "Right this way."

They strode toward the doors, past a tall metal gate, beyond which lay a lush, tree-filled garden. As Ivelle peered into the greenery, a low growl made her jump.

"Don't worry," said the coachman. "Those are just the palace tigers. The king placed tiger enclosures in a ring around the palace, to keep unwanted reporters from sniffing about the palace grounds. They won't hurt you, provided you don't cross their territory."

One of the tigers glared at Ash through the bars. A trickle of saliva oozed down its jaw.

Ash gulped.

The coachman strode to the side of the massive double doors and pulled a rope. A clanging noise echoed across the courtyard.

Slowly, the massive double doors swung inward.

The coachman beckoned them to follow him. He led them up a series of ornate stairs and down a hallway. Then he led them down another series of stairs and through another hallway. Ivelle was just starting to wonder how many years would pass before they finally reached their destination, when a slap echoed through the hallways, followed by a series of muffled thuds, and a cry of pain.

The coachman flinched. He began to run in the direction of the noise. Not wanting to be abandoned in the maze of corridors, Ivelle hurried after him.

As they rounded the corner, an old man came into view. He was crumpled at the base of a staircase, clutching his scalp and moaning.

Ivelle gaped at him, feeling vaguely at a loss. Fortunately for the old man, Lady Lillian rushed onto the scene at that moment.

"Oh my goodness!" she gasped, laying a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

The old man did not look all right. A crimson trickle oozed out from beneath his hand, and he was whimpering alarmingly.

Lillian looked up the staircase. Ivelle followed her gaze. A brown-skinned man wearing crimson spectacles and the most eclectic gold suit Ivelle had ever seen frowned down at them from the top of the stairs. He had sharp cheekbones (an instant red flag!), his mouth was a hard line (also a red flag!), and his face bore an unreadable expression (+/- red flag depending on the circumstances).

"Eirifold." Lillian's voice quivered. "What happened here? Eirifold... did... did you do this?"

Eirifold?

Ivelle's eyes swiveled back to the man on the stairs.

This wackadoodle is Prince Eirifold of Estrella?

"Eirifold, answer me!" Lillian's voice trembled; she sounded close to tears. "Please, someone, get a bowl of water and some salve for the poor butler!"

The coachman hurried off, no doubt to find the palace doctor. Others were starting to gather at the base of the stairs, although they seemed reluctant to get too close.

The man at the top of the stairs – who was clearly Prince Eirifold – laughed. Ivelle was well-versed in maniacal laughter, having grown up in a household of villains, and his laugh definitely qualified as unhinged. Maybe even diabolical. He stalked down the steps with slow, deliberate strides.

But before he could reach the bottom, he was intercepted by another woman who had just appeared on the scene.

This newcomer had red hair and dark skin and a mouth that seemed accustomed to giving commands. "Not one step closer!" she snapped.

Eirifold halted mid-stride and cocked his head to the side. "What's the matter, sister? Afraid I'll actually hurt the man you sent to frame me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Eirifold's eyes narrowed. At least, Ivelle imagined them narrowing. It was hard to see anything beneath his tasteless, gaudy glasses. "Really? I rather think you do."

Ash chose that unfortunate moment to sneeze.

Prince Eirifold spun on his heel – then blinked with confusion as he spotted Ivelle and Ash.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed. He bounded down the remainder of the steps, stumbled, and then righted himself. "It's not every day you see a crow in a tiny hat! How adorable. Is he for sale?"

The change in his mood was unnerving. Beside Ivelle, Ash's claws clenched and unclenched on her shoulder.

Eirifold turned back to the redhead, seemingly unaware how close he'd come to getting his eyes gouged out by an enraged corvid. "Who are these people? Friends of yours? More actors you've summoned to make my life hell?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said the red-haired woman stiffly. "Eirifold, you're not in your right mind."

"Oh, I think I very much am. And you know I am. And I know you know... you know what? Never mind." The prince rolled his eyes. "I've already told you, the second that awful crown touches my head, I'm passing on the scepter, and you're going to be queen, and it's going to be the happiest day of both of our respective lives. Why must you keep tormenting me?"

"He's a total loony," Ash whispered.

"... I know, Ash. I'm literally watching the same thing you are right now," Ivelle hissed back.

Eirifold spun toward them again.

They both jumped. The bells on Ash's tiny hat jingled.

"I hear you whispering over there!" Eirifold swayed toward Ivelle across the flagstones and jabbed an unsteady finger at her chest. "I suppose you must be the new jester. Or maybe you're just pretending to be a jester, but you'll perform nonetheless. I hope you're less prone to jumping off balconies than the last jester was! What's your specialty? Jokes? Cartwheels?"

"Magic," said Ivelle stiffly.

"Sounds kind of boring, but perhaps you'll surprise me." His eyes drifted from Ivelle to Ash, who bristled, then back to Ivelle again. "I expect a rousing performance tonight!"

"T-tonight?"

"Of course! Do you think we let jesters stay at the palace for free?" He laughed. "If I don't see you perform tonight, how am I to know if I need to sack you before the wedding, when the whole kingdom will gather to celebrate my new bride?" He chuckled again and waved a dismissive hand at the redhead, who stood stone-faced behind him. "Well, sister. I mustn't keep you from tending your injured man. Carry on!"

He strode away, weaving as he walked.

The second he was gone, the hall erupted into a flurry of action. Maids hurried forward to clean up the blood that had pooled at the base of the stairs. A doctor hurried over to the old man, applied a compress to his forehead, and gently led him away.

The woman with red hair glanced at Lillian and shook her head. "He just gets worse and worse each day. How could he push poor Wilfred down the steps like that?"

"I don't know," said Lillian. She seemed to have collected herself, and her thin frame had stopped trembling. "I hope Wilfred is all right. Thank you for intervening, Mariel."

Mariel.

As in, Princess Mariel of Estrella?

Suddenly it all made sense. Princess Mariel was the king's only daughter. Probably his only biological child, if Lillian's story was true. If Estrella had allowed women to inherit the throne, Mariel would've been a shoo-in for queen. But Estrella had some backward laws, so instead, Mariel was relegated to the role of bargaining chip for her family, while Prince Eirifold got all the power.

Typical. Ivelle tried, and failed, to suppress a snort.

The noise must have been louder than she thought. Lillian looked past Princess Mariel, toward where Ivelle stood, and beckoned her forward. "You must be the new jester. I'm sorry you had to witness something like that on your first day in the palace."

It didn't take a PhD in Evil to figure out Lillian was pretending not to know them in front of Mariel. Ivelle schooled her face into a concerned look, the kind of look that might be expected of a jester who has just witnessed a douchebag prince push an innocent butler down the stairs. "It's okay."

"I apologize for my brother." Princess Mariel pursed her lips in a disapproving line, somehow managing to look both professional and businesslike. "You don't have to perform tonight, given the fright you just had. What is your name?"

"Perry," Ivelle said. It was the first thing that came to her mind. "Short for... um... Periwinkle. And my crow is named... Soot."

"Perry and Soot." Mariel's cool eyes swept across them searchingly. "No doubt the two of you need time to get settled. I will deal with Eirifeld, but I cannot forestall his impatience forever. Will you be available to perform for him tomorrow?"

Shit, Ivelle thought. She shot a panicked look at Ash. "I..."

"Let me talk to Eirifold," Lillian cut in. "It is untoward of him to demand a private audience with a female jester. As his bride-to-be, I may have more luck reminding him of that fact." She laid a gentle hand on Ivelle's shoulder. "In the meantime, I will help them find their rooms.

"So there you have it," said Lillian, once they were out of earshot of the others. "What do you think of my future husband?"

"He's a..." Ivelle bit he tongue. The first word that had come to her mind was too filthy to utter in front of a court lady. "Well, he's..."

"Incredibly poisonable," Ash supplied.

Lillian's lips twitched. "I'm glad you agree." She strode to one of the doors. "Normally, jesters stay in the lower halls of the palace, which are a bit grimy, but since you've just had such a fright, and in payment for your silence about the prince's... odder ways, I will tell Princess Mariael that you'll be staying in my wing of the palace with my private servants. I advise you to take a night to get rested, and tomorrow we can talk through more... important matters."

Ivelle nodded, but her attention was distracted by a man tidying vases a few doors down. She couldn't help but do a double take as she took in his features. He was the spitting image of the butler she'd seen at the base of the stairs earlier, whimpering and clutching his head.

Except his forehead wasn't dripping with blood now.

In fact, he looked just fine.

"Ivelle?"

Ivelle jumped and glanced at Lillian, who watched her with gentle concern.

"This is Alfred. The reason you might look confused is that his twin brother was the man who just got injured. Alfred, I'm so sorry, but Wilfred just took a tumble down the steps and is now with the palace doctor. You may want to go check that he's okay."

"Ah!" Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh dear. I'll head there straight away. Thank you, milady."

"You'll get to know the servants soon enough," Lillian said serenely. "There's a surprising number of twins who work in the palace, which sometimes confuses people. Here we are."

She beckoned.

"Dinner will be brought to your room, but feel free to roam the palace tonight as you get settled in. We'll start first thing tomorrow." She beamed. "I can't wait to learn your method!"

--

What do you think of Prince Eirifold? Is he as unhinged as Lillian's descriptions led you to believe? And what do you think of Lillian and Princess Mariel?

Word count: 5,852