I don’t know why, I just couldn’t help myself. He was so, so handsome, and how could I deny being queen?

So yes, I did poison him. He didn’t die. He was simply very, very enamored with me. In love to the point of obsession.

I’d wake up to bathtubs filled with jewels, new gowns every day, and stables dedicated to me.

Some would call me a witch. I call myself, well, a witch, but one that is clever, and cunning.

“You’ll need to come with us.” The guards said. “Who, me?” I asked, sweetly. Innocently. Batting my eyelashes.

“Yes,” they said, grabbing my wrists. “Unhand me!” I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I suppose this is what I get. And there’s no chance I’ll be ridding myself of my dignity.

And of course, it’s not like this is my end. They led me to the courtyard, where my husband stands by the guillotine. “Hello darling. Are you sure this was all necessary?”

He looked down at me with disgust. “Do not speak to me as if you love me.” I smirked, then pouted my lips. “Aw, is someone sad they weren’t truly in love?” He ignored me, and the guards forced my neck into the guillotine.

“This woman, Twyla Strella is being executed for crimes against the crown! Any last words.”

He seethed through is teeth. It’s clear he no longer wants to hear the voice of the woman who manipulated him for months and months.

“Long live the queen!” I yell, laughing and laughing. Almost maniacally. But not quite, after all, I’m still a lady.

And I laugh right up until the guards cut the rope and allowed the knife to plummet into my neck. And the. My head falls down into a basket. It’s not even a refined basket, made of pearl. It’s made of straw. How disappointing.

Oh well. All magic has a price. I suppose this one cost me my head, but no matter. I’ll be back.

(For more stories about Twyla, read Not By A Mile, which is also by me!)