The cup gives off the heady perfume of cold nights and blotted stars. She takes it gladly, raises it toward her brother with a smile.

 

“A toast,” he says from across the table. “To our father.” Wine spills from the brimming cup and trickles over his knuckles.

 

“To our father,” she repeats. “God of Death.”

 

Brother and sister tip back their heads. A fine wine, rich and velvety, underscored by the bitter taste of monkshood. It stains her lips red. She smears it across her cheek and brings a faint smudge of colour to her otherwise alabaster skin. The alcohol leaves behind a faint prickle in the throat; one that promises darkness.

 

There is something delicious about that promise.

 

“How do you like it?” asks her brother. He watches her over the array of golden platters bearing twisted roots, wrinkled mushrooms, and fresh berries - all the fruits of their beloved labours for the past thousand years. Nettles and white hemlock, bright red fly agaric and pale oleander. There is not a poison in all the worlds that did not first cross their table.

 

His sister takes her time in replying. She draws her mind away from their desolate chamber and looks within herself, listening not to the wind rushing in through the hole in the roof but to her own organs. Nothing. The promise was empty.

 

“The flavour suits, but the effect is slow,” she says, “or weak.” She pours herself another glass, and this time the wine has a kick.

 

The brother shifts in his seat. He does not like the suggestion that his work is weak. It rankles him. “Slow,” he says. “I thought we might take our time tonight.” He looks down at the bowl of berries she has placed amongst the roots and fungi. Their skin is the deep, intoxicating red of mortal blood. His own blood, and that of his sister, runs gold.

 

“Will you break your fast with me?” she asks, following his gaze to the bowl. She squeezes a berry between her thumb and forefinger until the skin splits, revealing the indigo flesh within. Dark juice runs down her palm.

 

“As always.” He plucks a berry from the bowl with long fingers and places it on his tongue, breaks the skin between his teeth.

 

“Subtle,” he says. Then he chokes. “The bite, not so.” It is like a glowing coal in the pit of his stomach.

 

She smiles, blood pouring over her lips as her insides begin to burn. “I went for speed this time,” she starts to say, but already her tongue is like lead in her mouth. There is a ringing in her ears. Gold trickles down either side of her neck. The wine coating her throat turns to acid.

 

Across the table, she sees her brother’s lips move. He sinks in his chair, head rolling to the side and cup falling from his grasp. If the glass shatters on the cracked flagstones, neither hears it, for the blood in their ears has grown thick.

 

She feels her strength ebb away, rests her brow upon the table with just enough forethought to push aside the bowl. It rocks on the table, overbalances. Red berries roll among the roots and burst upon the floor.

 

A final breath moistens the table beneath her mouth.

 

There the pair remain. An age passes in the world beyond their ruined hall. Kings rise and fall, the nights grow colder. Another portion of the roof collapses and allows the stars to peek in.

 

Their father visits. Once. He stays long enough to note his children are once again dead at their own feast, still caught up in their endless game, and then he departs again in search of souls without so much as disturbing the crisp leaves gathering at their feet.

 

She wakes first. A new breath passes without warning through her lips. By the time she has regained enough strength to lift her head, her mind is vibrant with new thoughts, new ideas. This time the berries are white as ripe mistletoe. A sprig rests in her palm, and she drops it into a new glass bowl as her brother comes around. His hand clutches a fresh bottle of his mind’s wine. A new concoction to rival their last feast.

 

He shakes off the heavy mantle of death and pours two new glasses, offers one to her. This time the fragrance is earthy with a hint of spice. She takes it gladly.

 

“A toast,” he says, “to our father.”

​

​Part Two

The guise of life returns to the ruined hall and so the children of Death wake with new creations in their twisted minds. The brother conjures a new bottle of dark glass and darker wine. The sister rouses herself from the grave and finds neither root nor berry clutched in her cold hand but something with a life of its own. Its silky skin is just as cool as hers. It coils its long, thin body about her wrist until she cannot tell which of them is holding the other.

 

Her brother pours his wine as always and offers her the gilded cup. This time its perfume speaks of citrus and clove. Whatever poison the cup holds is well disguised, and she smiles at her brother’s creativity. There was a time when he favoured boldness – loud poisons that were too bitter for her tastes. She is relieved his focus has turned to the subtler arts.

 

“A toast to our father,” he intones. He lifts his cup aloft and waits for her to join him.

 

She raises her cup to meet his. A soft chime fills the air as their glasses touch. “To our father, God of Death,” she says.

 

He lifts the wine to his lips but does not drink. His golden eyes scan the table between them. All the devilish plants in all the known worlds cover its polished surface, and yet he knows at once that nothing has been added since their last feast. The realisation feels unsettling – a misstep in their everlasting dance.

 

“Are we not to break our fast this night?”

 

His sister smiles and takes a sip of her wine. “I had a new idea. One I believe you will find just as enjoyable as any fare I have put before you at feasts past.”

 

That is all the reassurance he needs. He takes a long draft of wine and sets down his cup, his interest piqued. The rules of their unspoken game have changed, and he is eager to learn them anew.

 

His sister downs her own glass, returns it to the table, and rests her hands in her lap. The beastling uncoils itself from her wrist. It slips silently down the folds of her gown and slithers across the broken flagstones beneath the table, forked tongue tasting the air.

 

“So, what is this new idea of yours?” asks the brother. The interest is bright in his eyes. “I should warn you my wine is not slow this time.”

 

She plucks a gnarled root from the cluster on the table and holds it up to the light. One of her earlier creations. So base, so lacking in imagination. She is an artist now. “I thought tonight we might be the feast.”

 

Confusion flits across his pale features. The beginnings of a frown crease his brow. His expression changes to one of surprise and she knows her beastling has found its mark. Beneath the table, the creature draws its fangs from the flesh of the brother’s ankle and curls up the leg of his chair and into his lap. He lifts it back onto the table, marvelling at the way its black scales drink up the candlelight.

 

The pain of its bite is clear from the tightening muscles in his neck, the sweat that beads on his brow, and the veins sticking out of his temples. Still, he manages to speak.

 

“Beautiful,” he groans. Gold trickles from his ears. “What is it?”

 

Her throat is burning from the wine. “I like…snake. Yes, snake,” she whispers. The brother clutches his chest and then grows still, lips parted in an expression that is both shock and delight. The sister watches the snake winding its way across the table. Her eyes are heavy with the death the wine is bringing. Just as she slips into oblivion, she feels the venomous bite of her own creation.