“Anything else?” I bite out, peeling my nails from the flesh of my palms.
Rhordyn’s nostrils flare. Only delicately, but I notice.
“I’ve instructed the tailor to fashion you a ...” he clears his throat, “agown.”
I stare at him, wide eyed.
Baze chuckles low, and I find myself wishing this table were decorated with those knives and forks like I’ve seen in picture books—utensils Rhordyn banned from the castle. Apparently the sound of them scraping across the dishware left me curled beneath the table with blood gushing from my nose when I was young, but they’d be mighty handy to stab these two assholes for their obvious amusement at my expense.
“His assistant will be ready to take your measurements and shape the pattern at midday.”
Lovely. My gown fitting will double as a torture session.
“Dolcie always pricks me. Can’t Hovard do it?” He’s never once drawn blood while making sure my pants were cut just the right way. He has gentle hands. But Dolcie ...
I’m certain she has it in for me.
“Dolciewill be expecting you in the tailors’ wing at noon.”
I open my mouth to speak, but with a simple cant of his head that looks almost feline, the words get caught behind my lips.
Releasing a sharp breath, I look to the closed doors, feet bouncing under the table.
I need to get the hell out of this room.
“That it?” I ask, and I know he nods by the way the tension between us snaps, like someone took a blade and severed the connection.
I swipe my bag off the ground and stand, then beeline to find some air to draw into my fossilized lungs, plucking an apple from Baze’s plate as I stalk past.
“Hey!” he blurts.
“Hey, yourself,” I mutter, the heavy whip of my hair swaying with every frustrated flick of my hips.
“I thought you hated apples?”
Two stoic servants pull the doors open, dousing me in a spill of sunlight, and I toss a smirk at Baze from over my shoulder.
“Kai doesn’t,” I say with a wink, hearing Rhordyn grunt as I exit the room.
You can always tell what time of the day it is by the varying smells in the kitchen.
Midday belongs to the hearty aroma of slow-roasted game. Evening’s filled with fire-charred root vegetables and rich botanical seasonings. At night, the air is either pinched with the acidity of pickling liquids or sweetened by sugared berries being reduced into a jelly preserve. And in the mornings, like right now, there’s the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread ...
My favorite time of day.
Tentatively, I edge into the bustling kitchen that’s pregnant with cheery chatter. Strangers from forest communities and tribes often stop by to deliver fruit, vegetables, and game, and the years have taught me to proceed with caution.
Always.
It saves me from the unfamiliar stares and whispers that were never quiet enough.
Lex, the sous chef, is up to her elbows in dough, wrestling it into submission. She offers a friendly smile that lights up her sea-green eyes. “All clear.”
I smile back.
Everyoneelseseems to understand that I don’t want to step a single foot outside my safe, ordinary existence.
My bubble of protection.
