Page 15 of Prince of the Sun

I smile. This one I can answer honestly. “Always.”

“Wonderful.” She sighs. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, Quinn.I always knew you were too smart to stay in our small town forever, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

My heart squeezes. “I miss you, too, Mom.”

“And you’re eating?”

“Yes, Mom,” I say, sighing. “I’m eating. I promise. You know I haven’t been in active recovery in years.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I also know that old coping mechanisms can flare up in times of stress and uncertainty. Remember senior year, the day college admissions results were being released, when you didn’t eat all day and got so dizzy that I had to pick you up from school early?”

Oh, I remember. Of course I do. I had been stable for years by then, eating on a meal plan that kept me accountable and consistent. But that Thursday in March, I was due to hear back from Harvard, Yale, and the seven other backup schools to which I’d applied. All my backup schools had sizable elvish enrollment, but they didn’t have any of the elvish princes. I’d already received rejections from both Peking and Oxford, so Harvard and Yale were my only hopes.

All week leading up to the admissions being released, I felt sick to my stomach. By Wednesday night, it had gotten so bad that I couldn’t touch my dinner. Or my breakfast the next day. Or lunch in the cafeteria. By eighth period, I felt like I was going to pass out. I went to the nurse, who called my mom. I was back home, tucked in on the couch with a high-calorie protein shake before ninth period even started.

For a moment, I let my gaze drift over to the elvish women seated a stone’s throw from my table. To one of the many reasons I once set such unhealthy standards for my own body in the first place.

“I’m eating,” I say honestly, looking away. “I promise.”

“Good. And I trust you’re still keeping your distance from…” Her voice lowers. “Them?”

There it is. The knife in the chest. The real reason I don’t pick up my mother’s calls: because every time I do, I have to tell a bald-faced lie to the person I love most in this world. The only family I have left.

“Yep,” I say, staring at the article on Elaërion still open on my computer screen. “I keep my nose as far out of fromtheirbusiness as humanly possible.”

“Good. Excellent. I know things are different there, Quinn. That humans and elves are far more integrated than they are back here. But that doesn’t change the truth: the elves cannot be trusted. Not now. Not ever.” Her voice shrinks. “I can’t lose you, too.”

I swallow. Daerios’s face flashes through my head. The surprise in his eyes when I agreed to be his date.

“I know, Mom,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about me. I promise.”

The words are acid on my tongue.

I ’m at lunch with Cara the next day when it happens.

We’re in Quincy’s dining hall. Quincy House is a modernist nightmare, designed in the seventies by someone who thought a stack of concrete cubes would fit in well amongst Harvard’s iconic red brick buildings. Its dining hall has an open, two-level floor plan, with floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the space. Most of the long maple wood tables sit on the bottom floor, but a select few are placed up on a stage-like structure at the back. It’s an unspoken rule that humans eat on the bottom floor, while the elves take the stage.

On the very back wall, leering over the stage, is a massive work of abstract art: a concrete slab covered in turquoise and blue splotches, lines scribbled chaotically throughout. The result is a terrifying, lopsided face with only one eyeball.

Cara and I, privately, call it the Elf Eater.

Every day, Cara and I have lunch at one of the tables lining the windows. We like to watch students mill about the courtyard and comment on who we think is sleeping with whom.

It’s shepherd’s pie day at lunch. Cara is eating her pie with aside of steamed vegetables, but my plate looks a little different.

It’s been many years since I was in active eating disorder recovery, but I still have some strange habits left over from my brush with anorexia. I won’t eat food that has a certain texture, like yogurt or mashed potatoes. I have a weird penchant for smothering vegetables in soy sauce or Sriracha, which was one way I learned how to make low-calorie foods taste a bit better without making them “fatty.” Though I’m no longer afraid of oils or starches—there are two pieces of crispy buttered bread on my plate as we speak—my lunch tray still looks a bit odder than that of the average student.

It’s part of why I only eat meals with Cara. She’s used to my strange preferences. I told her early on about having been in recovery, and she’s never asked questions since.

I spear a broccoli floret and lift it toward my lips. I’m just about to take a bite when I see them.

Daerios and Berendir. Again dressed in Imperial Grey. Trays in hand, hair flowing in the nonexistent breeze. Laughing about some private joke.

The fork crashes into my upper lip.

“Shit,” I mutter, ducking my head. What are they doing here? From what I know, their blocking group lives in Dunster, one of the nicest houses on campus. They have no reason to be here.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks Cara.