Page 71 of Carousel

The sound of a chair screeching back gets my attention. Cosmer, up ahead, is on his feet.

“Dezeeves,” he calls. “This is an insult, to their culture. To the culture of many in this room.” He sounds breathless. “It should be removed from the room at once...”

“Cosmer. Please be seated,” Dezeeves says. He hasn’t even turned. “Or I will have you removed from the room.”

My heart seems to lunge. I’m reminded this is just as dangerous a situation for Cosmer as it is for us.

Ephraine is on his feet now, too, removing his jacket. Stretching his neck. Preparing to fight? Only in his shirt now, I can see how honed his square, hard body is.

Movement.

Drake’s fingers are inching along the base of the silver plate, towards the knife.

In a gesture of trust, Dezeeves had said.

And I realise, then, what a terrible idea it would be to try to fight.

Don’t take it, I silently will him.

They could hurt us.

They could hurt Cosmer.

Drake’s fingers go to wrap around the knife, but, as if he’d heard my thoughts, they stop dead in the air.

I exhale.

Thank the Sisters. He’s changed his mind.

He looks up.

I shake my head at him, once, tightly.

Just wait there. Don’t say anything, I will him with my eyes.

His own eyes widen. His mouth parts.

But he doesn’t speak.

I turn my back on him.

Choosing my next words carefully, I take a breath, and speak for the both of us.

“Dezeeves,” I say loudly, calmer than I feel. “We appreciate the hospitality you have shown us. We have had an… enjoyable evening. But I’m afraid we cannot eat this. I know you must not have realised, but the swan is considered sacred in our country – a messenger for the Sisters, who are our gods, and rule the stars, which are our fates. The Queen keeps many, in the dome.”

I’m aware Cosmer is still on his feet. But my gaze remains fixed on Dezeeves. I don’t even blink. It might be seen as weakness.

“I really am sorry,” I conclude, not wavering.

Everyone seems motionless. The only thing I can hear is the clock, still ticking.

But then harsh noise fills the air.

Dezeeves is… laughing.

It seems to go on for a long time. Rings out in the otherwise quiet room like a bell. Each peal of it sounds rough and phlegmy. Some of the officers join in.

“Of course!” he booms, his laughs subsiding. “I should have considered that this particular meal might have been inappropriate.” He beams wide as the room. “I can only apologise to you both. Alas! Not to worry. A good host – much like a soldier – always has another plan, for contingency. Please,” he says, indicating our chairs beside him. “Be seated. Thank you for your patience.”