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Chapter Twenty
“What in fates’ name …” Corrin’s arms are laden with the meal tray as she steps out onto my terrace, staring with bewilderment at the furniture I dragged out. “Why is half your bedchamber outside?”
I ignore her melodramatic question—there are only two pieces—and point to the flock of sentries who circle Boaz, awaiting his instruction. “What’s going on down there? What happened?” Zander took off running toward the screaming woman at a speed that dropped my jaw. Abarrane dismissed her pupils, collected a sword, and chased after him.
When they reemerged, it was at a brisk, purposeful walk toward the doors that lead into the main hall, Zander’s shoulders rigid with tension. Since then, the patrons who were wandering the grounds have rushed away, and the guards are out in full force.
Desperate for information, I ran to my door in hopes that Elisaf was there, but it was the unfriendly day guard, and he gave nothing more than a grunt of “no idea.”
Corrin sets my meal on the side table, her expression somber. “Lord Quill has been murdered.”
“What?” My eyes widen. “But I saw him walking into the garden not ten minutes before that woman screamed.”
“And he will not be walking out. He was poisoned the same way King Eachann and Queen Esma were dispatched.” She gives me a pointed look.
I hold my hands in the air in surrender. “You can’t blame me for this. I’ve been locked in here all afternoon.”
“Certainly, I am not suggesting that you somehow snuck out and poisoned anyone,” she says crisply.
I think back to the couple in matching green from the throne room earlier, smiling, oblivious to what was in store for one of them. Well, at least Lord Quill was oblivious. “The woman he was with wasn’t his wife.”
“No. It was his tributary.”
“Someone tainted her blood.” They were going out there so he could feed off her. “I’m … shocked.”
“Indeed.”
“Is it normal to be affectionate with your tributary when you’re married?”
“I am here to ensure you are fed and bathed, not to provide you with idle gossip.” Corrin’s fingers graze the stiff paper as she studies the dresses I sketched. “You illustrated these?”
I’m not going to get anywhere with her. “Yes.” One is based on a tulle ball gown that a guest at a charity event wore and I admired from afar, with embroidered flowers and a seductive V-neckline. What is the point of having my own royal seamstress if I don’t have her ripping off couture? Another design is my own, layers of sheer fabric that offer full coverage while allowing provocative glimpses of a female silhouette with high slits along the thighs. I’m curious to see what Dagny might do with these.
Corrin spreads the sheets out, the paper crinkling under her touch. “How do you know such styles?”
I study my graphite-soiled fingers. “I don’t know. I just do,” I lie.
“You are talented.”
I mock gasp. “Is that a compliment?” I know I have skill. On my first day of art class, the instructor took one look at my sketch of the quintessential but tedious fruit-in-bowl model and informed me that I had signed up for the wrong session, that I should be in her advanced level. She asked where I learned my technique. I shrugged. How did I explain that I’d spent years sitting in parks, quietly sketching strangers with stolen art supplies?
Corrin rolls her eyes and taps the tray she set down. “This is red lentil and potato. Don’t wait until it cools, or you won’t enjoy it as much.”
“Does nobody eat meat around here?”
“Of course, they do. But Ybarisans live off a strict diet of vegetables, fruits, and grains, so that is what I’ve brought you.”
“Yes, every day for weeks and weeks,” I drawl.
“Is this suddenly not to your satisfaction, Your Highness?”
Corrin bristles so easily. “No, it’s not that.” It’s strange, what a person can become accustomed to and how quickly they forget past struggles. There was a point in my life when I would’ve been overjoyed to have someone deliver food—any food—to me on a platter several times a day. I spent years eating whatever filled my stomach, whether it be stolen off a cart or scrounged from a dumpster behind a restaurant. Once I was able to support myself, I became more finicky, choosing the organic apples and ensuring at least one meal a day was green.
But right now, I would kill for a greasy burger on a brioche bun from the pub three blocks from my apartment. That, or one of Alton’s sauerkraut-laden hotdogs.
She frowns strangely at me. “Are you saying you suddenly crave animal flesh?”
I cringe. “Not when you call it that.”
