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I wince, hand slapping to my side, and throw her a bewildered glare.
The urgency in her eyes brings me back to reality.
It’s time to get the hell out of this pond room.
Sira leads the way along the wall, headed to the slave’s wooden door that’s masked behind silk curtains with butterflies sewn into them.
We dip behind the curtains, slip through the door, then I close it quietly behind us.
I’ve only just turned around when I’m backed up into the door, Sira rounding on me.
“What wasthat?” she hisses, her face alarmed, giving her a look of more life than she normally carries with her.
“What?” I whisper, nearly crushed into the door.
“The prince,” she presses, eyes narrowing in on me, the way my mother’s do when I’m caught with contraband in my blankets.
I sink back further into the door, wishing it would melt and take me away. “What about him?”
“I saw him look at you,” she says, her voice that of a snake’s hiss before it strikes. “I saw him smile at you.”
Pushing from the door, I spit the sweet into my hand then let out a tight sigh. “I don’t know,” I honestly answer, wearing a tired shrug. “Sometimes he looks at me ... sometimes he doesn’t. I don't know why.”
Sira runs her free hand down her face. Into her palm, she says, “That’s not good, April. That’s not good at all.”
Again, I shrug. “Not much I can do about it. Besides, nothing’s happened. He hasn’t hurt me or even spoken to me since I got here. He’s probably just trying to intimidate me for a bit of fun or something.”
And it’s working.
“Anyways,” I start and move around her, stuffing the sweet into my pocket, “as fun as this is, I have to get to the kitchens.”
Now that the prince has returned from the palace, I’ll be needed to serve him. Maybe his vile brother will be staying for dinner in the Hall. That’s a spine-shivering thought.
Sira doesn’t stop me or say anything more as she follows me through the corridors to the kitchen. But when we arrive and Hilda is quick to rush over to me, fussing over my hair and pink face (leftovers from the prince), I feel the cut of Sira’s gaze on me the whole time.
Maybe the prince’s wavering attention is a dangerous thing. Maybe it’s worse than I let myself believe.
But it’s already been two weeks, and that’s two weeks less time that I have to survive. I’ve made it further than I expected when he first took me, and so I will make it all the way.
All I have to survive is the passing looks from the prince.
Can’t be so hard.
3
The chandeliers in the Hall hang so low that, when I carry the wine pitchers under them, my throat tightens with a bout of fear that hot candlewax will drip down my face and burn me.
But no candlewax sears my face. Instead what burns me is the crystalline gaze that flickers in my direction every few breaths.
I can feel it now, the itch of his watchful eyes on my cheek as I carry the pungent wine pitcher around the table from the tray against the wall, holding a folded cloth napkin to its pourer to trap any droplets that might fall free. Can’t go spilling the wine all over the princes or the table. That’s a certain direction straight to a beating.
Terry did it once.
Hilda beat her with the rod.
Now Terry stands by the roller trays against the wall, demoted to the duties of clean ups and taking away finished dishes.
Me, on the other hand—I’m trusted with the drinks. So I come to the side of Elden (who doesn’t even acknowledge my presence) and carefully tip the pitcher just right, filling his chalice with the stinky purple liquid, three-quarters full.
