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I chance a glance at this icy prince. I think of ice when I look at him, since his blond hair has a frosty edge to its hue and his eyes are like white paint strokes, textured and pure like the snow at the cliffs behind the Valley of the Royals.
Prince Elden’s hair ropes down his back in a plait braided with a black ribbon. I’m envious of it, as I am envious of Terry’s luscious locks. My curls are so dry and coarse that when I fasten it into a bun, the curls actually crunch.
Suddenly sour-faced, I manoeuvre the pitcher back up to my chest, tucking the napkin firmly against the pourer, and it’s a success. Not a drop spilled.
Still, tell that to my thumping heart that’s so filled with dread that I might spill some of the wine that it’s pumping ice-cold sensations through my veins.
Drawing back a good distance from Elden, I walk around to the head of the table where the prince is seated. He leans back in his high-backed chair that resembles what I think a throne would look like, his tanned hand loose on a golden fork, much of his meal untouched.
Throughout the course of the evening, he didn’t take more than one bite of the appetisers (honeyed grey-plums served with a side of roasted sand-fish), and now he’s utterly ignoring the main meal.
Sort of glad for it, too. The more leftover, the more us slaves get to share between us. And the main course is mouth-watering.
I’m unsure what the strips of rare-cooked meat are, but the smell has flooded my mouth with saliva, and the potatoes today are roasted and covered with blue flecks of strange herbs, much better than the usually-boiled and half-eaten potatoes we’re left with.
All that the prince seems interested in is his wine—and watching me advance on his side of the table, the pitcher steadying in my suddenly tense hands.
The strings of his black shirt are fully tugged apart now, revealing much of his chest and the ink that stains his smooth, honeyed skin. His lashes are heavy from all the wine he’s gone through, a loose frown to his downturned mouth.
Cutting my gaze down to his chalice, I pause at his side and pour his wine a tad fuller than Elden’s, since he’s going through it so fast. The strong fruity smell of it is even more powerful up this end of the table, since I can almost taste it coming from the prince’s breath.
I’ve only just drawn the pitcher away when the prince reaches for the chalice, turning his cheek to me.
I perform the silent bow of the head Sira taught me before I pull away to the tray. Setting the pitcher down beside the leather-bound bottle of pink-lake water, I turn to stand against the wall, Terry stiff and silent beside me.
We stare straight ahead at the looming, blazing fireplace that floods the Hall with white light. My trick to avoid having the white flames glaring in my eyes is to focus on the small sculptures dotted over the mantelpiece. It works for the rest of the meal and, finally, the princes rise up from their seats, making to move onto the parlour room.
There’s a hefty amount of food left on the table that flips my stomach. Even the dessert (sugared apples and a caramel pudding with a faint salted smell) is left mostly untouched.
As the princes make to leave the Hall, I chance a glance up—and my eyes immediately lock onto burning white ones.
That familiar icy grip seizes up inside my chest.
Elden watches me, a faint furrow between his yellow brows, then he tugs his gaze away and looks up the table. I trace his gaze to the prince, whose eyes are on me.
I cast my gaze downwards.
The heart-stopping moment shatters as quickly as it came, and the princes leave without a word about me.
Terry and I clean up the table, resetting the plates and bowls, while the two other house slaves (Gary and Archer, the second a kuri from the light lands) take the unfinished food back to the kitchens to be rationed and divided by the cook.
The butler stays to watch over us.
Terry is silent—as the butler prefers us—while we clean up. But I know she’s chewing on unspoken words with the dozen frowns she throws my way.
I don’t have to be the sharpest blade in the blacksmith’s workshop to know that she noticed the looks shared between me and the princes. And if she picked up on that, who else did?
Elden only looked my way because he traced the prince’s gaze to me. But why is the prince watching me all the time?
Is Sira right that this will turn out to be a bigger problem for me?
I hope not. I’ve been doing so well, surviving here.
Maybe my luck will run out.
It’s a thought I carry with me all the way down to the kitchens once we’re finished up in the Hall.
Hilda has two plates set aside for Terry and me. I notice that she hands me off the plate with the larger serving of caramel pudding, and my grateful smile is sincere. Being the favourite really has its advantages.
