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2
As the prince demanded, I wait in the Hall for his return.
It’s strange being on this side of the grand room, sitting in a seat beside the throne-like chair, and behind me, the other house slaves I worked with.
The urge to twist around and talk to Terry grips me, but I battle it. The butler is here, and I’m absolutely certain he’s the one who told the prince about my being in the kitchens earlier that Warmth. He’s the snake I’ve got to watch out for. He might not meet my gaze, but he sure as hell will tell the prince all he knows about my doings.
The snake stands behind me, out of my line of sight. I stare straight ahead at the flames blazing in the tall fireplace.
The prince is late. Terribly so. And I wonder if the food will be cold by the time it’s served up.
That’s when a slight plan starts to form in my mind.
The less I eat, the more there will be for the other slaves after dinner. They will have larger portions to share between them, and I can always ring the service bell in my room for meals to be delivered to me.
There are two bells in my room, I found after the seamstress left and I was lost on what to do with myself. The golden bell is for the prince. He can ring the attached one in his bedchamber, summoning me. The silver one—in dire need of polishing—is for me to summon another slave.
It’s an odd thing, I think, to be a slave above all others when I have only been here seven weeks. Now, I sit at the very table I waited on only a yesterday, and wait for my food to be placed down in front of me.
I’ll eat light, I decide. Then after I’m done in the prince’s chamber this Quiet, I’ll summon for more. Or I’ll eat a large breakfast, since that’s delivered to me, and the prince doesn’t eat in the Hall for his other meals. He might not pick up on my little scheme. And even if he does, will he care enough about it to tell me off?
I doubt it. He doesn’t seem all that interested in caring about me or what I do other than my actions that disobey his orders and my new duties. He wouldn’t be worried about my eating habits. With my curves and the thinness that seems to be favoured in this world, he might even be pleased with the outcome—shedding some weight.
From experience, I know I won’t lose enough weight to be thin, but I can shed enough that he might be pleased some.
As I wait for the prince, I mull those thoughts over. In front of me on the table, there’s only a chalice of lake water to distract myself with. I don’t get the wine, I notice. And I’m certain that’s because the wine here—like the fruit—is potent to humans. Some of us are hit hard by its effects, sent into spiralling drunkenness that can even be fatal to us. A poison, of sorts.
Finally, the double doors creak open. Two slaves step inside, holding the doors for a shadowy figure to enter the Hall.
My heart jumps for a moment, latching in my throat. But it’s quick to fall back into place when I throw my gaze towards the doors and see who has entered.
The messenger. And he holds a folded parchment piece in his hand.
Walking around the table, his ordinary brown eyes to match mine land on me. He advances on my seat at the table, and for a moment I forget all about my new position and a frown wrinkles my face.
He hands me the note.
Hesitantly, I take it from and unfold it.
Letters are scribbled all over the beige parchment (beige, like the colour of my worn-out dress, since I’m still waiting on the seamstress’s delivery). I don’t understand the words written for me.
I pass it back to him.
“What does it say?” I ask, a curious glint in my eyes.
Lines crease the space between his brows as he considers me for a beat. Then he reads the letter swiftly before looking back up at me and passing the parchment back.
“The prince will not be here for the meal. He will eat at the palace. He expects that you will meet him later in his bedchamber at the break of the Quiet.”
“Oh.” I look down at the parchment for a moment. All those strange squiggly lines mean something, and it befuddles me.
Before I can ask if I should eat without him, the slaves behind me kick into action. It’s odd being on this side of it as the slaves whirl around me: Terry, filling my water chalice; Archer, setting down my plate then lifting the tureen; Gary clearing away the wine and water from the prince’s setting beside me.
It all happens in a whirl, and I should be a part of that whirl.
By the time the dance ends, and I’m ready to eat my meal, the messenger has gone from the Hall, and the doors have shut firmly behind him.
I eat alone, and it is uncomfortable. I yearn to invite Terry to sit with me, to share my meal, to talk with me. Anything other than sitting in this thick silence. It could just be my imagination, but I can even feel the butler’s disdain seething from behind me, as though he can’t stand the thought of waiting on me, never mind actually having to do it.
