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We’re served delicate whipped fruit mousse, one poached egg each, and some cold pink fish. I finish my portion quickly and await the next course, but the servants only bring out tea and coffee afterward. With growing horror, I realize that the meal is over. There’s no more food.
“Do they want us to starve?” I hiss to Shenya.
She winces and shrugs, adding more sugar to her tea.
At least I had a decent supper yesterday evening, with Rupert. But after all the worrying, the pacing, and the sleeplessness of the night, I was hoping for a good hearty meal. I need real food.
Besides that, my fingers, my brain, and my whole body are beginning to ache for my usual kind of labor—the solid, punchable heft of good biscuit dough, the smooth pour of cake batter, the comforting clatter of my favorite pans tumbling into the sink, ready for a good scrubbing after a job well done. I miss the smell of freshly baked bread, the pop of tiny bubbles in a pancake that’s ready to flip, the feel of rolling a plump ball of cookie dough between my palms.
Baking is my joy and my life. And I may never be able to do it again.
The terrifying realization squeezes my heart so tightly I can barely breathe. I clutch fistfuls of my skirts, crumpling the ivory material, trying to control my panic. I won’t let myself lose control again… not here, not now. I can’t. It will look like weakness. There are other women here who have lost far more than I have—I’m sure some have left behind sweethearts, homes, dreams and plans.
At least I didn’t have a suitor whose heart would be broken by my absence. At least the vanishing of my dreams affects no one but me. At least I still have my tongue, my fingers, and all my parts. At least I made it through the King’s first test.
“Are you alright?” whispers Shenya.
Slowly I unclench my fingers and smooth out my skirts with sweaty palms. “No.”
“I heard they tested you. Did it go badly?”
“No… it went well. Maybe a little too well. I’m supposed to attend the King tomorrow night.”
“He took Alais last night. The tall girl from Zalos?”
I shrug. “I didn’t meet her.”
“That’s right, you weren’t there yesterday when they let us walk in the gardens for an hour. Well, she went to him last night, and she’s not here today.”
“Not here? Do you think they moved her to one of the better rooms? Maybe she dines alone now, in her own parlor.”
“There’s no way to be sure.”
“Unless we ask.” I lift my hand and wave to one of the servants who brought the tea. He approaches warily, and I ask, “Do you know where Alais of Zalos is?”
He swallows, and for a second I think he might be tongueless like my maid—but then he whispers, “She did not please His Majesty.”
Shenya makes a soft, frightened sound.
“What does that mean?” I whisper back.
His next words are barely a breath, so quiet I strain to hear them. “She’s been given to the dark.”
“The dark?”
But he scuttles away without answering.
“Is he saying she’s dead?” I ask.
Shenya shrugs. “No idea.” Her gaze flits across the table to Nerith, who is looking right at her—and during the moment their eyes lock, the tension is palpable.
Across the room, I notice the House steward, Venedict, scanning the tables, surveying all the women. I elbow Shenya before his gaze sweeps over us. When Shenya turns to me, I say quietly, “You have to be more careful about the way you look at each other.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Faint pink colors her cheeks.
“It’s too obvious. You have to hide it better.” I hold up my hand to silence her protest. “Don’t pretend not to understand what I mean. Just… be more careful.”
She blushes deeper. “I know nothing can happen. I just like to look at her. She’s so vivid, so brilliant, with such sharp edges. I want to lean into her and let those edges cut me until I bleed.” Her breath hitches, and she bites her lip. “I probably sound insane.”
