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I decide not to tell her that barely anyone other than her talks to me at all, and when Stavros does, it’s mostly to inform me of my inadequacies. Maybe he doesn’t think I should go?
I can’t say a quiet night alone in his quarters sounds like abadthing by comparison. He has a lot of books I haven’t read yet.
“I assume you’re going,” I say to Esmae, feeling the need to return her friendliness.
She nods, a dreamy smile crossing her face. “They’re really the most enjoyable part of being at the college. And sometimes staff from the palace attend too! It’s an excellent chance to mingle with them if you’re hoping they’ll look favorably on you at graduation.”
I swallow some more of the mystery meat that I’m increasingly certain must be goat. “Is that what you’re planning on—working at the palace?”
“I hope so.” Esmae ducks her head sheepishly. “That’s what I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. I definitely have no interest in returning to my family’s county as the last of four heirs. And what could be grander than a position serving the royal family themselves?”
That would be pretty grand, if grand is your thing. My attention settles on her silk eye patch. It feels like she’s opened up enough that it’s safe to ask, “The dedication gift you asked for—is that something meant to serve members of the court?”
Esmae’s hand flutters to the patch’s strap. “Yes. I’m dedicated to Jurnus—I can send messages quickly across long distances. I thought that could be useful with military negotiations and trade and all sorts of things.”
“I’d imagine so,” I say honestly. It’s a good gift, and an appropriate one from the godlen who oversees both communication and travel, but it’s not of much use to her if she doesn’t land the job. She must be incredibly committed to have made so large a sacrifice.
She peers at me with her remaining eye. “What’s your gift, Ivy? You’re obviously interested in the military arts—did you dedicate to Sabrelle?”
I open my mouth, sorting through my options of just how extensively I want to lie, and a strange sensation washes over me.
It’s not the intense dizziness I felt before when Julita tried to take over—more a lightheadedness, as if my skull is detaching from the rest of my body. Kind of like the first time I discovered pub cider and downed three glasses far too close together.
A giggle spills from my lips. I’m not sure what’s funny, but the whole world is going topsy turvy. That’s pretty hilarious.
Esmae’s forehead has furrowed. “Are you all right?”
A cold streak of fear cuts through my unbalanced state. My body sways, and I can’t seem to hold my spine rigid.
What’s happened to me?
“I think—possibly not,” I manage to say, clamping my hand against the table for balance. My plate rattles.
My plate, nearly cleared of food. Food that I left unmonitored for a few minutes after Anya drenched me with wine.
A fucking beast indeed. Did she sprinkle some kind of powdered drug over it?
It might not even have been her. Romild could have seen me leave and made use of the opportunity too.
I definitely have too many enemies here for someone who’s only been at the school for a matter of days.
Whatever drug I’ve ingested, its effects are still escalating. My vision blurs and doubles and then simply wobbles around like a pond someone’s dropped a stone into. I’m somehow losing my grip on the table even though neither it nor I are going anywhere.
Esmae mutters a not particularly ladylike curse and scrambles to her feet. “That terror. If we could prove she poisoned you—this is anattack.”
I laugh. Bubbles are tickling up from my gut all the way to my throat. “Not poison. Doesn’t hurt. I just feel… like everything’s floating in circles.”
Whoever did this, were they hoping I’d make a fool of myself in front of the dining hall? Say or do something that would call into question my position as Stavros’s assistant?
I sway backward and nearly upend my chair. As the legs rap back onto the floor, Esmae tugs me onto my feet.
I stumble, trying to get my bearings, knowing the floor is flat but feeling as if it’s bobbing like a badly constructed dock.
There’s a flash of gold at the corner of my vision. Two Benedikts—no, it’s just one—no, wait, now there’s three of them overlapping as they all lean against the neighboring table.
“She looks like she hit the wine a little too hard. Or did they put something extra special in that curry?”
He keeps his tone droll, but he must be concerned, or he wouldn’t have risked coming over at all. The bubbles turn warm with gratitude, and suddenly I’m grinning.
