Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(31)
And Leopold even went so far as to escort Safi personally into the ball, and, oh, if that hadn’t caught the gossip tongues in a mousetrap. She had almost laughed at the first slack-jawed domna. It was as if everyone had forgotten how she and Leopold had conspired as children.
After the prince had directed Safi to a servant with sparkling wines, he’d pushed a flute into her hand, and then snagged one for himself before guiding her to the food.
The food!
Table after table was set up beside the window and laden with a thousand delicacies from across the three empires. Safi was determined to try every single item before the ball ended.
“A chocolate volcano,” Leopold said, pointing to a silver basin in which there appeared to be chocolate bubbles. “The one disadvantage of forbidding Firewitches in Cartorra is that”—pause—“we miss out on tricks like this.” He motioned to a servant in beige satin. The man quickly ladled out the chocolate and poured it over a bowl filled with fresh strawberries.
Safi’s eyes bugged, yet as she grabbed for the bowl, Leopold deftly snatched it away, smiling. “Allow me to serve you, Safiya. We have spent too many years apart.”
“And I have spent too many hours between meals.” A glare. “Give it to me now, Polly, or I shall castrate you with a fork.”
Now his eyes bugged. “By the Twelve, have you heard the things you say?” But he did relinquish the bowl of strawberries, and after biting into the first, Safi moaned her delight.
“These are divine,” she gushed from beneath a mouthful of chocolate. “They remind me of the ones from—” She broke off, her chest suddenly too large.
She had been about to say the strawberries reminded her of the ones from home. Home! As if the mountains and valleys around the Hasstrel estate had ever been home—or the strawberries ever this divine.
Leopold did not seem to notice Safi’s sudden silence, though. His eyes ran over the colorful diplomats. The domnas in their fitted black skirts and frilly, high-necked bodices of a thousand rich, earthy tones. The doms in their black waistcoats and velvet puffy shorts that only served to make their legs look knobby and ridiculous.
In fact, Leopold seemed to be the only male capable of making the shorts and tights look appealing—and didn’t he know it, judging by the way he strutted about. The tights revealed strong legs—surprisingly well-muscled—and the blue velvet brought out flecks of the same shade in his eyes.
Safi was pleased to note that her own gown was garnering envious looks, and the only gown Safi thought better than her own was that of Vaness, the Marstoki Empress. White strips of cloth draped a thousand ways over the woman’s bronze skin, and her dark hair tumbled over the bold exposure of her right shoulder. Gold studs were pasted over her Witchmark—a square for Earth and a single, vertical line for Iron—while two shackle-like bracelets adorned her wrists (said to represent her servitude to her people). She wore no crown, and was—in Safi’s opinion—utter simplicity and elegance.
Though Safi had only seen Vaness from a distance, she had immediately appreciated the bored dip in the young woman’s shoulder. The flat expression of a person who had better places to be and more meaningful things to do.
Safi had promptly tried to copy that pose—though she’d also promptly forgotten after spotting the first cream-filled pastry.
As if reading her mind, Leopold asked, “Have you seen the Empress’s daring gown? Every man has his jaw on the floor.”
“But not you?” Safi asked, eyes narrowing.
“No. Not me.”
The lie of the statement crawled over her skin, but she didn’t care enough to press. If Leopold wished to hide his interest in the Empress’s perfect shoulders, why should Safi care?
“Do you wish to meet the Empress?” he asked abruptly.
Safi gasped. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Then yes, please.” She thrust her unfinished strawberries at a waiting attendant while Leopold stepped lightly into the throngs of people. She followed him toward a low stage at the back corner where a small orchestra tuned their instruments.
But it was strange, for as Safi and Leopold moved amongst the curious nobility of all ages and nationalities, there was a single bright question on everyone’s lips. Safi could no more hear what they murmured than she could read their thoughts, but whatever it was they considered, their question burned with the sharp light of truth. It flickered down the back of Safi’s neck and in her throat—and it made her enormously curious to know of what they spoke.
Leopold reached a swarm of colorfully clad women—their gowns also made from the same striped, draping cloth as the Empress’s—and a clump of men. Nubrevnan men, Safi thought when her eyes settled on their loose black hair and salt-roughened skin. Their coats fell to their knees, most of them the color of stormy blue, though one man wore silver gray and cut into her path.
“Excuse you,” she muttered, trying to sidestep him.
But the man stopped, blocking Safi entirely, before glancing back.
Safi choked. It was the Nubrevnan from the pier, cleaned up and practically glowing beneath the candlelight.
“Why it’s you,” she said in Nubrevnan, her voice overly dulcet. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same.” He didn’t look impressed as he shifted his body toward her.