Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(17)
The idea of not having enough food was foreign to her; Jumi had never allowed the Veldanese to go hungry, not when new croplands could be scribed into the world to meet their needs. When Elsa finished chewing, she said, “Do people really starve in Napoli?”
Porzia raised her eyebrows in surprise at the question, but it was Leo who answered. “It’s a French dynasty that rules the Two Sicilies. They haven’t invested in industry and infrastructure the way we have here in the Kingdom of Sardinia. The common people are overtaxed, and with no industry in the cities there are no jobs, so yes—people starve.”
Porzia shot him a warning look, but her tone was light when she said, “I think that’s quite enough politics for the dinner table. Terribly dull business.”
Elsa didn’t understand why the other girl wanted the subject dropped, but she let it go anyway. She already felt like enough of an outsider, and the last thing she needed was to blunder into forbidden conversational territory.
When everyone had worked their way through the rice, Porzia lifted the next serving dish and doled out portions of fowl roasted with mushrooms and herbs, with salad on the side. This, at least, resembled something she might have eaten at home. Jumi had never shown much aptitude or interest in cooking beyond the strict necessities of nourishment, but Revan’s mother, Baninu, could work wonders with the wild herbs and fungi Elsa collected on her forays around Veldana.
Baninu bending over the hearth fire … little Elsa and Revan kneeling on the bench because the table was too high for them otherwise, ripping the juicy green tubes of wild onions into pieces with their fingers. Baninu never wasted her one steel knife—an Earth import—on anything that could be cut another way.
Elsa felt her throat tighten with grief, and she pushed the memory aside. Best not linger on those thoughts, not while she was trapped at the table surrounded by strangers.
Dessert involved tangy yellow fruit and some kind of sweetened, white fluffy substance, and Elsa wondered if she would ever be allowed to leave. Finally, when all the food was gone, they were permitted to stack their plates on the train’s empty serving trays. As the younger children rose from their seats, Porzia shouted orders. “Sante, take the little ones to the nursery, please. Aldo, bedtime in one hour, and I’ll be up to check so you better not still be reading.…”
But even as Porzia orchestrated the children’s bedtime, Leo and Faraz lingered in the dining hall, standing about and chatting some more. They acted familiar with each other in a way that made Elsa uneasy, but in light of de Vries’s request for her to get along with them, she didn’t want to be rude so she stayed as well. Mostly she watched them; the boys clearly shared a long-standing friendship, unconsciously matching their tones and gestures to each other. Leo had his pocket watch out, but he was fingering it idly instead of using it to check the time.
When the children were gone, Porzia circled back around to the sphere of their conversation.
“Done?” said Faraz, glancing up at her return.
“Time for my parlor trick,” Leo boasted.
“Parlor trick?” Elsa asked, hoping her alarm didn’t show in her voice.
“He observes and deduces,” Faraz said with a slight shake of his head.
Leo clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Step back and give the deductive genius some space, will you?”
“You may not have noticed that Leo must be the center of attention at all times,” Porzia said dryly. Then she leaned closer to Elsa. “It’s something of an initiation around here, you see. And quite popular at parties.”
For all their posturing, Porzia and Faraz seemed not just tolerant but eager to hear Leo’s analysis. In the pause before Leo spoke, the empty dining hall fell disconcertingly silent.
“Let’s see…,” Leo said, narrowing his eyes at Elsa. “The dress is well-made but the tailoring doesn’t quite fit, so it’s likely secondhand. Not exactly proletariat, but she doesn’t come from money either. Speaks excellent Italian but pokes at the food as if it might bite back, so she was educated but cloistered—hasn’t seen much of the world yet. Oh, and hesitant with her peers. Quite reserved. I suspect she’s spent too much time around adults and not enough with those her own age.”
Elsa felt hot with embarrassment at his scrutiny, at her own awkwardness, but she held her tongue. She broke eye contact and ducked her head, looking down at her feet. “What an impressive trick.”
“Oh, look at that!” Leo crowed. “Falsely deferential. You think yourself superior, but you’re accustomed to hiding it.”
Elsa’s patience was rapidly waning. She pulled herself up to her full height and quietly said, “Engine oil beneath your fingernails.”
“What?”
“Engine oil. You spend enough time working that it’s not worth scrubbing it all the way out until the end of the day. The nails themselves are bitten down, a nervous habit, but you avoid letting other people catch you doing it. You put on a nice show of self-confidence, but secretly you worry about how other people see you.” At this, he visibly paled, but Elsa kept going.
“That pocket watch you keep fiddling with, are you planning to tuck it away anytime this week? It’s old, the silver backing a bit scratched up—a family heirloom perhaps, given to you by someone significant, someone who stays in your thoughts.” She paused, wanting to take the watch all the way to its ultimate conclusion, but decided it would be unwise to say your father is dead purely for the sake of showing off. Instead, she let her gaze travel up to meet his own. “That is just your hands. Shall I go on?”