Bring Me Their Hearts(55)
“They think your lack of corset funny.” Y’shennria slides up to me seemingly out of nowhere.
“And I think their lack of manners funny,” I lilt. Y’shennria’s thin lips break ever so slightly into a ghost of a smile I never thought I’d see again. I start to tell her of my encounter with the king, then think better of it; if she knew I confronted him about Gavik, she’d be furious, and I’d like to have her smiling at me for as long as it lasts.
She takes my arm (for show, of course, what aunt doesn’t link arms with her niece?) and introduces me to people she considers important; the Minister of the Blood is a squeaky, portly man whose eyes twinkle when I curtsy before him, and the Duchess Priseless all but sneers at me. She’s the mother of those irritating blond twins from the Welcoming—no doubt they told her about our little spat, but she can’t be openly rude. All she can do is compliment Y’shennria on her dress and “politely” ignore me.
I spot Fione, her curly hair in a low, modest ponytail and her dress a muted beige. It’s a far cry from the bright pink she wore yesterday. She uses the same ivory cane carved with a valkerax head. Yet unlike the visit to Y’shennria’s manor, Fione doesn’t look cheery at all. Her eyes are downcast, her body posture screaming “scared of my own shadow.” A noble says something to her, and Gavik puts a hand on her shoulder, gripping so tightly his knuckles go white. Fione recoils into herself even more at Gavik’s touch. Even if she’s faking shy, that one motion of hers is too real, too instantaneous to have been faked. Her uncle genuinely disgusts her. I might dislike her for naturally being everything I’m not, but at least we have that much in common.
Finally, Ulla rings the crystal dinner bell and announces the entrance of the royal family.
My stomach clenches as the prince walks in. I’ve learned the sound of his footsteps by now: quick, tightly wound. He’s in a black taffeta hawking suit, with a high collar framing his knife’s-edge cheekbones. His black hair is braided in one long, silken cord, and his boots are tipped with wicked-sharp gold edges, as are his pointer fingers—a clawlike gold ring on the end of each. My face grows hot at the sight of the bandage on the back of his hand, covering the scrape he got shielding me from the fall. I wonder if it still hurts? If he’s in pain?
He’ll be in leagues more pain when I’m finished with him, the hunger slavers. I focus on Malachite at his side, silent and paler than snow, with eyes like crimson fire, his breastplate a magnificent ruby-crusted thing. King Sref and Queen Kolissa follow Lucien and Malachite. The queen and king sit first, followed by the prince, then Archduke Gavik. It goes down the line until finally, finally, I sit last, Fione sitting just before me. She must be older than me, then. A New God priest comes in and says a prayer, his voice reedy.
“And from the darkness our God did come to us, and with his love gave us knowledge to light our way. He is called He Who Bore Arathess Anew, He Who Did Bring Us Out of Despair, and we say His name with great thanks and joy before our nourishment in His name.”
“In His name,” the room echoes to varying degrees. The prince doesn’t say it at all, and Y’shennria barely mumbles it, her lady’s mask pained ever so slightly. The servants bring wine and a starter course of creamed asparagus soup and almond dumplings, and I try not to look like a complete oaf eating. The king speaks to Archduke Gavik, and the entire table pays silent attention to their every word about trade routes, and how “witch aggression” could see a rise in the prices of grain. Gavik turns to Fione and asks her what she’s learned from her polymath tutors about trade routes recently.
“I-I think there was something—” She squirms under the attention of the entire table, and her elbow knocks her fork flying. The gesture is too big to be anything but planned, but why is she playing clumsy? The servants go for the fork but I beat them to it, scooping it up and laughing.
“Whoops! I dropped it.” I smile. “These Vetrisian utensils are much more slippery than the ones back home.”
This pulls a few chuckles from people, and King Sref’s eyes gleam amused. Y’shennria frowns, however, and Lucien only raises a single eyebrow.
Fione looks genuinely relieved, and when the king’s drawn the attention away from us with more conversation, she leans in and whispers, “Thank you.”
“Anytime you want to pretend to drop a fork for inscrutable reasons, I’m here for you, Lady Himintell,” I mutter. “Or should I still call you Fione?”
“Lady Himintell is a better cover. We aren’t supposed to have met.”
“Does your uncle always publicly grill you on your studies?” I ask.
“Since I was little he’s enjoyed inflicting emotional distress on me,” she agrees coolly. “It bothered me only until I built my armor. Now I simply pretend it does to satiate his sadism. But it used to make me want to—”
“Run off and hide in the darkest corner you could find?” I ask.
“How did you know?” She smirks.
I hold up my wineglass. “Great minds drink alike.”
She laughs behind her napkin, yet I can’t tell if it’s a genuine laugh or a polite one. She blurs the two so seamlessly. There’s a moment in which I pick at my food and she eats hers delicately. The urge to apologize for the way I acted earlier bubbles up, but what’s left of my pride drags it back down into the depths. It’s then I notice Grace and Charm watching us across the table with sharp eyes. Us? No—Fione. Just Fione.