Bring Me Their Hearts(56)
“Looks like they aren’t fans of yours,” I murmur. Fione suddenly becomes very interested in her food.
“It’s difficult to have fans when you’re me.”
“Niece of a warmongering archduke,” I muse, stirring my pale green soup. “I can see how that’d be a slight problem.”
“As if they care about that.” She leans out and taps one of her legs with her napkin. “It’s the clubfoot most people can’t stand.”
“And here I thought you were just trying to start a fantastic new fashion trend with that cane.”
Her lips twist in a wry smile, but she quickly douses it to a more modest quiver when Gavik looks our way. He watches us for a moment with his watery blue eyes, but the queen asks him some question that captures his attention, and we blessedly escape his tyranny for the moment. The servants bring the second course—young geese fried in herb oil and lemon peel, the smells mouthwatering and the presentation incredibly delicate. I do a quick calculation—two bites of this and I can push the rest around on my plate long enough to delay my visit to the bathroom until the third course. Seven courses in total. I heave a sigh. It’s going to be a delicious—if very long and painful—night.
But what night hasn’t been, since I was made Heartless?
I glance at Fione, who eats her food with ladylike precision, a mirror image of Y’shennria farther down the table. She leans in suddenly.
“He’s been staring at you the whole time.”
I glance to where she’s looking—right at Prince Lucien. He starts when our eyes meet, quickly diverting his gaze to his dish. Fione gives a little snort.
“Don’t like him?” I ask with a hush, twisting my locket between my fingers to stop it from beating so fast.
“I debuted at the Welcoming last year,” she answers. “Against my will. It’s because of him I had to embarrass myself walking up that awful aisle in front of everyone. I’m used to people recoiling, but not so many at once.”
My deep-seated resentment for her begins to wilt at the roots. How hard has her life been here at court? I can’t begin to muster the arrogance to even imagine. Fione downs more wine, shrugging.
“Though he did criticize their disdain for my leg. Loudly. You should’ve seen the look on their faces—every noble in court being chastised at once by the Crown Prince. Not that any of it stuck in their heads. But for a single moment, after seventeen years of their jeering behind my back? It was glorious.” She cuts her goose delicately and yet with an edge of delighted viciousness. I wrinkle my nose, and she tilts her head. “Is something the matter?”
“Prince Lucien keeps insisting he has no heart,” I say. “And then he turns around and does something that directly disproves that.”
She laughs again, quietly and into her napkin. “I’ve known him since we were young. He cried so easily—over silly things like someone squishing a spider or one of the palace cats killing a bird. But then Varia died, and…well—” She struggles with her next words, her next breath. Varia. Not Princess Varia. Just Varia. Did she know the princess when she was alive? “Varia was the one who always protected him. He got it in his head he had to be tough like she’d been. I haven’t seen him cry since the day they delivered what was left of her body.”
I try to imagine it: a young Lucien, watching the guards bring the remains of his sister to the king and queen—to him. The pain in my stomach suddenly cuts through my thoughts and the wine numbness all at once. I’ve held it long enough. I get up and excuse myself. It’s much cooler and quieter in the tile bathroom, but the blood tears burn down my face. It’s been getting worse since I started regularly eating human food, and tonight is no exception. It ties me into knots around myself, and I bite my lips to stifle my groans. The hunger begs for something real and raw.
I stare at my reflection, at my fraying braids and twisted face. I carefully wipe away the bloodstains with water and practice a smile. No matter how excruciating it is, I have to keep going. Y’shennria is waiting. The court is waiting.
I push out of the door and make it halfway to the banquet before I feel a strong hand on my wrists. Both wrists. Someone’s trying to subdue me. Did the gods just decide tonight wasn’t going to be Zera’s night? I let out a startled yelp.
“Who in the afterlife—”
“Shut her up!” I hear someone hiss, and immediately a cloth roughly forces itself into my mouth. I curse my lack of sword, my excess of wine. I whip my head around wildly, only to see the Priseless twins wrapping my wrists tightly with twine and pulling me into a nearby room. They throw me to the ground—strong, despite their age. One of the twins locks the door behind him. At that moment I desperately wish all the stories humans make of us were true—super strength, speed enough to dodge any arrow. But I’m only a girl who can’t die.
“Now.” The other twin squats eye level with me, a wicked smirk on his face. “Where should we start?”
I lash out at him with a kick, but he dances away.
“We told you,” the first twin scoffs, “not to insult the Priseless family. But you did anyway. Everyone has their place here. You wouldn’t know yours, of course—you’re a commoner from a pig farm. But we’ll help you.”
The twins laugh together at that, and I squirm against my bonds violently. I’ll gladly take a hand off if it means freeing myself, but I’m versed in swordplay, not escape techniques or brute strength. A twin kneels at my side.