Bring Me Their Hearts(58)
“Lovely.”
“Isn’t it? I keep trying to tell these humans swear words sound much better in Beneather.”
The noise of the banquet filters in through the open doors, the conversation getting louder as the wine flows longer. The hunger that gnawed at me is muted to its usual background noise, my teeth dull. Malachite looks to me.
“You know, when we’re alone, Luc always says you’re wasted here, thrown at his feet as an offering.”
I ramrod my spine like I’d seen Y’shennria do so many times before. “I’m no offering, wasted or otherwise.”
“Really? Because when I came in here you were bound like a suckling pig to be put over a fire.”
“They took me by surprise. Trust me when I say that doesn’t happen twice.”
His smirk is crooked as he bows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Malachite leaves, and I smooth my skirts and put the note into my pocket before following at a modest lag so the court doesn’t get the wrong idea. When we return, the banquet is in full swing, a windlute quartet playing in the corner and conversation erupting. Honey-roasted potatoes and brined shadefish await me, but I’m far from hungry. Fione flashes me a polite smile as I sit back down, and Y’shennria throws me a questioning look, but I shake my head minutely. I’ll tell her later.
I manage to down a few bites of food, the aching pain immediate, but Fione provides the perfect excuse not to eat. We talk about her lessons, how her mother and father are always traveling as Cavanos ambassadors and are never home, leaving Archduke Gavik as her guardian. Servants take away our plates, replacing them with paper-thin, translucent slices of chilled lamb and green truffle. Dessert is a fluffy cake of crushed chestnuts topped with sweet cream and gold foil leaves. I savor every bite. I suffer every bite.
As I’m trying to figure out how many people a single gold leaf on this dessert could feed, Fione chimes up.
“Forgive me, Lady Zera, but you’ve looked terribly angry for a while now. Did I say something wrong?”
“What?” I look up from the cake. “No—as if your ladyship is capable of ever saying something wrong.”
It’s a biting thing to say, a petty thing to say, my mind crowded with the way Y’shennria praised her so lavishly and treated her so kindly. Fione’s face falls minutely, but she plasters on a careful, practiced smile over it. The pain from the food pierces at me, up through my lungs, into my spine, the hunger dragging me into the darkness.
Eat her, the hunger froths. Take her eyes, her hands, soak in her blood and just maybe Y’shennria will think you human—
It takes all the energy I have left to stamp down the hunger and manage civil words in Fione’s direction.
“Sorry,” I say. “I mean—my apologies. Out of all the garbage things I’ve said in this city, that one took first prize.”
Fione freezes over her wine, a little smile staining her lips. This one is clever, catlike, and somehow more real than the practiced ones she gives so freely.
“It’s all right. It’s sort of a relief, really, if you are mad at me.”
“Relief?” I wrinkle my nose. She nods.
“It means you aren’t afraid to show me your emotions, like everyone else here. I don’t have to guess, or probe, or bribe, or weasel information from your servants or aunt. You just…show me. No work required on my part, for once.” She motions with a flat palm to the nobles at the table around us. “In a court like this, where no one betrays their true feelings, you’re a restful, easy oasis.”
I rile at being called easy, but the way she says it belies no malice, her blue eyes sparkling intently. Not a shade of shyness or pleasantry dims them. I look up to see Archduke Gavik gazing at us, his older, thinner blue eyes intent. He stares like a mountain lion—never blinking, searching for some weakness, some slowness to pounce on. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Fione relents, softening and clutching her napkin anxiously, but I smile and nod at him, forcing him to be polite. He looks momentarily surprised, then smiles back.
The archduke and Fione—I’m beginning to learn the Himintells are schemers at their cores.
The banquet concludes after tea and Avellish brandy coffee, and the king and queen take their leave. The prince follows (looking back only once at me in a single piercing moment, Malachite throwing me a wink), and then the rest of us are free to go. People linger in groups in the hall, speaking in hushed tones as Fione and I pass. For once they aren’t staring at me, but at her.
Grace and Charm are a good way down the hall, but even I can see them laughing in our direction. Laughing at Fione’s limped gait. Something snaps in me at the sight of Fione’s expression—strong and stoic yet clearly upset in the well-hidden tightness of her jaw. The urge to punch Grace and Charm is overwhelming. No matter how nasty they’re being, I can’t let it show. And neither can Fione. That wouldn’t be “proper”—that isn’t how the Vetrisian court works. You never show your true feelings, no matter how unfair or wrong something is.
Grace laughs a little louder, the sound like serrated bells.
Screw proper.
“Is there something you’d like to say to Lady Himintell, miladies?” I ask clearly, aiming my gaze at Grace and Charm. The nobles passing us go still, everyone’s attention drawn to them, to me. I keep my gaze ice, steel, trying desperately to imitate Y’shennria’s most intimidating stare. The two girls go pale, mouths zipping closed as they dart behind a nearby pillar to avoid the attention. I turn back to Fione, and the crowd begins to move again, whispering bewilderedly to one another as they take the grand steps down the palace’s facade.