Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Twenty-One
Iwalk down to dinner, feeling stronger than I have in weeks. It’s amazing the difference it makes, being dressed for the occasion. Now that I’ve stopped shivering, it’s easier to focus on everything else.
Like how very badly I’ve gone about all of this.
My cloak, I wear like the armor I believe it was intended to be. In it, I am impervious not only to the cold, but to the judgments of everyone in this castle. Including him.
I refuse to think about the discomfort of sitting next to the king at dinner when I’ve only spoken to him once in weeks. It hardly makes a difference, I suppose, whether he’s ignoring me from behind my door or across a table.
But when I stride into the room with Khijhana at my side, my steps somehow weightier and more confident in the velvet boots than I had managed in my sheer, soundless, slippers, I realize I have no cause for concern.
No one is ignoring me, least of all the king.
A hush descends the moment my name is announced. The room has been rearranged so that the thirty or so courtiers gather around a single large table.
Every veiled and beaked face turns toward me in a unison that is almost unnerving. The face I’m looking for is neither beaked, nor veiled, but he wears a mask all the same, one that conceals far more than the silken ones of the court.
Even now, even after a lifetime of studying men for their motives, I cannot guess at what lies in his pale blue eyes. The rest of the court stands when I enter, but the king has not moved his body any more than his unreadable granite gaze has left my face.
There’s a subtle commotion. I realize the man next to him — Leif, according to the silver wolf sewn into his mask — has kicked him under the table. I’m sure I wasn’t meant to notice, and it looks like I’m the only one who has. Einar shoots him a wry glance and reluctantly gets to his feet.
For the sake of his people, I’m sure. It certainly isn’t for mine.
Nonetheless, I dip my head at him as though I appreciate his belated empty gesture and take my seat beside his.
I may not have understood before, how important it was that I play this part, but I do now. And sands-be-damned if I’ll let my pride — or his — stop me.
Though, his pride is a tricky thing to nail down. He is, after all, dining next to a servant this evening. Einar gives me a single, assessing glance before diverting his attention to Leif without a word.
“It is good see you this night, Con - Lady Zaina.” A timid voice comes from behind a veil with the insignia of a ship.
She stopped herself short of saying “consort.” Has someone explained that it’s an offensive term in the common tongue?Odger had certainly known that from the start, and I suspect the king had as well.
It would be good to see her as well, but I can hardly say so without being rude, so I settle on a thank you. She turns back to her food, clearly embarrassed, even if I can’t make out her features.
There’s another shuffling noise to my right, and I can only surmise Leif has once again given the king a nudge toward propriety when Einar opens his mouth to speak.
“Indeed. How kind of you to join us.” His tone is so perfectly neutral, I can’t be sure if he’s being genuine or if it’s a jibe at the fact that I hadn’t before now.
I decide to pretend it’s the former, beaming a bright smile in his direction for the sparsely filled table to see.
“Well, Dear Husband, I figured I had left you in want of my company for long enough.”
The table can assume I meant at dinnertime, but Einar knows perfectly well that I’m referring to his noted avoidance of me these past weeks.
His brow arches ever so slightly, but he doesn’t respond, only motions for the servants to bring the first course.
It’s another evening of eating our meal while the scant few guests at the tables wait. It’s just as upsetting as it was the first time. But while I was concerned about offending Sigrid, I have no such compunctions about the man sitting next to me.
“Why do you insist on dinner when they can’t eat?” I ask him when the conversation swells enough to cover the question.
His jaw clenches, like I knew it would. No matter, I’m not here for him.
“I don’t insist,” he growls.
“Then why --”
“Because dinner is about more than food,” he says shortly.
Leif clears his throat, and I realize our voices carried more than I intended.
“If I may,” his deep voice interjects, and again, I notice the way he seems to linger at the end of each syllable before moving on to the next. “It may seem strange with so many people, but it is not unlike any other family dinner.”
I blink, trying and failing to imagine such a thing in Madame’s household. Had my birth family eaten together? Those memories are locked away so tightly, I can’t seem to dredge one up.
I hide my horrified expression a moment too late. But instead of the way Einar is close to crumpling his fork in his irritation, Leif asks patiently, “What were they like, in your home?”
The word home is nearly as foreign as the concept of a family dinner, and the lie Madame told is more than enough to keep up with, so I settle on the truth.
“We didn’t have family dinners.” I force a smile I don’t feel, like the answer doesn’t matter.
The table around us is still engaging in low conversational tones; Leif and Einar both go still. Then, Leif nods, almost more to himself than to me.
“Then it’s a custom we will be happy to teach you,” he says, and the kindness in his voice unravels something coiled tightly within myself.
“And I would be glad to learn.” It’s impossible to be anything but kind in return.
Besides, it may be the truest thing I’ve said all evening. I would be glad to learn in a life I’ll never have with a man who actually loved me. As it is, I focus on enjoying small things about this moment, like how excited Khijhana is when I sneak her bits of roasted fish.
The more peaceful I feel, the more relaxed the atmosphere grows around us. The woman who spoke earlier asks if she can feed the giant cat as well, and I oblige. Nearly everyone at the table laughs when Khijhana, clearly having understood the meaning, practically sprints the couple of seats to the mild woman.
It isn’t long, though, before the arduous voice of Lord Odger slithers across the table.
“Consort Zaina.” He certainly remembers my title today. “How lovely to see you enjoying your meal with such...pleasure.”
I fight not to gag on the last bite of vegetables, trying to speak up before Einar can. He’s tense beside me, the energy radiating off of him practically feral.
For all that he doesn’t seem to want me, he certainly does give off the impression of jealousy.
“Yes, Lord Odger,” I respond. “My compliments to the chef.”
“Wait until you try the glazed snowbird legs at the festival tomorrow.” He says the words just a hair too innocently, like he already knows I’m not aware of any festival.
And I have a choice. Play into his hands and further prove to the room that I am ill-matched for their precious king...or cover for him.
I swallow my pride and do the latter.
“Einar -- His Majesty,” I feign the intimate slip, and in the corner of my eye, Einar’s gaze narrows slightly, “was just telling me about it. I’m so looking forward to finally seeing more of my new home and sampling… Oh, what was it you were telling me I simply had to try, dear?”
A hush falls over the room, and the king's eyes widen. He manages to wipe the baffled look off of his face in time to respond.
“The Sterling Eiswein. It’s the jewel of the festival, made from our --”
“Icicle berries,” I fill in, picturing the deep purple oblong fruit depicted in one of the books in the study.
He raises his eyebrows, and I turn back to Odger.
“But a glazed snowbird sounds delightful as well.”
He nods, but the disappointment is evident in his lack of response.
The king’s knee presses against my own, sending every neuron in my body on alert. He is thanking me, I realize, having discerned Odger’s motives as well as I did.
And it may not be much, but that simple gesture feels like a victory.