Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Outwardly, I tried to be reasonable. “Dad, he’s not. He’s of age, and he’s the best instructor there is. Besides, nothing happened.”
My father’s eyes raked over me, taking in my mussed hair, my dirty face, and my ripped trousers. He knew something had happened, but he didn’t need to know I was training to fight as well. He’d never forgive Zafir if I told him that part.
“Fine,” I finally said, hating his scrutiny and knowing he wouldn’t relent. “Next time I’ll take Zafir.” I could feel Zafir stiffen beside me, and I had to squelch the urge to smirk. That’s what he got for mocking my riding skills . . . or lack thereof. “Will that satisfy you?”
And just like that my father was smiling at me, as if he’d never been worried or angry in the first place. But there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “That would make me more than satisfied, Charlaina. That would make me positively overjoyed.” And then he winked at me. “Now you should go get cleaned up.”
I was learning that a palace dinner was as choreographed as any intricate dance production. The courses were served at predetermined intervals, and the kitchen and serving staffs were masterful, understanding the nuances—the subtlety of the meal’s progression—in ways that made it seem effortless. They would appear with new offerings before I’d even realized that the last plates had been removed from before me.
Dinner was one of the rare moments I had with my family, as a daughter and a sister, and, as my time became stretched thinner and thinner, I frequently found myself looking forward to our evening meals.
Yet another adjustment to life on the throne.
Spread before us now was a succulent roasted goose drizzled with a honeyed citrus glaze, peppered parsnips drenched in a rich cream sauce, and asparagus tips coated with herbed butter. My father’s breads—served hot and fresh from the ovens, with a crisp brown crust—were placed at even spaces across the table. I closed my eyes as I caught a whiff of the warm loaves, remembering the days when I was the serving staff. I reached for a slice as I listened with growing interest to the discussion around me.
“Preparations for your visit are coming together nicely,” Xander explained, looking pointedly in my direction. “The question is: Are you?”
I traced my fingertip around the carved pattern on the cup sitting on the table before me. It was a seal that had once been outlawed in my own country: the Di Heyse family crest. “I think so,” I answered, trying to sound more confident than I felt, and ignoring the flutter in my belly whenever the subject of my upcoming visit to the Capitol was broached. “I’m not sure what more I can do to prepare. I don’t think it’s whether I’m ready or not at this point, I think it’s whether the people are ready for me.”
I didn’t say what was really on my mind. I didn’t remind them of the last time I tried to go out in public.
I didn’t have to.
“It’ll be fine. Everything’s been prepared. Word has been spread. No one will be surprised this time,” Xander explained, his mouth curving playfully. “They’re as ready as they can be for a queen whose skin glows.”
I grimaced at the reminder, my eyes dropping to my hands in my lap. Sometimes I could almost forget what everyone else saw when they looked at me . . . the light dancing just beneath the surface of my skin. “It’s starting to fade,” I answered pathetically. “It’s nearly gone now.”
At that, all eyes were on me, and I felt my skin burning anew. I knew they could see the lie in my words. . . . every place they looked.
My lips tightened into a hard line. “It’s faded,” I insisted, this time with more conviction. “And it will be full daylight when I venture out. Surely it will be less . . . less . . .” I struggled for the right word. “Noticeable.”
Max reached beneath the table and squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said in the same reassuring tone Xander had used. And then, because I needed it, he leaned closer, his voice dropping. “They’ll love you. Just like everyone else does. They’ll know that you are the one responsible for making things better, and that you have their best interests in mind. No one’s ever worked so hard to make their lives better.” A slow smile tugged at his lips, and my concentration slipped.
It was Xander who brought me crashing back to the present. “And yet despite all of your hard work,” he interjected with a laugh, his voice ringing down the length of the table, “I wonder how many other queens are eating dinner with their fingers.” He winked conspiratorially at Eden—standing guard at my sister’s back. Eden, who pretended not to notice his every move. It was almost easy to forget that she and Xander had once worked together so closely, that she had been his right hand as he’d led the revolutionary movement that fought to overthrow his grandmother’s cruel regime. It was almost impossible not to notice how Eden’s moods shifted whenever Xander entered the room, how the very air around her became lighter. More hopeful. Yet her expression remained vigilant, her duty never forgotten.
My gaze slipped to the slab of buttered bread I held halfway to my mouth. How was I supposed to eat it if not with my hands? I wondered silently, refusing to give them the satisfaction of thinking I cared at all. With a fork and knife? I dropped the half-eaten bread onto my plate.
“What makes you think it won’t be just as awful this time?” I argued, turning the conversation away from my table manners. I hadn’t forgotten the gasps of surprise during my official coronation, when my cape had been removed and those in attendance had gotten their first real glimpse of my skin.