“Everything Zander does is a topic of conversation for his brother.”
“Atticus told you the sordid details.” Not Zander. I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
“Atticus is worried his brother’s head is not where it should be. Again.”
We’ve entered the throng where this discussion is no longer possible. I see much of the same in the crowd as I did that day with Zander—servants, tradesmen, farmers, and all types in between that make up Islor’s common class of immortal and mortal. They’re setting up their products and chatting with those nearby, preparing for a busy day of earning money.
What is it like to be these people, to live outside these castle walls?
The friendly buzz dulls to a simmer with stares and bows. People gather their children and scuttle away from my guards, as if afraid of being caught on the sharp end of a sword. I smile at them, hoping the simple gesture will ease the growing tension that clogs the air as we pass through.
Elisaf attempts a steady pace but is forced to slow as I linger, admiring the many wares. The stalls are plentiful and diverse, with everything from baskets of fresh fruits, eggs, and vegetables to honey and wax, barrels of grain, and cast-iron cooking utensils.
My nose catches an aromatic scent, and I steer us toward a booth where strips of dried salted meat dangle from hooks. But then I remember that my kind is strictly vegetarian, and anyone watching might find it odd that the Ybarisan princess is salivating at a meat counter, so I veer past it to the next stall—a table laden with various tarts and wafers and small cakes.
Elisaf leans in to whisper in my ear, “The queen does not graze at the market stalls. The castle has its own kitchen for these sorts of things.”
The woman standing behind the table stares at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. Two scrawny children with curly mops of brown hair are tucked into either side of her skirts, the boy resting his head on her pregnant belly, the little girl sucking her thumb. They all wear the telltale cuffs of ownership in their ears.
Something in their haunting gazes holds me in place. “It’s a good thing I’m not the queen, then. And besides, the castle’s kitchens don’t help me when I’m hungry now.” I offer the woman a smile. “I’d love something from your table, please.”
The woman gives her head a shake and then curtsies deeply. “What would you prefer, Your Highness?” She has a timid voice.
“I don’t know.” I can only guess at what I see. “What would you recommend?”
“The bread pudding always sells out first. And people like the marzipan turnovers. Your Highness.”
“Did you make them?”
She dips her head. “Yes, milady. I mean, Your Highness.”
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
“On your own?”
The dark circles beneath her eyes tell me as much before her nod confirms it. My attention drifts to her swollen belly. She must be near due.
The little boy on her left points to a stack of tarts with a curled finger. “These are my favorite, Your Highness,” he offers in a high-pitched voice. His mother shushes him.
“No, it’s fine. Let him speak.” I smile at the boy, stealing a better look at the puckered skin on his hand. He’s been burned. “And why are they your favorite?”
He grins, showing off prominent gaps from missing front teeth. “The fruit filling.”
“Those are my favorite too. Can I ask, what happened to your hand?”
He looks down at his feet. “Punishment. For taking an apple. It was fallen on the ground and rotten, but still, I shouldn’t have taken it without askin’.”
“An apple.” Someone permanently disfigured this little boy because he took a rotten apple?
He glances up to his mother, who pats him on the back before turning to me. In her eyes, I see raw anguish. I’ll wager she watched it happen.
“Your keeper did that to you?”
He nods. “But I deserved it.”
I glare at Elisaf as my rage flares. “I thought mortals couldn’t be harmed,” I hiss.