Now, I’m stuck in Jasce’s bedchamber.
I raise my hands to my flushed cheeks and let out a sigh.
The door swings open, and Jasce enters with a tray of food and more wine. I don’t speak as he sets the items down on the table and turns to find me sitting on the sofa, my eyes locked on him.
“Come eat,” he says, his tone crisp.
I stand and smooth my surcoat as he pours a goblet of wine and nods toward a chair. The fading sun skips through the window, casting amber shadows on the wall as I move to the table and sit.
I pick up a piece of bread, tear off a chunk, and eat. He takes a chair near me, but he doesn’t touch the food as I continue to munch on the bread, roasted quail, and blackberries. When I finish the last of the food, I lean back against my chair and exhale. He stares at me, his expression unreadable.
“I have never seen you eat more than a few bites at a time,” he says after a moment.
“Oh.” I brush crumbs from the front of my surcoat. “I was very hungry.”
“You always pick at your food.”
“I was very very hungry,” I offer like that explains everything.
Warmth scours my cheeks as he continues to look at me like he doesn’t believe my explanation. Should I eat less? Is that what he expects?
“Would you prefer I don’t eat as much?”
“You should eat as much as you would like and not care what I think.”
“Mother says I eat too much,” I say before I realize I am offering a piece of myself to him—a real piece that is not shrouded in this lie I was forced into.
Of course, Mother said it after she started consuming the crushed petals of a flower a shifty merchant sold her. Everything changed after that. She slept more. Dark shadows appeared below her eyes, and she would disappear for days.
Asha tried everything to stop her. She even searched for the name of the flower so she could find an antidote, but she wasn’t successful.
“Maybe that is why you usually pick at your food.” Jasce glances between the empty plates and where I sit. “You shouldn’t listen to your mother.”
An exhale escapes me as I stare down at my hands.
“I want to talk about last night,” he says.
Last night?
Nerves tighten in my throat as I grab my goblet and take a quick drink of wine. The last thing I want to talk about is last night.
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. “Did something happen while I was away?”
Golden strands fall against my cheeks as I shake my head.
“Then, what is it?
“It’s me,” I say after a moment. “I’m not ready.”
“When will you be ready?”
Never.“I don’t know.”
“You’re not being honest with me.”
“I don’t know you, Jasce.” Now, that’s an honest answer. “And I feel like I shouldknowyou before…” Maybe if I stall him enough, I can think of a way out of this. All of it. The palace. Being intimate with him.
“You have known me for summers.”
