Poppy stared at the smeared remains of the bug as if fearing it might twitch back to life. Then she widened her eyes and said, “For the love of the thrice-spun foglace, yes! No time to wait!”
~
The dining hall was bustling when Willow crossed the threshold. Then, as if from nowhere, came the blast of a trumpet. Willow froze, and the hall fell silent. All heads turned toward her.
A bearded man in a dark red robe stepped forward and unfurled a scroll with solemnity. “Willow, Daughter of Wrenna and welcome guest of the crown, I present thee!” With a grand spin of his hand, he bowed so low his beard brushed the floor.
Willow stood rooted where she was and smiled awkwardly. Should she... wave?
The official-looking man straightened from his bowed position. “Willow, Daughter of Wrenna and welcome guest of the crown, I present thee!” he repeated, louder than before. Again he spun his hand and bowed, but this time he glared up at Willow from beneath the fold of a silken sleeve. “Go,” he whispered. “Go!”
Willow jumped and started forward, acutely aware of her body and all its moving parts. Her gown felt too tight, and her shoes clacked against the polished floor. Worse, she had absolutely no idea how to hold her arms. Had she ever known how to hold her arms?
At the front of the room, Severine sat on a dais beneath a canopy of white flames. She did not rise. She merely inclined her head. A rustle moved through the crowd as everyone followed suit.
Willow flushed and kept walking. Was she supposed to walk all the way up to Severine? If so, what was she supposed to do once she got there?
Her gown whispered with every step. She could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. Her smile wavered, and she dug her fingernails hard into her palms.
When she was still several yards from the queen, one person clapped, and then another. Others joined in, chairs scraping as they rose to standing, until the sound of applause filled the room.
Jace materialized at Willow’s side and escorted her to her seat. She wasn’t positioned next to Severine today but at a separate table populated with well-dressed courtiers.
“You’re doing great,” Jace said as she pulled out Willow’s chair.
“Am I?” Willow asked, maintaining her fixed smile.
Jace pulled her trusty spoon from behind her ear and used it to strike Willow’s empty goblet.
“Juice for the Daughter of Wrenna!” she commanded. A young server dashed over and filled it with a fizzy red beverage.
“Take a sip,” Jace muttered to Willow.
Willow did.
A great “Huzzah!” rang out through the room, and everyone lifted their goblets and did the same.
After that, they returned their attention to their food and left Willow to eat as well. Slowly, her heart rate calmed, and her smile lost its rubbery texture. She lifted a pastry and took a small refined nibble. When she sipped from her goblet, she did so the way a princess would, or rather, the way she imagined a princess would.
Around her, conversations flowed pleasantly, her tablemates lavishing her with compliments and inquiring politely about her health.
“It’s not every day we receive a Daughter of Wrenna,” said a man with lush silver lashes.
“She glows, doesn’t she?” said another, peering at Willow as though expecting her to emit sparks.
Servers darted to and fro. A server slipped a bowl of starfruit puree before Willow, and Willow nodded her thanks. She took a bite. It was delicious. Then another bite. Then she paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, distracted by the glimpse of a bare foot—small, twisted, wrong.
A strange-looking serving girl moved between the others, hunched and halting. Her skin was uneven, a patchwork of ripples and taut, glossy scars. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, and her hair was sparse and wiry.
She carried a small bowl between her hands, her steps tentative. A boy stuck out a foot and caught her ankle, and she pitched forward and fell to her knees, the bowl flying from her hands. It hit the stone with a crack, scattering porridge and broken ceramic everywhere.
Willow cringed in sympathy, but around her, laughter rang through the air like spilled beads.
Jace was standing at attention by Willow’s chair. Willow plucked at her sleeve.
“Who is that?” she asked. “Is that... is it Maeve?”
Jace’s mouth tightened. She nodded.
