The gaping maw of this evening continues to widen, salivating, patiently waiting for me to sauce myself and leap right in.
I hope I’m dry and under seasoned.
Renaud turns from me and I remember we aren't alone. I forget so much around him, drawn into his spiral web. This feels like a losing battle and I grasp for any purchase on a slippery, tilting deck stacked against me.
“But,” he says, “I concede your point.”
The admission is unexpected enough I shut up. Besides, trying to think like him is exhausting.
Staff bring in platters upon platters of hot food. Roasted fowl, racks of lamb, fish on beds of greens. Vegetables nestled on pillows of steaming spiced grains, with scattered trays of fruit and cheese for those who prefer lighter fare. Traditional Everennesse dishes.
My attention snares on several more platters familiar to Baba and I, and perhaps Manuelle and Louvenia.
“Ah!” my father exclaims. “You must have some, Nyawira. ?1Mukimo na ugali na nyama choma.”?i
Elegant bottles of beer are set at the table in front of me and my father. Picking one up, I sniff, then sip.
I set it down and glance at the platters of meat. Baba fixes me a hearty plate, uncaring of such fancy company we are in, and passes it to Renaud who places it in front of me.
I stare down at the plate, then slowly lift my head and pin the platters with a look.
“What meat is that?” I ask, also slipping into Kikuyu.
“Lamb and goat,” Baba replies. “It is on your plate. Eat.”
Njohi ya Njurio?ii since it’s beer in the bottles, or close enough. Lamb and goat.
It’s the Renaud Gautier version of kumenya mucii and kuhanda Ithigi.?iii Not perfect, but an outsider’s attempt to at least give a nod to Kikuyu marriage customs.
How did he know? There isn’t even internet in Everenne. He would have had to interrogate one of my cousins. . .he had time to do that? When.
I meet my father’s gaze and it is too bland, too pleasant—I really need to learn how to do that.
Diabolical. Renaud is diabolical.
He knew before the evening began he would stake a claim. His chefs would have needed time to prepare. Serving human dishes from my father’s culture is asubtle way to offer me, and Baba in particular as my Lord and father, honor. As I requested, which the Prince anticipated.
He intended a courtship all along.
Was earlier just a lapse in his control, or the real him? Though nothing says he can't act like a rapey monster and pay homage to my family's traditions as well. It isn't as if it's either or—which makes dealing with this High caste blue-eyed demon difficult.
“Tata will box your ears if you eat mukimo with a fork,” I hear myself say, still in our language.
Baba waves his hand. “Eh. What sister does not know, she cannot punish me for.”
“I see. What is my silence worth to you, Baba?”
He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.
It almost makes me smile, and I think that’s Renaud’s purpose. He expects these rapid fire shifts, these manipulations, to be dizzying. But I can keep up. As long as his hands aren’t on me. Which I must recall for the future; don’t let the Prince touch me if I want to keep my brain between my ears and not my legs.
I ignore it all and reach for the bottle of wine, stomach curdling. I will not drink the beer—that is too much like accepting the courtship. The Prince says nothing, though he notes my choice. He doesn’t have to say anything.
Our House has been budgeting for years to support our household plus cover increasing punitive tax burdens. For every Montague warrior we've killed, we've been levied bloodgilt.
The Faronne-Montague feud has beggared us.
And all for what? A dispute with sketchy origins. Of course,that long ago grievance is now a pretext. Now we fight for vengeance far more personal, and also because if we don't we’ll be crushed.
