Damn him. Of course he'd notice.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I close my eyes, then open them.
Nope. Still in purgatory.
I give him a hunted glance. “I'm fine.”
He studies me, then gestures to a servant, who leans down. The Prince murmurs an instruction. Moments later, a clear bowl of broth appears in front of me. Some vegetables and slivers of meat float in the liquid.
“Try this,” Renaud says. “It will be gentler on your stomach. . .especially with all the wine.”
I almost take the bowl and throw its contents in his face in defiance of the command, but a warring instinct conflicts with that desire. I don't expect kindness from him, or enough caring to observe that I’m unwell. It perturbs me enough that I pick up the bowl with shaking hands and sip in silence. Simple kindness is rare enough even among family who love each other. That he’s capable of it cracks the foundation of everything I think I know.
“Bread?” A roll is the only food on the Prince’s plate. Renaud tears off a tiny piece and raises it to my lips, waits until I’m forced to take the morsel, my lips brushing his fingers. “A small piece.”
There’s a sharp inhale from the general direction I noted Baroun earlier, and I conclude he doesn’t like this servile behavior at all.
That's enough incentive to cooperate.
Renaud feeds me tiny bits of bread like a broken bird he’s nursing back to health and I take a quick glance at Baroun to rub it in his face, but he’s not looking at me. He stares at Renaud, his expressionblank.
Over a few pieces of bread?
The Prince meets his gaze, holds it. No more than a few seconds, but long enough. I want to know what that silentmalespeak means.
Then the entirety of what’s happened this evening, the ramifications, hits me.
“You kissed me,” I say, still in the privacy of my paternal language. “You almost did more.”
The Prince of Everenne kissed me. Stated he would court me. Has been sending a fine symphony of subtle cues all evening to cement my status and his mark without the vulgarity of blunt speech, a dance of culture and politics lost on no one—not even those who can’t speak my language. Though I’m uncertain where the bread fits in, only that it does. The intimacy of the three of us conversing in Kikuyu sends a stronger message than if the Prince allowed them to understand our conversation.
The son of two Ancients has chosen an infant halfling, unranked, undereducated, often doped out on a concoction of PTSD pills. The Mad Dog of Faronne.
Do you understand,Darkan says, almost gentle,that he will not turn from this choice, now affirmed before the Court? It is not lightly made, and even if unwisely done, he will still accept the consequences. A Prince cannot be seen as fickle or he is beheld with contempt. Your youth has now passed, Aerinne Nyawira, and you must leave Neverland behind.
Renaud is still, then his velvet voice rubs against my bare skin. “I did. I'll kiss you many more times, Nyawira.”
Looking around for anything calming to rest my gaze on, I find no relief. Baroun won’t look at me. Baba’s expression is in its frozen pleasant mask. Numair looks beyond my shoulder, face clean of emotion. Even the trees appear sinister, shadowed and gnarled. The pressure between my temples increases.
With each carefully calculated gesture of honor and respect, Renaud backs me into a corner. Well. . .the other House Lords aren’t that naive, but they won’t help me even if they see this for what it is.
Renaud fed me from his hand, and though I don't quite know what the significance of that is to Baroun, I can make some wild guesses. I close my eyes for a few seconds.
I understand neither Renaud nor the game he plays, but his intent is painfully clear.
My stomach retains the bread, so I eviscerate a roll into several little pieces and sit them on the small plate next to my bowl, shaken with the need to run since drinking is no longer an option, but that would be the worst thing to do. A male in rut is bad, a warrior worse, so logic dictates a High Lord to be disastrous.
So then what does one call an Old One spiraling into heat?
A nuclear disaster?
“Is there anything left of a lover after an Old One finishes with them? Anything besides blood and meat?” Because logistics are important.
His contemplative look surprises me. The question should anger him, or at least cause offense.
“How frightened you are,” he murmurs.
