“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I say, feeling more rude than usual. “Your name is Carmadon, but—”
“Of course, excuse my manners, Miss Barrow. Premier Davidson is my husband, and he is currently very late. I would apologize if the dinner goes cold waiting for him”—he waves a hand at the table of food nearby, holding our first course—“but his punctuality is neither my fault nor my problem.”
His words are harsh, but his manner friendly and open. If Davidson is difficult to read, his husband is an open book. And so is Evangeline right now.
She stares at the man with such naked envy I think she might turn green. And no wonder. Their lives, a marriage such as this, are impossible in our country. Forbidden. Considered a waste of silver blood. But not here.
I fold my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Anabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Carmadon or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.
Farley barely nods her head in thanks when Carmadon fills her glass with rich, almost black wine. She drinks deep.
I stick to ice water, speckled with slices of bright lemon. The last thing I need is a spinning head and blurred thoughts with Tiberias Calore anywhere nearby. I glance at him as he enters, running my eyes over his familiar shoulders thrown wide beneath the edges of a red cape. It seems more like flame in the warm lights of the terrace.
When he turns around, I drop my gaze. I can only listen as he approaches, his presence heavy on the air. A wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone terrace, its movement agonizingly slow and deliberate. I almost jolt when I realize exactly where he has decided to sit.
His arm brushes mine, just for a second, and his warmth settles around me. I curse the familiar comfort of it, especially against the mountain chill.
Finally I dare to look up, only to find Carmadon with his head tilted, chin resting on one fist. He seems infinitely amused. At his side, Farley looks more inclined to vomit. And I don’t have to see Anabel’s face to know she’s scowling.
I lock my hands together beneath the tabletop, knitting my fingers so tightly my knuckles turn white. Not with fear, but with anger. Next to me, Tiberias leans, one elbow on the arm of the chair closest to me. He could whisper in my ear if he wanted. I grit my teeth, resisting the instinct to spit.
Across the table, Evangeline almost purrs to herself. She runs a hand through her furs, her decorative claws gleaming. “How many courses does this meal have, my lord Carmadon?”
Davidson’s husband doesn’t look away from me, and his lips twitch in what could be a smirk. “Six.”
With a scowl, Farley knocks back the rest of her wine.
Grinning, Carmadon gestures to the servants in the shadows. “Dane and your lord Julian can catch up,” he says, calling for the first course with a flick of his fingers. “I hope you enjoy. We’ve taken great care to prepare some Montfort delicacies.”
The service is smooth and quick, just as efficient but less formal than I’ve seen in the palaces of Silver kings. Carmadon presides as small plates of elegant bone china are laid out in front of us. I look down at a pink slice of fish the size of my thumb, topped with some kind of creamy cheese and asparagus.
“Fresh-caught salmon, from the Calum River in the west,” Carmadon explains, before popping the entire thing in his mouth. Farley quickly follows suit. “The Calum drains to the western coast, into the ocean.”
In my head I try to picture what he’s talking about, but my knowledge of his lands is poor at best. There’s another ocean, yes, bordering the western edge of the continent, but that’s all I can grasp right now.
“My uncle Julian will be eager to learn more of your country,” Tiberias replies. He speaks slowly, with conviction. It ages him a decade. “I suspect his questions are what delay both him and the premier now.”
“Perhaps. My Dane does delight in his library.”
And so would Julian. I wonder if the premier is trying to form ties of his own, perhaps make an ally of a friendly Nortan Silver. Or maybe Davidson is just enjoying time with another scholar, eager to share word of his country.
After the salmon comes a hot vegetable soup, steaming in the chilly air, and then a salad of fresh greens and wild huckleberry grown on this very mountain. Carmadon doesn’t seem to mind that no one else is speaking. He fills the silence with his own chatter, pleasantly comfortable as he details every bit of the meal he prepared. The particulars of a salad dressing, the best time to pick berries, how long the vegetables must cook, the size of his personal garden, and so on. I doubt Evangeline, Tiberias, or Anabel has ever cooked a day in their life, and I wonder if Farley’s ever eaten anything that wasn’t stolen or rationed.
I do my best to seem polite, although I have little to say. Especially with Tiberias so close, inhaling everything on his plate. I glance at him here and there, hoarding brief flashes of his face. His jaw clenched, his throat working. He never shaved so closely before. If I didn’t have my pride or conviction, I might run my knuckles over his cheek, close against smooth skin.
This time, he catches my eye before I can look away.
My instinct is to blink, break the stare. Turn back to my plate or maybe even excuse myself from the table. But I hold my ground. If the would-be king wants to put me on edge, knock me back on my heels, then fine. I can do that too. I set my shoulders, straighten my spine, and, most important of all, remember to breathe. Tiberias is just one more Silver who will leave my people enslaved, no matter what he preaches. He is an obstacle and a shield. A delicate balance must be kept.
He blinks first, returning to his food.
I do the same.
It burns to be near him, so close to a person I used to trust. A body I know so well. One choice, one word, and things would be so different. This dinner would be spent trading glances, communicating in our way about Evangeline or Anabel or Davidson’s absence. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. It would be us on this terrace, under the stars, surrounded by a new kind of country. An imperfect one, maybe, but a goal just the same. Carmadon is Silver, his husband a Red newblood. The servants are not slaves. I’ve seen little of Montfort, but enough to know this place might be different. And we could be different in it. If only he would let us.
Tiberias still wears no crown, but I see it on him just the same. In his shoulders, in his eyes, in his slow, firm manner. He is a king as much as anyone can be. To the blood. To the bone.
When the servants clear the salad plates, Carmadon glances at the door, as if expecting Davidson to join us. He frowns a little when no one appears but gestures for the next course anyway. “This is a particular Montfortan treat,” he says with a pasted smile.
A plate slides onto the table in front of me. It looks like a particularly thick and juicy cut of steak, flanked by golden fried potatoes and mushrooms, onions, and leafy greens cooked in sauce. In a word, delicious.
“Steak?” Anabel asks, leaning forward with an unkind smile. “I promise, my lord Carmadon, we do have steak in our country.”
But our host ticks one dark finger. It incenses the old queen as much as his disregard for titles does. “On the contrary. You have cattle. This is bison.”
“What is bison?” I ask, eager to try it for myself.
His knife scrapes the plate as he slices a cut. “A different species, albeit close in relation to the cattle you know. Bigger by far, better in taste. Much stronger and hardier, with horns and shaggy coats and enough muscle to knock over a transport if they so choose. Most here are wild, though some farms exist. They roam the Paradise Valley, the hills, and the plains as well. They thrive even in winters that could kill man or beast. You’d never look a live bison in the face and call her cattle, that I can assure you.” I watch, fascinated, as his blade cuts through such strange meat. Red juice bleeds across his meal, staining the white china. “An interesting thing, the bison and the cow. So similar. Two branches of the same tree, though entirely different from one another. And separate as they are, divided as the two species can be, they can live alongside each other just fine. Mingle their herds. They can even breed.”
Next to me, Tiberias coughs, almost choking on a piece of food.