Page 34 of A Game of Veils

Only silverware and a goblet wait for me at my spot. Well, those and a silver bucket next to my chair.

A few of the other ladies arrived before me. Their faces echo the same apprehension that’s prickling through me.

Lady Rochelle ends up across from me, one seat over. We exchange tight smiles. She curls her fingers around the handle of her fork, rocking it against the table restlessly.

Lady Leonette, the pretty but solemn woman who was called first in the announcement of the trials, ends up at the foot of the table. When Fausta arrives, she casts her gaze that way and lets out a disdainful sniff, as if she sees it as an honor she deserved more. She settles into her chair a couple over from me.

It’s a good thing for her one of her fellow noblewomen is sitting between us. A buffer in case she starts harassing the other ladies again and I’m tempted to stab her with my steak knife.

I believe in peace, but if it’s a question of her peace or that of the ten other women at the table, there’s such a thing as prioritizing the greater good.

As the last of us settles into her chair, the chime rings through the chatter from the surrounding tables. I now dip my head automatically, though I watch our judges make their appearance from the corner of my eye.

Emperor Tarquin reaches his gilded seat with his usual steady stride. Marclinus saunters over right behind his father, his mouth already curved into a wide smirk.

He doesn’t sit at first, simply propping his elbows on the back of his chair in a casual pose. His merry voice rings through the room. “Good people of the court and ladies of our competition, we have something special for you tonight.”

At a clap of his hands, we look up. Servers slip between the tables, carrying covered plates. They stop just behind us to wait for their next cue.

Marclinus sweeps his hand toward us with a flourish. “You lovely ladies will get to feast on every one of my favorite foods tonight. I want to see that our tastes align in cuisine as in all else. You should appreciate every morsel. But I do favor rather a lot of dishes, so downing them all may try your appetite.”

A manic gleam lights in his gray eyes. “The first one to fail to keep it all down is clearly the least qualified to be my wife.”

Fail to keep it— Oh.

The significance of the silver buckets hits me with a lurch of my stomach. They’re for us to vomit into if we’re stuffed beyond our tolerance.

Even as the queasy chill trickles through my veins, my gaze flicks toward Fausta’s scarlet hair with a jolt of recollection.

At lunch, she was being oddly friendly with the ladies near her, encouraging them to try more of one dish and another. While her plate remained barely touched.

Had she guessed what our next test might be, or did she manage to ferret out a forewarning?

Marclinus snaps his fingers at the servers. “First course: stuffed quail eggs.”

As my server steps forward, I glance around and catch a glimpse of the four foster princes seated in a row at the table just behind me. For once, their hostile gazes aren’t aimed at me but at the imperial heir instead.

I think Bastien’s face looks a tad more sallow than usual. Lorenzo’s mouth has tightened with a trace of revulsion.

I yank my attention back to the plate being lowered in front of me before I can focus on Raul’s or Neven’s expression. At least I don’t have to watch them glowering at me while I endure this meal.

Four small half-eggs nestle in the middle of the plate, their yolks whipped to a froth and mixed with bits of some reddish vegetable. Hardly an intimidating appetizer.

But from what I’ve seen of Marclinus’s sense of “fun,” that’s no cause for relief.

Lifting the first egg to my mouth, I catch Rochelle’s nervous eyes from across the table. “Take small bites and chew thoroughly,” I murmur. We’ll want the food to settle as well as possible into our stomachs and to digest quickly.

A server comes around to pour wine, and I add, “Careful how much you drink.” It won’t do us any good to fill up on anything not part of the trial.

The other ladies closest to me have heard my advice as well, but I’m not going to resent them that, even if they’ve spent more time glaring daggers at me than offering friendliness. The moment any of these trials begin, we’re equal victims.

As I chew my first morsel, Marclinus sprawls out in a typical languid pose and waves his hand to one of the other tables. “I could use an appetizer of my own. Vicerine Bianca, you’ll keep me company, won’t you?”

I can’t imagine any of his court would refuse him, but Bianca sashays over beaming eagerness through her coy smile.

The imperial heir pats his lap. She sinks onto him, leaning against his well-built chest as if they’re a pair of ardent newlyweds.

The viceroy I’ve gathered is her husband watches from the table she left with his expression set in stiff indifference.

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