Page 35 of A Game of Veils

Beneath that mask, is he angry with his soon-to-be ruler for the liberties taken? Or simply resigned that his wife is no more truly his own than anything else in this palace?

Bianca gives a slight tip of her head to Fausta, who flashes a smile in return. My chest tightens with the abrupt certainty that my suspicion was correct.

Through her associations of whatever sort with the imperial heir, Bianca found out something about the coming trial and passed the knowledge on to her friend.

Heedless of his potential brides arrayed in front of him, Marclinus tucks the lowest loops of Bianca’s sleek braids aside so he can nibble at her neck unimpeded. Her eyelids flutter, and a breathy sigh slips from her lips.

My face flushes. I drag my gaze back to my meal.

The public intimacy in the middle of a formal dinner would fluster me even if the man involved wasn’t my supposed future husband. Does he often show off his proclivities so blatantly, or is this just another part of our test?

None of the nobles I can see look surprised by his display. Even Emperor Tarquin looks more bemused than offended by his son’s antics.

Surely Marclinus will rein in his appetites once he’s married? Once he’s officially dedicated to another woman?

I want to believe that, but a niggling voice in the back of my head points out that he doesn’t seem to respect anyone else’s vows all that much.

We finish the quail eggs with no trouble. The imperial heir cups Bianca’s breast through her dress and announces the next course. “Seared, butter-glazed scallops!”

So it proceeds through plate after plate. I’m not sure what the rest of the room is eating—they’ve been brought one course for every two of ours. Each of ours proves larger than the one before.

By the eighth plate, a slab of roast pork drenched in a creamy wine sauce, my belly is aching despite my best precautions. Across from me, Rochelle’s shoulders have tensed as she chews, a fine sweat shining on her forehead. Her neighbor’s milky skin has taken on a greenish tint.

At the foot of the table, Lady Leonette remains stoic, but she’s gripping her knife tight enough for the dark brown skin of her knuckles to lighten. Only Fausta looks reasonably relaxed, spearing her next bite with a triumphant air as if she’s already won.

The tender meat tastes like ash in my mouth. I force myself to grind it between my teeth rather than gulping it straight down the way I’m tempted to, as if getting it over with would spare me additional misery.

Nearly as nauseating is the sight by the head of the table. Marclinus has called over one of the married baronissas to perch on the arm of his chair. He’s teasing his fingers back and forth along her thigh, although Bianca keeps drawing his attention back to her with strokes of his jaw and chest.

Fausta doesn’t appear at all concerned about the imperial heir’s straying eyes. She probably has the same views on happiness in marriage as Bianca does. No wonder the vicerine doesn’t feel threatened by her friend’s interest in the man.

By the time the ninth plate arrives, my stomach feels as though I’ve swallowed a boulder. I stare at the heap of sauteed fish with queasiness bubbling at the base of my throat.

“Dig in!” Marclinus calls cheerfully. He’s giving every indication of reveling in this trial.

He did say he was enjoying them. I just hadn’t wanted to believe he did quite this much. He didn’t seem so zealous in his delight during yesterday’s test.

My main rival must decide it’s time to speed the process along. Fausta brandishes her fork. “So much lovely food. Isn’t it just wonderful to feel it filling your bellies, ladies? Mouthful after mouthful stuffed down there? It’s almost sickeningly good.”

The woman at my left shudders. My gaze darts to her with a pang of compassion.

“Keep going, slow and steady,” I whisper. “Don’t listen to her.”

Someone farther off in our audience makes a gagging noise that sets my stomach churning harder. I’d think it could be accidental if another noble didn’t imitate the sound a moment later, and then another.

Some of them are having a good time, just as Marclinus suggested. They’re trying to speed along the impending humiliation.

None of the attempts have come from behind me. Is this where the princes draw the line in their sabotage?

More likely they know that any efforts they make would affect all of us, not just me. I’m the only competitor they’re looking to unbalance.

I force down the fish through sheer force of will. Sweat trickles down my neck.

The lady next to me shifts in her chair. Her hand shakes where she’s clutching her fork.

A set of shallow bowls appears before us, filled to the brim with a cloying stew. One whiff makes my gut wobble. I grasp my spoon.

Fausta raises hers with a light chuckle. “Oh, I can’t wait to gulp down even more. Can’t you just feel the hunger burning in your throat?—”

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