Page 54 of A Game of Veils

The imperial heir beckons the closest of us ladies over to the serving dish. “Hold it up so I can receive my soup. Prepare yourself—the dish is hot.”

His words set off a peal of warning in my head. I bite back my own plea for caution as the noblewoman reaches for the porcelain sides.

The moment she grasps the dish, her features twitch with a flinch she can’t suppress. A tiny gasp escapes her lips.

Marclinus raises his eyebrows at her. “Get on with it, then.”

With her lips pressed so tightly the skin around them pales, she hefts the serving dish off the platter and holds it within reach of the woman with the ladle. Her arms tremble, and the whites of her eyes look starker with every passing second.

The other woman calmly spoons three dollops of the soup into Marclinus’s bowl, and the lady yanks the serving dish back to the platter. When she wrenches her hands away, dark pink blotches of burns show against her palms and fingers.

My gut lurches with a sensation very different from hunger. The first victim retreats to the back of our cluster, her shoulders trembling and her hands tucked close to her skirt.

We wait in tense silence as Marclinus eats his soup while exchanging dry remarks with the nobles closest to him. I can’t decide whether his cool cruelty is more disturbing when he’s in a calmer mood like now or when he’s more animated in his antics.

The next course to arrive is roasted vegetables in a similarly sized serving dish. Lady Leonette moves to hold it up to the serving woman’s tongs, her curvy frame going rigid, a breath passing through her teeth with a soft hiss.

Rochelle stirs restlessly at my side and stiffens when she starts to sway. Her face has already turned wan beneath her freckles.

I touch her arm, deciding it’s worth straining my throat to see her make it through. My voice comes out in a thin whisper. “Distance your mind like we did with the knives. Like you’re not in your body.”

I’m not sure I conveyed my meaning as clearly as I’d have liked to, but she makes it through her turn with only a few shakes and shudders. Then comes a dish filled with risotto, and I’m the next in line.

Following my own advice, I detach into a meditative state as I step forward.

I’m not really here. I’m floating somewhere above my body, unaffected by its pains.

My hands lift to the sides of the dish. The heat sears through my skin, yanking at my consciousness. Tears would well behind my eyes if I had the moisture to spare.

The rich savory smell fills my nose, and a tiny bit of saliva manages to form around my tongue. I separate myself from that sensation too, holding the dish firmly and lifting it to the server.

I will survive this agony. I will not be broken.

What is this discomfort compared to the weeks of brutal labor endured by the common folk the empire forces to convey the bream cedar logs across the continent? To the slashes of swords and pelting of arrows faced by those compelled to fight along the empire’s border?

Some part of me can’t help wondering if the pain that’s being inflicted on me is some kind of punishment for ever daring to wish I’d never end up in a position like this at all. For imagining I deserved any kind of freedom while the people of my kingdom suffer.

The server lowers her spoon. I set the dish back on the platter and peel away my stinging hands.

Marclinus looks up at me with a crooked grin. “The steadiest of them all so far. You do know how to carry yourself as more than a lady, Princess Aurelia.”

His compliment leaves me cold. There’s a faint snort behind me that I’d imagine comes from Fausta.

Who edges a little out from our cluster just as I’m passing by. She whips out her foot and snags my ankle.

My weakened body stumbles, my capacity for balance dwindled with my thirst. It’s only thanks to Rochelle’s hasty grasp that I don’t fall face-first to the floor.

When I glance back at my rival, she smirks at me for the two seconds it takes before Marclinus lifts his voice.

“Lady Fausta, are you hoping to win my hand by your own merits or not?”

I hadn’t realized he was paying attention—and clearly, neither did she. She whirls around with a flush splashing across her delicate features. “I’m so sorry, Your Imperial Highness. It was an accident. I wasn’t thinking about where I set my feet.”

From the imperial heir’s narrowed eyes, I don’t think he believes her any more than I do. As he beckons to the next lady, Fausta shoots a glare over her shoulder at me, as if it’s my fault that he chided her.

She handles her own turn steadily enough, with just a brief quiver of her arms and a stifled whimper. I’m just starting to think that we’ll all make it through without significant incident when the seventh lady hefts up her serving dish—and yelps.

Her hands spasm against the porcelain sides. The dish slips from her grasp and crashes onto the floor. The chunks of curried meat it contained splatter the rug in the midst of the chunks of broken pottery.

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