Page 56 of A Game of Veils

I snatch the plate from him and dip my head in thanks before hurrying to the head table where Marclinus’s ladies have always sat. The second I drop into my chair, I slide my ring back onto my finger. Then I grab my spoon in one hand, the slab of bread in the other, and throw myself into my meal.

I intend to moderate my pace, but my hunger rears up like a savage creature, and for the first several seconds I can’t seem to do anything but shovel stew and bites of bread into my mouth. My bowl is already half empty when a mocking laugh carries from farther down the table.

“The wild princess has become outright feral tonight,” Bianca says in an arch tone.

I glance up to see her sitting next to Fausta, who’s popping morsels of roasted chicken off her fork into her mouth much more daintily than I was. She slants her gaze toward me with a sniff of disdain.

The reminder that I am supposed to be acting like a princess, that my betrothed will be watching me, reins me in. I finish the bowl of stew and every crumb of bread at a more measured pace, draining another cup of water in frequent sips between bites.

By the time I’m finished, my stomach feels oddly bloated, even though this is my first meal in two days and only a fraction of what past dinners included. It seems wisest to listen to my body’s signals.

I can catch up more tomorrow. And if I find myself starving later in the evening, I’d imagine Melisse can slip down to the kitchen to scrounge up some sort of snack.

With the gnawing hunger sated, a restlessness creeps over me despite my fatigue. I’ve spent the past two days cooped up in the palace, constantly monitored, never allowed a moment alone.

What I’m most craving now is fresh air and space to move around unimpeded.

The nobles around me are immersed in their feasting. I get to my feet and amble toward one of the doorways, and no one speaks to stop me.

After several bends in hallways and a couple of wrong turns, I emerge from the palace into the back gardens. The lanterns along the back wall of the immense building cast a glow through the darkness over the grounds.

The flowers in their rectangular beds drift in the breeze, which is still warm from the day but not unpleasantly so. A fountain burbles to my right, where a statue of Prospira, godlen of fertility and agriculture, appears to summon water from her hands to course down over the mass of vines she’s standing on.

I let the cool spray fleck my skin and then meander onward. Gradually, despite my still slightly wobbly steps, my shoulders ease down.

There are no judgmental stares here, no guards, no games. The knot of held-in tension in my chest gradually unwinds.

A few flowering trees stand amid the gravel paths, and an orchard in spring blossom sprawls to my left. But my gaze is drawn to the taller trees that form a semi-circle farther ahead and to my right: the palace woods.

The oaks and ash trees stretch nowhere near as tall as the evergreens back home, but they’re the closest thing I’ve got here. I drift toward them, called by the pang of homesickness I can never quite shed.

The woods are hardly wild. It’s clear the paths between the trees are carefully maintained, the shrubs kept trimmed and brush culled back to make for easy riding—or even walking. The shadows thicken, but enough moonlight filters through the leaves overhead that I continue onward, not yet ready to return to the stuffiness of the palace. The earthy scents in the air invigorate me out of the lingering weakness from the trial.

I’ve barely moved all day. My limbs are aching as much from disuse as fatigue.

As I meander on, a faint strumming reaches my ears. It lilts in a scrap of melody, halts, and then starts up again.

Who else would be out here in the dusk?

I hesitate and then ease along more cautiously than before, peering in the direction of the music. Several paces farther, a gleam of lanternlight comes into view.

I pad on until I make out the tall, well-built figure leaning against a tree trunk, lute tucked under one arm, long fingers dancing nimbly across the strings.

Prince Lorenzo might have played himself ragged on the emperor’s orders earlier today, but it looks as if he’s still able to take some pleasure from his talent. Although the tunes spilling from the lute’s strings don’t sound as vibrant and assured as his past performances that I’ve heard.

From the way he’s pausing and restarting, I think he’s getting used to the instrument. Learning how to work with it rather than already sure of his skill.

That doesn’t make the music he’s producing any less enjoyable to listen to, though. His rambling practice has a rawness to it, a sense of discovery that sends a little thrill over my skin.

Does he feel the same way I do when I’m assembling a new potion or ointment for the first time?

Maybe it’s that sense of connection that brings me forward. Maybe it’s the memory of how he moved to comfort me two days ago when the princes stole into my bedroom in the middle of the night—the only one who showed any concern about my grief.

Or maybe I simply know I have to take every chance I can get to win over my most likely allies.

At the rustle of my feet through the scattered leaves, Lorenzo’s head jerks up. His hand stills over the lute’s strings.

I come to a stop a few paces away. “I think I might like hearing you play like this even more.”

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