of the building and we sat at this, cupping hot bowls of fish chowder to fight the cold that whipped through the buildings outside and snuck under the door to coil around our legs and inside our collars.
“Highness,” said Cook, throwing me a piece of hot bread, which I caught in one fist. “You know you shouldn’t be down here.” He threw another piece of bread, which Harryet caught, and another, which Hero missed. He picked it up, dusted it off and dipped it into his soup.
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
“You won’t get her in the dining room unless her mother insists,” Harryet said. I hated dining with the nobility. I hated Odell’s orotund pronouncements and Arkantha’s criticisms of my table manners. But more than that I hated sitting beneath my mother’s hawk-like gaze.
“And as if that’s going to happen. My mother hates me,” I said, locking eyes with her. We both laughed.
“You shouldn’t say that,” Hero said.
“But it’s true.”
I suspected Mother was glad I ate in the kitchen. My presence was a cruel reminder of her mortality, her limited time on the throne, and her growing irrelevance. Plus, when I was there, my father would sometimes talk to me.
No, Cook was far more interesting than anyone you would find in the dining room. He had seen things that made him question life. He had seen the battlefields of the Black Strip, had watched his brother die, had run around the inside of his own mind and nearly fallen into the abyss of madness. He expressed scepticism about everything and could laugh at the most serious—or apparently serious—things because to him they held no meaning. He was fond of saying, “What will it matter once yer dead?” and it was common knowledge that he never visited the temple. “The gods weren’t with us in Caspius so why would they show themselves now?” he would say with a grin, making it impossible to castigate him, though Harryet often tried.
Cook kept his kitchen like an armoury—polishing and shining his weapons—and spoke to his staff like a drill sergeant. Yet for all his show of inflexibility he was the go-to-man for any soldier with a broken heart. Harryet and I would often find ourselves at his table with our little hands wrapped around a hot bowl of something-or-other discussing the pros and cons of the phalanx formation, the proper etiquette for duelling, and whether Cook thought, in all honesty, that I could take the throne without a gift.
To this he said, “Of course you can. And so what if you’re not a Talent? Does it impact on your ability to be the best queen you can be? No. Their approval means nothing.”
Harryet and Hero adamantly agreed.
Nothing meant anything to Cook and for this I was glad. In my world everything meant something. Still, I had a sinking suspicion he was wrong. I thought of the woman with the missing tooth and her friends who had saved me from the Shark’s Teeth at Antoine’s initiation ceremony. The people’s approval meant everything .
On this particular bitter afternoon Cook was up to his elbows in soapy water. The wind was howling through the eaves and sleet was splattering against the side of the building. Harryet, Hero and I were laughing at Odell’s new outfit, which his mother had made him wear to the recent banquet that had brought Hero and his family to the visitors’ apartments. It was all frilly layers and blue ruffles, but what was particularly humorous was the long sleeves.
“You should have seen him,” I said, clapping my hands. “He tried to shoot ice at me from across the table but instead he put a gaping hole in his new cloak. Thera was furious.”
“Mother had it made especially,” Hero said.
There was a screech outside. Cook flung back the animal skin over the window, threw back the shutters and peered into the whirling white. “Well, Heritia damn my soul.”
“Cook,” Harryet scolded, then made the sign of Ayfra to ward off evil. No one paid her any
“Highness,” said Cook, throwing me a piece of hot bread, which I caught in one fist. “You know you shouldn’t be down here.” He threw another piece of bread, which Harryet caught, and another, which Hero missed. He picked it up, dusted it off and dipped it into his soup.
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
“You won’t get her in the dining room unless her mother insists,” Harryet said. I hated dining with the nobility. I hated Odell’s orotund pronouncements and Arkantha’s criticisms of my table manners. But more than that I hated sitting beneath my mother’s hawk-like gaze.
“And as if that’s going to happen. My mother hates me,” I said, locking eyes with her. We both laughed.
“You shouldn’t say that,” Hero said.
“But it’s true.”
I suspected Mother was glad I ate in the kitchen. My presence was a cruel reminder of her mortality, her limited time on the throne, and her growing irrelevance. Plus, when I was there, my father would sometimes talk to me.
No, Cook was far more interesting than anyone you would find in the dining room. He had seen things that made him question life. He had seen the battlefields of the Black Strip, had watched his brother die, had run around the inside of his own mind and nearly fallen into the abyss of madness. He expressed scepticism about everything and could laugh at the most serious—or apparently serious—things because to him they held no meaning. He was fond of saying, “What will it matter once yer dead?” and it was common knowledge that he never visited the temple. “The gods weren’t with us in Caspius so why would they show themselves now?” he would say with a grin, making it impossible to castigate him, though Harryet often tried.
Cook kept his kitchen like an armoury—polishing and shining his weapons—and spoke to his staff like a drill sergeant. Yet for all his show of inflexibility he was the go-to-man for any soldier with a broken heart. Harryet and I would often find ourselves at his table with our little hands wrapped around a hot bowl of something-or-other discussing the pros and cons of the phalanx formation, the proper etiquette for duelling, and whether Cook thought, in all honesty, that I could take the throne without a gift.
To this he said, “Of course you can. And so what if you’re not a Talent? Does it impact on your ability to be the best queen you can be? No. Their approval means nothing.”
Harryet and Hero adamantly agreed.
Nothing meant anything to Cook and for this I was glad. In my world everything meant something. Still, I had a sinking suspicion he was wrong. I thought of the woman with the missing tooth and her friends who had saved me from the Shark’s Teeth at Antoine’s initiation ceremony. The people’s approval meant everything .
On this particular bitter afternoon Cook was up to his elbows in soapy water. The wind was howling through the eaves and sleet was splattering against the side of the building. Harryet, Hero and I were laughing at Odell’s new outfit, which his mother had made him wear to the recent banquet that had brought Hero and his family to the visitors’ apartments. It was all frilly layers and blue ruffles, but what was particularly humorous was the long sleeves.
“You should have seen him,” I said, clapping my hands. “He tried to shoot ice at me from across the table but instead he put a gaping hole in his new cloak. Thera was furious.”
“Mother had it made especially,” Hero said.
There was a screech outside. Cook flung back the animal skin over the window, threw back the shutters and peered into the whirling white. “Well, Heritia damn my soul.”
“Cook,” Harryet scolded, then made the sign of Ayfra to ward off evil. No one paid her any
Similar Books
