her plate did. Ildiko had rinsed her mouth with wine and water while he set the basin outside her door. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep this in here for now?” Guilt rode him hard at the memory of holding her while she emptied her belly of its contents.
She shook her head. “I’m sure.”
“What if you’re sick again?” It was entirely possible. Cutting the pie and butchering the scarpatine wasn’t the worst part.
Ildiko’s chin rose, and she marched back to her chair. “I won’t be.” Before Brishen said anything else, she sat down, grabbed her dagger, sliced off a piece of scarpatine and popped it in her mouth.
Brishen’s eyebrows rose. He hovered by the door, ready to snatch the basin back and race to his wife’s side. Ildiko chewed slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. She swallowed and drank her wine.
“Well?” he said.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye before slicing off another piece. The gray mass twitched between her fingers, and she slapped it against the edge of her plate to subdue it. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.” She bit and chewed again.
Brishen laughed, delighted and relieved. “No, it doesn’t.” Assured he wouldn’t have to grab the basin, he joined her at the table. His portion of scarpatine had grown cold; he suspected hers had as well. “What does it taste like to you?” he asked between bites.
Ildiko studied the small portion impaled on her dagger’s tip. “A little muddy. A little briny. Mostly like someone took a fish, packed it in dirt and let it cook inside a sweaty boot.”
He winced at the vivid, albeit accurate, description. “You’d reduce the royal cook to fits of melancholy if he heard you say that.”
She shrugged. “He’s reduced me to retching with his repulsive pie. I suffer no guilt.” She lowered her dagger with the scarpatine still on it and pushed her plate away, a shudder wracking her slim frame. “I won’t lie, Brishen. It’s beyond foul, but I’m glad we did this now. I would have humiliated us both at the feast.”
Brishen shoved his half-eaten portion aside as well and reached for Ildiko’s hand. Her fingers notched with his, the skin of her hand so pale, he could trace the filigree of blue veins that ran beneath it with his thumb. “I don’t think that’s possible, wife.”
Her cheeks flushed an unsightly red. Three days earlier her response would have alarmed him into thinking she was ill. He’d since learned such coloration was similar to a Kai’s own darkening blush—an expression of anger, embarrassment or pleasure. The tightening of her hand on his assured him hers was one of pleasure at his words.
“You’ve a stronger stomach than I credited you with if you could eat the scarpatine without gagging.” It still surprised him. She’d been violently ill after watching him carve up the creature; he’d had no hope of her being able to eat it without growing sick a second time.
Ildiko untangled her fingers from his and patted his hand. “I doubt the Gauri court is that much different from the Kai one. If the nobility aren’t spying on each other, they’re maligning each other. Everything is fodder for gossip and ridicule. Unless you want to be the topic of conversation among bored lords and ladies waiting to sink their claws into you, you eat what’s served to you and act as if it pleases you. I learned early to hold my breath when I chewed and breathe through my nose when I swallowed. And I always made sure my goblet was full.”
She winked at him and lifted her dagger to poke at the now still slab of scarpatine. “This is one of the most horrendous things I’ve ever eaten, but it’s nothing compared to King Sangur’s favorite dish—a pea soup I will swear until I’m dead was made of and prepared by packs of rotting demons. The kitchens served it to us once a week without fail, though I don’t
She shook her head. “I’m sure.”
“What if you’re sick again?” It was entirely possible. Cutting the pie and butchering the scarpatine wasn’t the worst part.
Ildiko’s chin rose, and she marched back to her chair. “I won’t be.” Before Brishen said anything else, she sat down, grabbed her dagger, sliced off a piece of scarpatine and popped it in her mouth.
Brishen’s eyebrows rose. He hovered by the door, ready to snatch the basin back and race to his wife’s side. Ildiko chewed slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. She swallowed and drank her wine.
“Well?” he said.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye before slicing off another piece. The gray mass twitched between her fingers, and she slapped it against the edge of her plate to subdue it. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.” She bit and chewed again.
Brishen laughed, delighted and relieved. “No, it doesn’t.” Assured he wouldn’t have to grab the basin, he joined her at the table. His portion of scarpatine had grown cold; he suspected hers had as well. “What does it taste like to you?” he asked between bites.
Ildiko studied the small portion impaled on her dagger’s tip. “A little muddy. A little briny. Mostly like someone took a fish, packed it in dirt and let it cook inside a sweaty boot.”
He winced at the vivid, albeit accurate, description. “You’d reduce the royal cook to fits of melancholy if he heard you say that.”
She shrugged. “He’s reduced me to retching with his repulsive pie. I suffer no guilt.” She lowered her dagger with the scarpatine still on it and pushed her plate away, a shudder wracking her slim frame. “I won’t lie, Brishen. It’s beyond foul, but I’m glad we did this now. I would have humiliated us both at the feast.”
Brishen shoved his half-eaten portion aside as well and reached for Ildiko’s hand. Her fingers notched with his, the skin of her hand so pale, he could trace the filigree of blue veins that ran beneath it with his thumb. “I don’t think that’s possible, wife.”
Her cheeks flushed an unsightly red. Three days earlier her response would have alarmed him into thinking she was ill. He’d since learned such coloration was similar to a Kai’s own darkening blush—an expression of anger, embarrassment or pleasure. The tightening of her hand on his assured him hers was one of pleasure at his words.
“You’ve a stronger stomach than I credited you with if you could eat the scarpatine without gagging.” It still surprised him. She’d been violently ill after watching him carve up the creature; he’d had no hope of her being able to eat it without growing sick a second time.
Ildiko untangled her fingers from his and patted his hand. “I doubt the Gauri court is that much different from the Kai one. If the nobility aren’t spying on each other, they’re maligning each other. Everything is fodder for gossip and ridicule. Unless you want to be the topic of conversation among bored lords and ladies waiting to sink their claws into you, you eat what’s served to you and act as if it pleases you. I learned early to hold my breath when I chewed and breathe through my nose when I swallowed. And I always made sure my goblet was full.”
She winked at him and lifted her dagger to poke at the now still slab of scarpatine. “This is one of the most horrendous things I’ve ever eaten, but it’s nothing compared to King Sangur’s favorite dish—a pea soup I will swear until I’m dead was made of and prepared by packs of rotting demons. The kitchens served it to us once a week without fail, though I don’t
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