Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Aurelia
M elisse enters my bedroom with her usual courtesy—knocking on the door with a soft call of, “Your Highness?” and waiting for my acknowledgment before entering. Much more respectful than certain princes I could mention.
She halts a few steps into the room. “You’ve already dressed.”
I offer her a reassuring smile from where I’m sitting at my vanity. “I was up early and it seemed silly to wait. You know I’m not much for being fussed over.”
The press of my bare bottom against the silk skirt of the gown reminds me of the true reason. I couldn’t explain to her why I’m forgoing a chemise and drawers.
I can be grateful that Madam Clea delivered a new series of dresses yesterday evening, ensuring I have a selection fit for a princess. I picked the one with the most fabric around the bodice, an extra layer of pale green that flutters over my chest, to help conceal my lack of undergarments.
The skirt, flowing in the typical Darium style, should reveal nothing. As long as the imperial heir doesn’t require any table dancing from us, my indecency will remain a secret.
I wish I could fully trust that table dancing is, well, off the table. It’s difficult to imagine what Marclinus might ask of us next.
The next trial can’t be too far off. He gave us all of yesterday as a reprieve, though it was hardly relaxing when we spent every minute around him braced for the next announcement.
To mollify my maid, I haven’t done more than comb my fingers through my hair. She picks up the brush and runs it over the dark brown waves until they shine like polished bronze.
“There’s been a lot of chatter around the dining room,” she mentions in a hushed voice. “I heard Their Imperial Eminences have already taken their seats.”
My stomach knots. “I suppose I should head over early and see what the fuss is about, then.”
It’s more distracting than I expected to navigate the world without a single scrap of cloth covering my sex. As I walk, the fabric of my skirt ripples against my mound and the air tickles over my folds in an unnervingly provocative way.
I have to think Prince Raul was perfectly aware of the effect his bargain would have on me. Is the idea simply to put me in a more impious mood?
That can’t be why Prince Bastien agreed. He must be hoping the embarrassment of my secret immodesty will affect my performance in the next trial .
Or maybe he simply wants me to be miserable. It’s certainly seemed that way most of the times I’ve spoken to him.
As I walk down the hall toward the dining room, my thumb rises instinctively to rub the now vacant base of my forefinger. Anxiety quivers through my chest.
I’ll have my ring back by tomorrow. Bastien swore to his godlen. I simply have to endure a single day of new discomforts.
I turn onto the main hallway that holds the dining room and spot Fausta and Bianca huddled together at the far end. It looks as if Fausta has just pushed a morsel of something into her mouth, chewing hastily while Bianca hands her a goblet.
There’s something oddly furtive about the exchange. Fausta takes a few swift gulps from the goblet and presses it back into Bianca’s hands.
An uneasy chill wraps around my gut. What are they up to now?
What do they know that I don’t?
As Bianca saunters away with the goblet, Fausta swipes her hand past her mouth and turns to notice me. With her usual sharp smile, she sashays into the dining room ahead of me.
I follow, swallowing down my trepidation.
The room beyond the doorway looks the same as last night, back to its standard layout with the table of honor at one end of the room and the others in neat rows alongside it. Emperor Tarquin and his son have indeed already taken their seats, the servants acting as their tasters hovering behind them.
Marclinus has procured himself a full goblet of something or other. The table itself is empty other than a few centerpieces, porcelain vases with sprigs of vibrant flowers. He tips his glass languidly to his mouth, watching us over the top of it.
A couple of my fellow competitors have arrived ahead of Fausta and me. As servants direct us to our seats, more enter behind us.
It appears the ten of us remaining are all being arranged on the far side of the table today, where we have a view over the entire dining room. Rochelle ends up at the chair two down from mine and acknowledges me with a nervous smile.
Bianca has opted not to join us as she often does. I spot her with her husband at one of the smaller tables. Maybe she feels she needs to give the viceroy a little attention here and there to ensure some kind of harmony in their home.
All four of the princes take seats at the other side of our table—first Lorenzo, catching my gaze and then looking away. Next Bastien and Neven together, in murmured conversation my tormentor doesn’t bother to glance up from.
And finally Raul, ambling over to the chair directly across from me, his cocky grin widening with every step.
Wonderful.
As he drops into his seat, he tips his head to me in acknowledgment. “Good to see you looking so unhampered today, Your Highness.”
Oh, he can tell I’ve followed through on my end of the deal, all right.
I smile back at him. “It’s amazing what a good, uninterrupted night of sleep can do for you.”
Not that I would know about that today.
The rest of the chairs around the room are filling up before me. Just moments after the last spot at our table has been taken, Marclinus rises to his feet. At the flourish of his arms, the chatter around the room falls away .
He beams at his audience, so much glee shining in my betrothed’s eyes that my stomach starts to roil before he’s even spoken.
A matching feral delight rings through his voice. “Good morning to you all, good people of my court. With this new day, we are beginning a new trial.”
He makes a dramatic gesture toward the line of us along the one side of the table. “Not long ago, the ladies eager for my hand enjoyed a night of indulgence. Now we will evaluate their self-restraint. From now through sunset tomorrow, they will refrain from ingesting so much as a drop of water or a crumb of food.”
Someone farther down the row stifles a sound of dismay. An ache forms in my throat as his words sink in.
Nothing to eat or drink for nearly two days.
The lack of food will be uncomfortable but not unendurable. I’ve heard of devouts and clerics fasting for longer in an attempt to leave behind the concerns of the body to commune with the gods.
Going that long without anything to wet our throats? By tomorrow evening, our bodies will be dangerously close to dehydration.
I’ve never felt more grateful for the water with its light steeping of tea leaves that I mixed this morning. I intended the herbs I picked to fortify me for the day ahead, but the liquid they soaked in could be my actual saving grace.
The memory of sipping from that glass draws my gaze down the line toward Fausta’s petite form. My jaw tightens.
She knew. Or, more likely, Bianca caught wind of the next trial and quickly saw to it that her friend would go into the day with some initial refreshments to give her an edge over the rest of us .
Will she keep sneaking relief to Fausta over the next two days?
As if hearing my thoughts, Emperor Tarquin lifts his voice from his end of the table. “Naturally, the guards will closely monitor all of the competitors to ensure they follow the rules of the trial. You will be accompanied anywhere you go, including your bed chambers. Cheating will not be tolerated.”
Marclinus rocks on his heels. “But for those who prove their forbearance, you can look forward to a fabulous feast tomorrow night!”
He claps his hands. “Now the rest of us will dine.”
As he sprawls back in his chair, servers move around the room. Plates wafting the savory scents of fried eggs and spiced meat clink against the tabletop in front of the breakfast-goers across from us.
My mouth starts to water. My stomach gurgles, empty of anything other than tea after the long night.
Raul catches my eye and digs into his meal with flamboyant gusto. He sniffs the food with a happy sigh, hums ecstatically as he chews, and makes a show of smacking his lips before he spears the next morsel.
A couple of seats over, Prince Neven notices his foster brother’s display. He shoots a glare my way and takes an extravagant bite of his own breakfast, all but groaning to emphasize how delicious it is.
The lady at my right has turned wan, watching their goading alongside me. She wets her lips, and her stomach rumbles loud enough that her cheeks flare pink.
Raul tips his goblet to his lips with exaggerated swallows, and my mouth feels even drier. But my gaze settles on the band of cloth he’s wrapped around his knuckles.
Focusing on his hands rather than his food helps me ignore my hunger. His other hand bears the same narrow bandage.
I don’t remember seeing those during his middle of the night visit, although Bastien drew most of my attention then. And I wasn’t exactly at my most alert. Has he injured himself again?
What is Raul doing that’s scarred his knuckles that way? Or is it something someone else is doing to him?
As he waves a tidbit of meat in the air with his fork as if to waft the tempting smell toward us, I find myself studying the set of his broad shoulders, the working of his jaw as he chews. For all he acts like the most confident of the four princes, impervious and imposing, there’s so much tension simmering behind that front.
Lorenzo has swayed between warm and cold, and Bastien’s been nearly frigid, but Prince Raul is all fire. I know what’s driving him better than the others.
There’s so much emotion in him that might be shifted in my favor if I could only convince him that I’m not his opponent.
Those thoughts percolate in my head for the rest of the torturous meal. When Emperor Tarquin gets to his feet and dismisses us, I head straight to the nearest imperial guard I see patrolling the room.
“I know we’re not to go to our rooms alone,” I say, “but I forgot something I promised to give a friend. Would you escort me?”