With a Side of Humiliation
Hazel stepped up to the doors behind her escort: a tall, broad-shouldered knight. She eyed his polished armor and the sword at his hip and wondered if his presence was more for her protection or everyone else’s.
The man had hardly acknowledged her presence the entire exhausting walk from her room and ignored her few attempts at making conversation.
The knight rapped his knuckles on the door twice to signal their arrival and palmed the iron door handle to pull the door on the right open.
He nodded in her direction then, as if she was supposed to understand that to mean anything.
When she just stared at him, he sighed audibly, making his exasperation clear.
“Enter,” he growled.
She took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold, feeling much the same as a young girl playing dress up in her older sister’s dress shoes.
Except, she didn’t have an older sister, and this was far from pretend play.
The sound of her heels against the floor was jarring.
She’d never worn high-heeled shoes. Never needed to, and she’d decided she could go her entire life without ever wearing them again.
After Phaedra had put the finishing touches on Hazel’s hair and rouged her cheeks, she clasped her hands excitedly.
When she looked in the floor length mirror, she could see why.
It was a shocking transformation. Her skin was bright, bruises fading as the day stretched on.
And despite wanting to do the exact opposite of what the note had suggested, she had to admit the green velvet, shape-hugging dress was the most flattering of them all.
Clearly someone had good taste, as much as it pained her to admit it.
Hazel’s wild mane had been tamed with Phaedra’s help; the angel having teased the frizz out of it with some kind of floral-scented serum and then pinned part of it out of her face with an embellished emerald and silver hairpin—one that complemented her necklace.
Phaedra smiled when she looked upon her masterful work, and it was easy to see why.
She’d taken a plain girl from a meager village and turned her into someone who could just as easily pass for a nobleman’s daughter.
Maybe not quite a princess, but someone of higher birth, nonetheless.
The room was a quaint dining hall, clearly meant for entertaining a smaller, more intimate group of guests. Even so, the table at the center of the room had enough seating for eight people, though place settings had only been arranged for three.
Upon seeing her, a man she’d never met before—though it was easy enough to deduce this must be Pimley—rose from his chair abruptly, bumping the table and nearly knocking his wine glass over in the process.
Slaide laughed, apparently bemused by the show of respect. He grabbed his own glass and took a large swig before speaking.
“Settle down, Pimley, before you hurt yourself,” he said. “Don’t let the pretty outfit distract you from who and what she is. Need I remind you she is a prisoner here, facing potential treason charges? You don’t need to stand in her presence.”
Treason? It was the first time she’d heard the term thrown around.
“I—you mean—this is her?” He was baffled, expecting something else. Charming.
Hazel just stood there, hands clasped before her. She was a woman, not a broodmare at auction. Her locket was calm against her chest; warm, but not concerningly so. She ignored the urge to reach for it.
“The very same. Now sit. Both of you.” Slaide gestured to the empty chairs.
Pimley sat, not daring to remove his eyes from Hazel.
He was a small man; not only short in stature, but his fine-boned frame looked light enough to blow away in a strong gust of wind.
And on top of it all, he was no youngster.
Quite the opposite, in fact, if his wrinkled, sun-spotted skin and hunched posture was any indication.
Hazel approached the table and a serving boy appeared at her side to pull her chair out and assist her in seating herself.
This was all so unusual to her. Of course, she knew it was expected in high society for men to stand when a woman entered the room, to hold the door for her and to pull out her chair…
she’d just never experienced it herself.
This was simply not the way she’d imagined it would play out, if ever.
No, she never expected a gallant knight in shining silver armor, nor some nobleman’s son.
She would have been happy enough with a kind gentleman who truly cared about her—even just a little.
Unfortunately, she’d yet run across someone who did, outside of Zeke.
These two certainly did not, even though Pimley had—however inadvertently—tried to show her respect.
Slaide grew annoyed. “Can we stop with the theatrics? Let’s all make sure we’re on the same page, yes?
This girl is not a princess. She’s not nobility.
She’s not even a servant here. She is a prisoner of the crown under my wardship.
Moving forward, we will not be showing her the courtesies afforded to those women. Understood?”
Heads nodded.
As she took her seat, she noticed the servant boy’s hand twitched as though his instincts wanted him to help her scoot her chair up to the table. But, per Slaide’s demands, he refrained.
The place setting before her was overwhelming and unnecessarily complicated for…
whatever this was. There was a large plate, a small plate, several spoons, forks, and knives, a napkin, and two drinking glasses.
Hazel couldn’t begin to fathom what all of it was for, but she was certain she was about to find out.
Slaide must have caught her gawking. “Overwhelmed by fine dining? Gods above, I really do have my work cut out for me.”
Hazel tripped over her words, trying to seem as though she wasn’t seeing all of this for the first time. “No—I just, well… we don’t dine like this where I’m from. It seems like overkill for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s right! You see Pimley,” he said leaning toward the man, “she’s from one of those rural villages. You know the ones. Larksridge, I think it was? Not that it matters.”
He said it as though it was inconsequential.
And maybe it was. But he had remembered the name of her town, even if he did so in a backhanded manner.
Despite being completely clueless as to what his angle was, he was paying attention.
At least some of the time. That should concern you, Hazel. It’s not endearing.
Their chatter was interrupted by the groan of the doors as they opened to a stream of waiters carrying silver platters of food. Wordlessly, three men approached the table and placed their platters along the center.
It was nothing short of spectacular. The sort of feast that would have been reserved for holidays and special occasions at home, and to be shared by far more than three people.
The heaped platters could have served all of Larksridge with some to spare. She couldn’t even tell what all of it was, save for the obvious tarts, pies, and some sort of roasted bird.
As she was looking over the spread, another man entered the room and she gathered from his attire he must be the chef responsible for the mouth-watering meal before her.
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen and… lady,” he started, eyes shifting toward Slaide as he wrung his hands.
Slaide rolled his eyes. “This evening’s meal consists of three courses.
The first course consists of our lighter fare: oatcakes, bone broth for sipping, sea-brined olives, pickled vegetables, and assorted cheeses.
The main course includes rosemary roasted duck with a cranberry red wine reduction, sherry-braised venison shank, poached trout with pickled onion, potato and bacon pie, and summer mushroom pasty.
Finally, for dessert, we have prepared for you a cream custard tart, cherry pottage, rose pudding, and buttercrust pastries filled with exotic dragonberry jam, drizzled with dark chocolate, and sprinkled with a pinch of salt harvested from the White Sea. ”
Gods above, am I dreaming? He’d said so many buzzwords, described so many delicious-sounding dishes, she couldn’t think straight. I’m either dreaming, or I’m dead. She couldn’t wrap her head around anyone feeding this sort of meal to a commoner, let alone a prisoner suspected of high treason.
“Thank you, Ernest,” Slaide said.
Dismissed, Ernest bowed deeply and turned to exit the room.
Hazel was on the edge of her seat, a starving wolf ready to pounce on its first good meal in ages.
Slaide caught her ogling the food and sipped his wine. “Dining rule number one: don’t drool on the food.”
Hazel blanched, collecting herself and wiping at her mouth only to find he’d been teasing her. She scowled. “Is that what this is then, some kind of test?”
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“Not so much a test as it is the first of many lessons. Though if it was a test, I’d say you’re not off to the best start.
Unfold your napkin and place it in your lap.
Now, bear in mind, most of this will be done on your behalf at the feast or the ball.
However, if you’re going to fit in with the attending nobility, you’ll be expected to adhere to the high-societal rules for ladies.
That means starting at square one. Do you understand? ”
“I do, but—”
“No. No buts. You are either in, or you’re out. Half-assing this won’t work. You want to know something? Magnus and his vultures don’t think you have it in you to do any of this. So, you either commit, or we’re done here and you prove them right.”
When had she signed up for any of this? Just days ago, she was supposed to be attending her first ever Tournament of Champions with hopes of exploring the town, tasting new food, meeting new people, and enjoying the exciting challenges and events.