6. Angélique
6
Angélique
M y father doesn’t wait for any more of my questions. He puts the latest knife and fork he used on top of his plate, without crossing them, then he folds his napkin and puts it on the right side of his plate.
Ari?l stops eating and stands—as do I—when Micha?l pushes his chair back and stands.
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” are the last words he pronounces before he leaves the room.
I wish I could say he stormed out, but it was nothing like that. He strolled out like he owned the place—and, well, he does—and also like nothing of interest was still in this room. He keeps counting my digressions, but I don’t even think he feels attacked by them. I don’t even think he still feels shame about me. I don’t think he feels about me anymore.
I’m no more than a weapon.
A lovely weapon with porcelain skin, the deepest blue eyes, and lips that always look rosy.
I look like a doll—minus the hair.
They say every woman has the potential to look like a doll. Whether it’s Barbie or Annabelle, it’s up to them.
He picked for me, but I fully embraced it. I’ll be Annabelle to the world.
I sag against the table when I can’t hear my father in the building anymore.
My legs are killing me, and even though a strawberry pie was brought while Micha?l’s steps still resonated in the corridor, my stomach is so twisted that I’m not sure I could swallow anything.
Ari?l doesn’t seem to have that kind of trouble as he dives into the crumbly and creamy pie and looks at it like it means the world.
There is a reason Ari?l is my etiquette teacher. It’s been a while since he has trained in anything other than walking.
He used to be one of Micha?l’s warriors, but he took an arrow to his left wing and it never really healed the right way. After that, he hid inside the library with Gabriel’s librarians and discovered he could be useful differently.
If he could get away with any workout and just hide between pages, he would, but his love for pastries and the habits going with a well-toned body make him walk more than anyone I know. But he’ll walk, that’s all. No one will ever see him running or fighting ever again.
He might be the only other person in this godforsaken palace who can’t fly.
Not that it helped develop some kind of kinship.
Like I said earlier, he is a coward.
It’s the only reason he hasn’t authorized me to take a chair and sit.
Etiquette lesson would need me to sit, but he’s too scared for my father to return and see me comfortably sitting when he decided otherwise mere minutes ago.
After what feels like an eternity, Ari?l finally talks. His strawberry pie is long gone, and he’s sipping at a cup of coffee, so ridiculously small in his big hand.
“Unless you want one of your father’s warriors to pack your bags, I advise you to pack anything you want to bring with you in advance, especially if you have anything that you value.”
He hasn’t raised his voice, and it’s barely a whisper above the quiet of the room.
It feels as if it was meant only for me, because I doubt the guards near the door hear any word he said.
“I also advise you to bring what is strictly necessary to your survival. May it be for the safety of your body or your mind.”
His tone of voice is still so low I’m the only one who can hear him. The cup of coffee is still in front of his mouth, and he takes painstakingly slow gulps from it without looking at me.
As if he wasn’t talking to me at all.
“Your father will be searching your bag when you leave, and he won’t let you bring something as trivial as memorabilia, but there is always a way.”
Is… Ari?l telling me to go against something my father ordered? Something he will order?
I’m not completely sure, but what he just told me sounded a tiny bit like treason, and I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t judge Ari?l too fast.
As if he hasn’t been talking to me until now, he turns in my direction and looks at the pie on my plate.
My muscles are still twitching and my stomach had revolted at the idea of food long before my father left the room, so the pie is still intact.
“You’re not going to eat that?” he asks before grabbing the pie from my plate.
I guess he didn’t need an answer.
For an etiquette teacher, his manners are lacking in this instant.
He’s never been like this, and I don’t know how to answer to the careless man in front of me. It’s as if, now that he knows I’m about to leave, he can finally relax and be himself.
That’s unsettling.
“Now go.” He shoos me away with a wave of his hand as he makes eyes at my strawberry pie.
We’re early. I’ve never had so much spare time in what feels like forever, and I don’t know what to do with it.
No, scratch that.
I have a bag to pack.