Chapter 7
I ’m at lunch with Cara the next day when it happens.
We’re in Quincy’s dining hall. Quincy House is a modernist nightmare, designed in the seventies by someone who thought a stack of concrete cubes would fit in well amongst Harvard’s iconic red brick buildings.
Its dining hall has an open, two-level floor plan, with floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the space.
Most of the long maple wood tables sit on the bottom floor, but a select few are placed up on a stage-like structure at the back.
It’s an unspoken rule that humans eat on the bottom floor, while the elves take the stage.
On the very back wall, leering over the stage, is a massive work of abstract art: a concrete slab covered in turquoise and blue splotches, lines scribbled chaotically throughout. The result is a terrifying, lopsided face with only one eyeball.
Cara and I, privately, call it the Elf Eater.
Every day, Cara and I have lunch at one of the tables lining the windows. We like to watch students mill about the courtyard and comment on who we think is sleeping with whom.
It’s shepherd’s pie day at lunch. Cara is eating her pie with a side of steamed vegetables, but my plate looks a little different.
It’s been many years since I was in active eating disorder recovery, but I still have some strange habits left over from my brush with anorexia.
I won’t eat food that has a certain texture, like yogurt or mashed potatoes.
I have a weird penchant for smothering vegetables in soy sauce or Sriracha, which was one way I learned how to make low-calorie foods taste a bit better without making them “fatty.” Though I’m no longer afraid of oils or starches—there are two pieces of crispy buttered bread on my plate as we speak—my lunch tray still looks a bit odder than that of the average student.
It’s part of why I only eat meals with Cara. She’s used to my strange preferences. I told her early on about having been in recovery, and she’s never asked questions since.
I spear a broccoli floret and lift it toward my lips. I’m just about to take a bite when I see them.
Daerios and Berendir. Again dressed in Imperial Grey. Trays in hand, hair flowing in the nonexistent breeze. Laughing about some private joke.
The fork crashes into my upper lip.
“Shit,” I mutter, ducking my head. What are they doing here? From what I know, their blocking group lives in Dunster, one of the nicest houses on campus. They have no reason to be here.
“What the hell are you doing?” asks Cara.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, from behind a napkin dispenser.
Cara narrows her eyes.
I exhale. This will be fine. They won’t sit with us. All elves sit up by the Elf Eater. Elves and humans never—
“Hey, Quinn.”
Shit.
I inch out from behind the napkins, eyes wide and innocent. And, of course—there they are. The prince and the general’s son, grinning down at me like two hungry bears.
“Oh!” My voice sounds like it’s been run through a dryer. “Hey, guys!”
Cara looks from me to the elves and back again. Her eyes narrow even further. “Hey, guys?”
“Um,” I say.
“Mind if we sit?” asks Daerios.
“I don’t know, Quinn.” Cara widens her eyes and tilts her head. “Do we?”
“Um,” I say again.
“Great,” says Berendir, dropping his tray beside Cara’s. “Thanks, ladies.”
Daerios lays his next to mine, moving with slow, careful precision into the chair to my left. I scoot imperceptibly away from his elbow, eyeing his tray.
For every meal, the dining hall staff sets out two hot food lines: one for the humans, one for the elves.
The lines are not demarcated as such, but as with everything else between our species, it’s an unwritten rule.
Today, it is shepherd’s pie for the humans, and roast quail and honey cakes for the elves.
I’m not used to seeing a tray stacked with elvish delicacies, but here one is. Right next to my elbow.
I chance a glance out at the rest of the dining hall. Every single pair of eyes in the room is staring at our table.
“Um,” I say for the third time in thirty seconds.
“Daer, are you sure Quinn agreed to go to the Ikarith Ball with you?” Berendir interrupts before I can go on. “She doesn’t appear to know any actual words. Only vague sounds.”
“The Ikarith Ball?” Cara’s eyes have grown, if possible, even larger. She’s gripping her fork in a way even I find terrifying. “Quinn, do you have something you want to share?”
“U—” I stop myself before I say it again. “The, uh… Daerios asked me to go to their date event with him.”
Cara stares at me. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
“Tomorrow?” I try.
She opens her mouth. Closes it again. “I think my brain just short-circuited.”
“What a coincidence,” said Berendir, picking up a honey cake. Starting with dessert, naturally. “That’s what I said to Daerios after he told me he asked a human to be his date.”
I look at Berendir. “So, you agree,” I say. “It’s preposterous.”
“Of course, it’s preposterous,” says Berendir. He grins wickedly. “I love it.”
Cara sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Right. And when is this ball thing?”
“Saturday night,” says Berendir, taking a massive bite of the honey cake. “In fact…” An idea seems to dawn on him. He turns to look at Cara, mouth still full. “What are you doing Saturday?”
She stares at him for several long, empty seconds. Then she turns back to her plate and takes an equally large bite of meat and potatoes. “Not going anywhere with you,” she says, mouth also full.
Berendir’s smile grows. “Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“What if I told you there would be unlimited M I’m too relieved I’m not being dragged to elvish prison. “No.”
“Do you even know what it is?”
“Yes,” I say without thinking. “It’s paal—a traditional honey cake served at elvish celebrations.”
“That’s… exactly right.” Daerios sounds impressed, but there’s something else in his tone too. Something like confusion, or suspicion.
“Thanks,” I say, filling my voice with sarcasm. “I’ve dedicated my life to learning elvish food groups.”
The prince hums. “Clearly.”
I swallow, keeping my eyes on my tray.
“Well,” he goes on. “After a lifetime of scholarship, it seems only fitting that you taste what you’ve studied, no?”
I glance over. The prince hasn’t lowered his hand. The honey cake glistens atop his fingers, untouched. It sits before me, a challenge. A taunt.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Come on.” He moves the paal closer. “One taste?”
Slowly, I look from the paal to his face.
The challenge is there too. In the flash of his eyes.
In the arch of his brow. He sticks out his lower lip in a childish pout, and to my unending annoyance, it does nothing to make him less attractive.
If anything, it only draws my attention to his mouth. To just how plush and full it truly is.