Chapter 16 #3
My movements adopt a purpose, steering me away from the ballroom as I head toward the servants’ quarters.
There, I trade my soft, soiled clothing for the less-soft, clean set that rests atop a pile of similar linens.
I quickly change into the new outfit, and none of the other servants seem to pay me any mind.
They are busy folding bedding, cleaning floors, and dusting walls.
None have their eyes on me. None seem to care that I smell like the seven hells.
I try to act casual, human , as I approach a black-haired maid rinsing a wash basin in a deep, porcelain sink.
“I must have missed the morning meal,” I say sweetly. My hands awkwardly position themselves around my waist, first settling on my hips, then moving to wrap around my middle, and finally relaxing at my sides.
Have I completely forgotten how humans act?
The girl snorts. “You must be new. We get all sorts of new help all the time, so don’t be nervous.
They won’t butcher you for missing morning mess.
” She lifts a wet hand from the sink and gestures with a thumb behind her.
“When you get to the main hall, go all the way down, then turn right. The royal chefs will probably have leftovers from the noble banquet from last night, if you’re lucky.
Unfortunately, they don’t save the scraps after our morning meal. ”
My stomach gurgles at the thought of eating, and for once, it’s painful.
Normally, I can satiate such mortal hunger by consuming something magical, even Aldor-berries.
But I have no access to that right now. And with Ronan’s elixir still working to conceal my elven features, I have to wonder if somehow he’s managed to torture me with human needs too.
It’s a perfect distraction from the horrors I witnessed in the ballroom.
“Thank you,” I say quickly before leaving the servants’ quarters.
It’s a quick walk to the kitchens where the royal chefs cook.
Their workplace is much cleaner than the kitchens near the servants’ quarters, with freshly cleaned domed ovens and spotless countertops.
But the four chefs leaning against the walls look no different from those who work cooking meals for the servants.
Dressed in all-white underclothes and leather vests, they stand an elbow’s width apart, each nursing their own pipe and puffing smoke at practiced intervals.
“Missed breakfast, aye?” one asks, his voice dry. The others chuckle. This must happen more frequently than I thought.
I nod.
“We have some fixin’s from the banquet last night, if you’d like to take a look-see,” another offers, nodding toward a table behind me. A heap of uneaten sausage, roasted vegetables, and rice sits in a mound at the center, but it seems as though it’s already been picked at.
My stomach grumbles its betrayal.
The chefs laugh.
“Help yerself, miss. Ya may not have another ’pertunity like this one,” the woman in the group says. I smile at the woman, who appears to be the same age as Matron Olive. But the chef is a bit sharper around the edges, as though life has burnt her one too many times.
Matron Olive had always taught kindness and goodness, and if she’d had any traumatic backstory, she’d never spoken of it.
Like all the sages, her role was to sustain the familial tradition our people hold so dear.
The longer I think about it, the more I realize how sad it is that our people cannot keep families for long, thanks to invasions and wars fought at the Separation.
Wars I might be fighting now if I weren’t here.
I keep my head down as I approach the table. Flies have already begun to lay their eggs in the meat, so I avoid the thick sausage and instead poke around for vegetables that still seem edible.
They turn to flavorless mush in my mouth.
I can’t believe this was served to nobles or royalty. Do humans have zero taste in good food?
With an awkward wave and mumble of gratitude, I leave the kitchen, unsatisfied.
Instead of returning to the servants’ quarters, I continue my exploration.
My grumbling stomach joins me, a welcome friend in my solitary adventure.
After I reach the end of the hall, I walk along a wall of windows filled with brightly colored panes of glass.
Each depicts a battle scene, and almost every single one involves bloodshed marked by slivers of red glass.
Some feature a character wearing a circlet.
Some feature dragons. None feature elves or fairies or any other magical creature.
It’s as though we never existed.
I whisk away the haunting memory of the klopse’s carcass.
If I think too much about why the king would have jars of eluviams stowed away, I’m afraid my lack of composure will expose me.
So I stiffen my shoulders and continue along the stretch of stained glass and force my thoughts toward the future.
How will I teach a human prince how to harness magic?
Swordplay should be relatively easy, as long as Ramiel knows his right hand from his left.
But to help him harness magic…is it even possible?
The prince’s portrait hangs in my mind’s eye—his curly, cropped chestnut hair and bronzed skin, his almond-shaped eyes shining like emeralds, and the little dimple to the left of his mouth that appears whenever his lips tug toward his eyes.
A strange thing, that dimple. How can something like that be so endearing?
Pluto has dimples too, under his eyes. But they only make their appearance when he’s upset, and I never liked it when he was upset.
I sigh.
Then heat flares along the nape of my neck.
“You’ve strayed quite a long way.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the way Marchus’s breath brushes past my ear, and when my hand instinctively flies to knock him away, he catches my wrist in a tight grasp. A creepy smile twitches into his cheek.
“Don’t worry, I’ll escort you to the servants’ quarters. They’re about to serve lunch.” He links his arm through mine and tugs me forward. I nearly trip, and that never happens.
I’d rather die than ever stumble over my feet. Elves are known for our elegance.
Marchus makes a sound that must be a laugh, but he’s pinching his nose to dilute it. “I heard someone missed first mess. You must be starving. Unless you got some good leftovers from the royal kitchens?”
“Yeah, real good,” I mutter, but my stomach’s protests intercede for me. I’m so unused to my body expressing hunger this way, I haven’t the slightest clue how to suppress it.
Marchus laughs, apparently finding my embarrassment charming. I strain to keep from rolling my eyes.
“Let’s eat, and then I’ll accompany you to the training grounds.”
“Why are you so determined that we go?” I blurt.
He laughs again, but it sounds wrong.
“You’ll see if you decide to join me.”