For the briefest moment, Leopold looked pained, as if ashamed of his words, but the expression was gone in a flash, replaced by his usual look of imperious boredom. “I suppose you’re right, healer. Go on, everyone; eat, and find a more suitable topic to discuss.” He waved his hands benevolently over the feast as if he’d been the one to spend all morning preparing it.
I grabbed the first thing in front of me, not bothering to notice what it was. I forked a stack of chocolate crepes onto my plate, keeping my fevered stare upon Leopold. He popped a madeleine into his mouth and chewed around a lazy grin, relishing both it and my discomfort.
“Will you all be attending tomorrow’s…festivities?” Bellatrice asked, stirring her cup of tea.
“Uncle’s execution?” Leopold clarified, mincing no words. “They wouldn’t miss it. Mathéo was actually one of the guards who escorted him into the citadel.”
“Oh yes?” Bellatrice turned to the soldier with interest. “Did he put up much of a struggle?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle, Your Grace,” Mathéo replied, unable to mask the swagger of his smile, knowing he’d gained an edge over his friends by earning Bellatrice’s admiration.
“How did he look?”
Mathéo cocked his head, as if trying to determine what answer Bellatrice was hoping to hear. “Very…uh…very defeated, Your Grace.”
Her eyes narrowed as she considered the response, and I noticeda tightening in the corners of her mouth. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said carefully.
Curiously, I tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look myway.
“And the ball tomorrow night?” Euphemia asked, adding a small collection of petit fours to her plate. “Will you be there?”
“The entire country has been abuzz with news of the king’s ball,” one of the other officers said, smiling. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
Euphemia sank her teeth into a cake. It was filled with a raspberry compote, and for one horrible moment, she looked as though her mouth were filled with blood. I looked down at my plate, glumly realizing I would have to eat some portion of the crepes.
Picking up my fork, I dug in.
Chapter 43
“This way! This way!” Euphemiacalled, sprinting through the maze of rosebushes an hour later. After breakfast she’d begged to show Leopold the changes she’d done to her playhouse in his absence, asking far too earnestly for him to decline.
We made our way into the gardens, tipping our faces up to the warm light. We’d had a particularly wet spring, with more rain than sunshine, and it now felt like a blessing to soak up so many rays.
It was misleading to call Euphemia’s chalet a playhouse. Centered in the rose garden, it was a structure larger than my cottage in the Between had been. The rooms were filled with all the furniture and trappings a real house would have, scaled down to perfectly fit Euphemia’s stature.
She redecorated it every season, painting and wallpapering over whatever had struck her fancy only months before. At present her favorite color was teal, and every surface had been bedecked with various shades of robin’s-egg blue. Just the day before, I’d helped her hang floral chintz curtains in the sitting room.
Her playhouse had a sitting room.
“You ate the chocolate crepes,” Leopold said, falling into step beside me.
“What?” I’d been trailing after the group and hadn’t realized he’d stayed behind as well.
“The crepes, at breakfast. You ate them.”
“Yes?” I responded, unsure of what he was getting at.
“You don’t like chocolate.”
Only now did I recall what he’d said upon his arrival. “I don’t…I don’t dislike chocolate,” I began.
“But you don’t particularly care for it either. Why would you eat something you don’t like? And on your birthday, no less.”
“Euphemia made them for me. I didn’t want to be rude.”
He snorted a laugh. “Euphemia’s never set foot in a kitchen a day in her life. She sent word to Cook via her maid, and you knowit.”
“But she thought to make an effort, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and—I’m sorry, why do you think I don’t like chocolate?”
