I’m petty enough to make him wait, but Zephyrus offers his arm with a murmured, “May I?” Something passes between us, as though he understands my predicament.
The Frost King’s attention sharpens as Zephyrus helps me to my seat before settling in the chair to my right. An entire table separates the king and I, yet the distance is not enough. He sits perched at the edge of his high-backed chair, body rigid. A strip of leather binds his hair in a tail so tightly not one strand hangs free.
My attention falls briefly to the table setting. Silver plates and silver bowls. Fresh flowers—I’m not sure where or how the servants managed to procure them—spring from squat vases, green vines creeping across the white tablecloth.
“So.” Zephyrus lifts his wine glass. “Lady Wren.”
With some effort, I manage to shift my attention to the king’s brother. “Please, call me Wren.” For I am many things, but I am no lady.
“Wren.” Laughter brims his melodious voice. “How are you finding the Deadlands?”
“About as pleasant as you find them, I imagine.”
His eyes, how they dance. The West Wind is handsome, open, warm. He draws me in quite effortlessly. “And how are you liking my brother?”
I take a sip from my wine glass. My stomach gurgles in protest, reminding me of the drink I consumed earlier. “That is assuming there is anything to like about him.”
His chuckle echoes in the cavernous space. “Oh, I like you. Ireallylike you.”
The Frost King glowers at me as though I just admitted to a capital offense. If he can’t bear the truth, he should leave. That would improve this dinner tremendously.
A line of servants files through a side door, bearing platters heaped with meat, cheese, fruit, bread, and greens. The amount of food served for three people is absurd. Mountains of potatoes. Thick slabs of meat slathered in pats of butter. Baskets stuffed with more bread rolls than any one person could eat. The bowl of gravy is so large a small animal could swim in it. And the pièce de résistance: a spit-roasted pig, skin blackened to a crisp, an apple shoved into its mouth.
The smell of hot food twists my stomach. Many nights I dreamed of such things: feasts and gluttony, the taste of fat melting across my tongue. Yet I’d always wake to a hollow stomach. And now? There is enough food here to feed a family of four for weeks.
Zephyrus and the Frost King begin heaping food onto their plates. I think of Edgewood. Scant, starving Edgewood and its depletingpopulation. I push away my plate. I cannot eat, not when Elora hasn’t the means to nourish herself.
The Frost King regards me as he would a mild pest before setting down his fork. “Is the food not to your liking?” His eyes are voids. His voice, a void. This place, a void.
I squint, but his wide-shouldered form still blurs. “I’m sure it’s perfectly lovely food.”
“Yet you refuse to eat.”
“My people are starving.”
“And?”
Zephyrus lifts his head in interest as I spew, “It’s your fault!”
The Frost King picks up his fork, spears a piece of cabbage, and brings it to his mouth. “Mortals live, and they die. I cannot control when their time ends. That is the way of the world, a cycle even older than I.”
“You cannot control when their time ends,” I manage thickly, “but you can certainly help it along.”
“It is my nature.”
“It is a choice.”
Zephyrus’ hand covers mine, and I sense something unspoken behind his gentle eyes.Calm, he seems to say.
I consider my situation: the food will go to waste either way. Better it fill my belly, nourish my body, sharpen my mind. All propelling me toward the Frost King’s inevitable end.
Taking a deep breath, I begin scooping food onto my plate.
Zephyrus says, “So, tell me about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell.” At the first bite, I almost moan. The carrots are decadent, slightly sweet, drenched in a spiced honey glaze.
“Oh, come now. I don’t believe that.”
