“It doesn’t matter.” Lucan moves from the wall, pushing past us to stare out the window, as if physically changing his position can help him avoid the question. “All that matters is I’m very aware of how much I’m fed. Consider me an authority on it.”
“All right,” I say quickly. I’m inclined to believe him, and I don’t want to go in circles about it. Saipha seems content to agree as well. “So, what do we do? Start stockpiling and rationing?”
“I think it’s a solid plan,” Lucan says.
“We’ll take what we can at lunch.” I pick at my nails in thought. “Since that’s the time people can wander in and out of the refectory, we’ll be able to do it without drawing suspicion.”
“Fine with me,” Saipha says.
Lucan nods in agreement, then adds, “If they’re starving us, I’ll hunt for edible plants in the greenhouse. They’ll undoubtedly restrict access soon.”
“Good thinking.” The quick rise and fall of Saipha’s eyebrows indicates she’s impressed by the suggestion. An odd feeling of pride overcomes me, as though I’ve somehow done well bybringing him into our group.
We implement the plan immediately. Now that Lucan has pointed it out, I’m acutely aware that my plate at dinner is much lighter than it was the day we arrived.
The next morning, we linger after breakfast, going around and scraping up the last few bites left behind by others.
The inquisitors see us do this but say nothing, just like they see us skip eating our lunches in favor of saving them for later. We stuff the flat loaf of bread, bag of dried mushrooms, and wedge of hard cheese we’re given under our shirts and make our way back to our rooms to seal them in the lockboxes at the feet of our beds. Then we go straight to the greenhouse, where Lucan continues to impress as he guides us in what plants to pick. “A few can be dried,” he says. “These are best fresh.” And those we eat first so we can have less breakfast or dinner on days when it’s a meal that will keep well if we save some.
By the time the rest of the supplicants begin to notice the diminishing food, we already have a decent stash put aside.
Their recognition starts as some passing mentions—said loudly enough that it’s clear the possible negative ramifications of speaking such aloud hasn’t occurred to them. More people begin to talk. And, just as the three of us have come to expect, it gets much worse from there.
Lunch is the first meal to completely stop being offered. We aren’t the only ones who had the idea of taking the shelf-stable foods and using them as rations. As soon as enough supplicants begin to do that, the inquisitors remove it entirely.
The whole point is to hurt us. No one has shown signs of the curse yet, and part of me thinks it’s beginning to worry them, given we overheard them say that one of usiscursed. The question ofWho?must be looming larger than a yellow dragon for them.
Breakfast is the next to vanish. People begin to sleep later intothe day. Unconsciousness makes the hunger more manageable. When people are awake, irritability is the default.
We’re well past when we thought the next challenge might reasonably be, and no one has any idea when this might end. And that makes it somehow even worse.
One night, we show up to the refectory at dinnertime and find it still locked. Everyone hovers uncertainly in the central atrium like ghosts. No one seems surprised in the slightest. We all stare with hollow gazes.
With a roar, Benj lunges for the door. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him do something that Cindel didn’t directly command. He grabs the handle with both hands, rattling it. His frustrated shouts echo off the ceiling between the ominous clanks of metal.
“You bastards, let us in! You can’t starve us. That isn’t the point of this place.” He roars and bites the chain on the door like an animal.
“Enough, Benj,” Cindel says, but she doesn’t move from where she’s standing with the two guys and two girls that surround her. Her nose is scrunched slightly with disgust, rather than concern, even as Benj is snarling. Snapping. Almost frothing at the mouth.
He keeps rattling the door. “I’ll break it down. I’ll do it!”
“Benj, I am going to leave you if you do not come.” Even half starved, she exudes an air of “better than.”
“We should leave, too,” Saipha murmurs. “This could get bad.”
I don’t disagree, but I’m rooted to the spot, grimly fascinated as Benj begins to beat his fists against the door until they leave smears of blood.
“Isola.” Lucan steps into my field of view. “Let’s go.”
“Benj, please.” Horowin steps forward to try his luck. But if Benj isn’t listening to Cindel, he’s certainly not listening to Horowin.
I nod at my friends, and we begin our retreat toward theresidence hall, but a shout stops us in our tracks. “You three.”
Benj has turned his attention from the door. The others who have lingered with him have placed their focus on us as well. All the attention feels deadly.
“You have food.”
“What?” I furrow my brow.
