The servants come up, placing a plate and bowl in front of each of us, wine poured in our glasses. If they’ve picked up on the discomfort, they don’t let it show.
“I was out all afternoon in the city, and I’ve only just gotten back. I skipped lunch, so I thought I’d dine with you tonight,” Malina says with unruffled ease.
Her snow-white hair is parted on the side, front strands swept over loosely, all of it gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a gold dress, just like me, but hers is far more elaborate, the skirts full, the bodice bedecked with lace and frills and layers.
Compared to her, I feel like my satin slip of a dress is barely a step above a nightgown. The only garnishments are the gold rings at my shoulders that hold the fabric in place.
“I’m glad to have your company,” Midas replies.
My gaze burrows into the bowl of soup in front of me, wishing that I could be anywhere but here. I’m angry that she’s here taking away my one meal with him. It’s all I get anymore, and sometimes, I don’t even get that.
I can feel the queen’s eyes on my downturned head, my scalp tingling with cold, like her wintry blue gaze carries the chill of winter itself.
At the sound of Midas starting to eat, I lift my hand woodenly, forcing myself to do the same. I can’t let myself look at him, since that would only enrage her. The last thing I want to do is gain attention. I don’t dare slurp or drop my spoon as I eat. In fact, I try not to make any noise at all.
All three of us eat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, throats swallowing, broth sipped. I’m sure it’s delicious—everything here always is—but I can’t taste it around the bitterness I feel.
Malina sits straight and proud across from me, no hair or thread out of place, her very essence regal and overwhelming. Looking at her, there’s no doubt she’s royal.
“Hmm,” she hums, stirring her soup before lifting her gaze up to me. “It seems your gilded orphan girl has learned better table manners since last time.”
I freeze, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
A quiet sigh comes from Midas. “Malina, don’t start.”
She manages an elegant, uncaring shrug, except I can see the hardening ice of her gaze. “It was meant as a compliment, Tyndall. The last time I saw her eat, I thought we were going to have to sop up the stew from her lap.”
My fingers tighten as I lower the spoon, my eyes flicking up to her. Our gazes collide, blue and gold, ice and metal. I can see it, there in her eyes—the jealousy, the anger.
And she can see it too, in mine.
Beneath the table, Midas’s foot brushes against my leg. It’s a small, hidden touch of comfort that helps me loosen my breath, but it’s also a reminder.
Malina can provoke me all she wants, because her status allows it. But I’m just thefavored saddlethat she tolerates. I’m the other woman, and I can’t openly do anything to show disrespect.
Subtly put in my place, the stirring fire inside of me goes out, like a snuff over a lit wick. My eyes drop from hers.
“How do you like the room?” Midas asks Malina, diverting her attention, changing the subject. I’m grateful for his attempt at moving the conversation away from her verbal criticism of me, but for once, I wish he’d stand up for me instead.
He can’t, though. That’s his ring on her finger. She’s the one who sits beside him on a throne, the one on his arm when they visit town. I can’t be that with him.
He’s a king, and I’m no queen.
Malina looks around, noting all the changes in the room, all the places that have been gold-touched. I wonder what she thinks of it, all the things tinged new.
Ever since her father passed away, Midas has been dubbed the Golden King. He’s certainly living up to the title, too. Room by room, the castle is being transformed. Every day, a little bit more gold shines on its surfaces.
Sometimes, Midas wants things to go solid because he likes the way it looks—like the plants in the atrium, now ageless and unchanging. A bold statement of wealth that requires no words.
But that wouldn’t do for everything. It certainly wouldn’t be comfortable to sleep on solid gold beds. So for the most part, the material itself is morphed, glass cups tinted, supple thread spun golden, wooden frames gone gilt, all of it done with a single touch.
“It looks fine,” Malina finally answers, voice gone stiff.
“Fine?” Midas repeats with a frown marring his tanned, handsome face. “Highbell has never looked better. By the time I’m finished, it will be so superior no one will even remember what it was before.”
If I wasn’t looking at her already, I’d have missed the flinch of pain that crosses her face. It’s a split second, there one moment and gone the next, but I saw it.
It surprises me, because the cold queen never shows any emotion other than superiority.
