Such a feat came easily when she batted her lashes at the viscount. I clenched the stem of my wineglass, leering daggers even though Quinn seemed to pay the marchioness no mind.
Finally, the first course arrived. A rich pâté was brought out, one the cook was quite proud of by the rumors from the kitchen staff. The food tester, a servant Nicolas had insisted on hiring, sampled it first, nodding his approval before stepping back to allow me to begin the meal.
I lifted my fork, then stopped. The smell hit me like the fumes of the underworld: rich, fatty, with an underlying unpleasantness reminiscent of wet fur. My stomach lurched violently, and I set down the utensil.
I’d eaten offal before without complaint, even black pudding when it was first introduced at court—a fad for starvation times, but not terribly unpleasant—but this? I pressed a napkin to my mouth in a feeble attempt to combat the rising nausea.
The hall went quiet. I stared at the plate with increasing paleness.
“Take it away,” Nicolas commanded sharply, gesturing to the servants. “All of it, and do not serve this dish again.”
The servants scrambled to clear the course from every table, to the sullen reaction of a few culinary types. Nicolas placed a gentle hand on my back, rubbing in slow circles.
“Send for tea,” he called to a nearby attendant. “Something mild. Chamomile? I don’t…”
“Shall I fetch the apothecaries?” Quinn asked, rising from his seat. Nicolas perked up. “Ah. Yes. Very good.”
Quinn departed swiftly. Around us, conversation resumed, but I caught a few curious glances from the other nobles.
They’d all know soon enough, but Adelaide had cautioned against declaring the pregnancy too early on.
I leaned into Nicolas’ touch, breathing through what remained of the upset. The tenderness of his gesture provoked a craving for the closeness we’d somehow lost. I tentatively reached below the table, touching his thigh in hopes of offering some reciprocal intimacy.
The muscles there clenched with such protest that I didn’t move further up. I lowered my gaze with disappointment and pulled away, though his hand remained on me.
At last my parents arrived in the hall, those prepared sachets useful already. My father poured the tea, and Nicolas stood, clapping once. “Henceforth, the royal apothecaries should dine with us.”
There was no ignoring the murmurs throughout the dining hall, nor the bewildered, excited look in Mother’s eyes as she took my father’s hand. Seats were pulled up for them on my right, close to where Winnie and Florence sat, and my parents joined them, a pair of upstarts in the den of snakes.
Chapter 38
The first legof the tour was a tremendous success.
Nicolas took care to see the commoners well-fed. Donations of food were sent out to every keep we’d visit through the procession; because of this, we were met with a great deal of enthusiasm all along the road, often announced with instrumental fanfare and a spirit of revelry. Such an offering helped ensure that we were not a parade of grotesque opulence, but a promise of better days to come.
All along the way, I rode alone with my husband, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was passenger, wedged directly between us. Nicolas behaved as though he’d been leashed, carefully restraining himself from any act of intimacy beyond a peck here and there. Oddly enough, his eyes spoke of that same familiar desperation they’d had since the beginning, but no matter how I prodded—and I did prod—I couldn’t get him to unfurl.
Perhaps he’d finally realized what was happening during our nights together. The way shadows clung to him, how he lost himself so completely. Florence had said the Lord of Night only unveiled what men hid, but what if Nicolas decided he didn’t like what emerged? What if he was disgusted by his own abandon?
I shifted closer, letting my knee brush his. He tensed, and that yearning look intensified. This wasn’t disinterest, it was denial, but why? I considered simply asking him, but the words died before I could form them.
“The innkeeper last night claimed that the bog spirits of Thornmarsh steal babies from their cribs,” I commented to break the silence, trying for levity. “They replace them with changelings, or something like that.”
He didn’t smile. “It’s always been a strange place. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come here.”
“What, should we have gone around it?”
Doing so would have added at least a week to the journey, and the baron supposedly had a longstanding history with the Montford family. Adelaide would never see them insulted in such a way.
I touched Nicolas’ hand, and he finally looked at me. “I’m curious to see the flora here, anyway. Wetlands have all manner of beneficial plants.”
“You and your plants.” He rested his head on my shoulder. “Bring Marcy.”
The village proper sprawled before us. Thatched hovels dotted the landscape, connected by raised walkways over ground that never quite dried. Our carriage’s wheels struggled through the mud, eventually halting us.
“This is where we get out, then,” Nicolas sighed, unhooking his arm from mine as he opened the door.
The smell hit me first. Rot and stagnant water made my morning sickness surge. Florence couldn’t bless the pregnancy against such symptoms without alerting the Seekers, who joined us for the tour alongside Taran Banewight.
