“Oh, um, thank you,” I say. “Uh, you can just put it anywhere.”
“As my Queen wishes,” the servant says formally. He’s an older man with gray hair and a ramrod-straight carriage. He wouldn’t look out of place as the butler on a prim and proper British TV show.
After bowing, he rolls in a gleaming silver tray and sets it on a carved table near the fire. With a flourish, he removes the round dome lid and yes, he actually says,
“Bon appetite.” Seriously—like a butler on a TV show! This man should do a guest appearance on Downton Abbey. I wonder if they have anything like Downton Abbey here in the Shadow Realm. For that matter, I wonder if they even have TV.
The prim and proper servant leaves with another bow, and I decide to shelve my questions for now because my stomach is growling. The little table where he set the tray is right beside a comfortable looking overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. Making sure my towel is securely wrapped around me, I go to investigate and see what’s for dinner.
When I get a look at the tray, my eyes nearly fall out of my head—this is no light snack, it’s a feast.
On the broad silver platter is a buffet fit for the gods. I see glossy pastries stuffed with cream and jam, dusted with sugar that glitters like snow. There are plates of cured meats so thin they shine in the firelight, their fat glistening. Wedges of creamy cheese, soft and pale, paired with a dark bread that steams when I tear off a chunk. And a whole little bowl of high-quality real butter and another bowl of berry jam. Wow, I can’t help thinking—Tasha would love this.
There are pomegranates split open, jeweled seeds glistening like rubies and a cake layered with dark chocolate and scarlet jelly, gleaming under a sugar glaze. Honey glazed buns dusted with cinnamon sit next to a ripe, juicy-looking pear. And in the center is something exotic—a black tart filled with crimson custard and topped with sugared rose petals.
It’s all served on fine bone china edged in gold, with cut-crystal goblets and silverware polished so I can see my reflection. A linen napkin embroidered with a crimson rose lies folded beside the plate.
My stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire and my mouth is watering. Looks like it’s time to eat! And I have to hand it to Lucian—this isn’t the kind of feast you send to a woman unless you really do like her curves. Because aside from the pear and pomegranate, absolutely nothing on the big silver tray is remotely good for you.
I try the exotic tart first—a tastes that’s sweet and silky and faintly tangy rolls over my tongue. I think of Lucia, who always says she craves something rich and decadent after a long day at court. She would absolutely lose her mind over this.
The honey buns? Tasha would demolish three before anyone else got a bite. The cured meats? Naomi would call it “charcuterie chic” and take pictures. Hanna would be all about the cheeses, dissecting each flavor like it was fine wine. And Yelena would love it all—but especially the pastries.
I try everything. A bite of this, a spoon of that, my body reminding me I haven’t eaten since Book Club which seems a lifetime ago. The Cuban bread and key lime pie I had melted away hours ago.
Before long, I’m stuffed but strangely comforted. There’s something about having a good meal that makes even the weirdest circumstances seem bearable. And these are definitely the weirdest circumstances I have ever been in.
As I dab my lips with the embroidered napkin, I feel a spark of curiosity. What else has Don Fangtastic stocked away in his boudoir? Maybe it’s time to snoop around a little.
I get up from my cozy little chair and take a walk around the room. It’s very clear that a man lives here. The dresser yields neat stacks of starched shirts, silk ties, and heavy, expensive looking cufflinks—most of them gold with rubies. I notice the silver chalice filled with red on several of them—the Chalice that I heard Lucian swear by. Does it have some kind of religious or cultural experience? I’m sure the red liquid is supposed to be blood…
And then, tucked in a velvet-lined drawer, I find something that makes me freeze.
It’s a ring—heavy, gold, and etched with roses. But the design etched on the top of it is that same Chalice filled with red. When I think about it, I realize it’s the exact same design that was on the little silver disk Whistler flashed when he dragged me past all the guards. What did he call it? The signet? The sigel?
Anyway, this ring in my hand looks exactly like the kind of ring a Lord or a King would have. He’d use it to seal letters, and he’d make the peasants bow and kiss it. (How do I know all this? Because at Book Club we went through quite a long Romantasy phase.)
I pick up the ring and am surprised by its weight. It must be pure gold, (except for the red liquid in the Chalice, which appears to be ruby chips.) I roll it in my palm and think how the guards all let Whistler pass with no trouble at all when he showed the same sign and mentioned Lucian’s name.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Sliding the ring back into its place, I decide to explore the closet. The door glides open with a whisper and my jaw hits the floor.
Half the space is Lucian’s—endless rows of dark, tailored suits, black coats, and crisp white shirts. But the other half? Women’s clothes. And after a moment I realize—they all appear to be my size.
I run my fingers over a slinky black gown, the kind that would hug every curve. It’s cut low in the back and even lower in the front. Next I finger a green silk blouse cut to bare serious cleavage. Is Lucian a breast-man? I’m beginning to wonder. Then I see a skirt short enough to make me blush. Okay, that’s not the kind of thing I’d choose for myself—I’ve always been kind of shy about having thick thighs and meaty calves. But maybe the Vampire Don is into those too.
The final items of clothing hang at the end of the line—lingerie so delicate the pieces are basically see-through. You’d have to be a real exhibitionist to want to walk around in those.
So why do I want to try them on?
I restrain myself and look further. Guess what I see?
Shoes! God, so many shoes.
Red stilettos with jeweled heels that sparkle in the light…black thigh-high boots with delightfully chunky heels…silver sandals strung with chains. I lift one pair—blood-red pumps with a wicked spike heel—and examine them gleefully.
I’ve always loved shoes. I think a lot of curvy girls do. Shoes don’t care about your waistline. You can be a size 22 and still rock a size 8 heel.
