Otto put his knife back into his pocket and chewed the bread. Silent.
“Well,” I carefully interjected, “we have plenty of bread. As much as you want, and more for your guards.”
“They are terrorizing your kitchens, no doubt.” Simeon offered an inscrutable smile, and the rest of us—the women—chirruped.
“I wanted to ask, if you will permit me a question,” Mathilde said, and waited for him to nod. “Do you need guards? Riding through the countryside?”
Elin leaned forward. “Are you not safe?”
“Of course I am safe.” Simeon waved off her worry. “But it cannot be helped. The guards—and Otto here—are like a cage that moves forward on wheels. And backward. Where I go, they go.”
Rosie shook her head, sympathetically, a physical echo of the tutting noises Elin was making.
Mathilde eyed him, interested. “And what kinds of threats rattle the bars of your cage?”
Simeon laughed. “None! That’s my point precisely!”
“You do not need them,” Rosie asserted.
“One day I will shake them off. Slip away.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Otto, who ignored him.
Elin sat back. “They would not allow you to be unprotected.”
“I will find the seams and leak—or lash”—he slashed at the air, playacting with an invisible sword—“my way out.”
Otto cleared his throat. Glancing at him, his seriousness struck me as an effort to counterbalance Simeon, as if by holding words back, he’d make up for some instability in the room. By comparison, Simeon’s talking felt, suddenly, childish.
I changed the subject. “Bread or swans, we all look forward to the wedding. And to meeting the king. I am sure you are eager to introduce him to his future daughter-in-law.”
Simeon stifled a yawn. “My father is touring the kingdom. He won’t be back until the wedding itself.”
“Oh.” I sat back, in surprise. “I hope there will be no ill will for having the ceremony so soon.” It was odd—very odd—that the king would not meet his son’s bride until the matrimonial feast. That there wouldn’t be a series of royal banquets and festivities leading up to the grand ceremony. Each an opportunity for our ruler to bestow his blessing.
Simeon did not share my concerns. “You have to have will to have ill will.” He chuckled. Otto, more forcefully, cleared his throat, but Simeon continued: “It’s my mother who oversees it all. Iron fist, soft glove, that kind of thing.” He held up a tight hand and then rapped it on the table, loudly, to make his point. Some white dust sifted and fell from the beams above us onto the platters of bread. “Hehas no stomach, andshehas only appetite.”
Otto glanced up, eyes following the path of the falling dust, then tracing vines and apples on the ceiling. If you looked closely enough, the edges of the stain were obvious. Not just marked, but wet, dark. Something in Otto’s prowling eyes and Simeon’s insouciant dismissal of his father was not sitting well. It was more than my own deception—what that stain belied—that made the room go off-kilter.
“You are the heir,” I said to Simeon, “and Elin will mother the future heirs. Surely, the king would want to see her… before… to show the kingdom the union has his benison…” I ended up losing courage. But the conclusion of my thoughts wasn’t necessary to voice. Otto had lowered his eyes and was watching Simeon with focused attention.
The prince took a measured breath, making a visible show of his patience. I thought of the stiffness I had seen in Morwen’s shoulders. I felt, inexplicably, fear. But Simeon soon smiled, a generous smile, all traces of his forbearance gone. He turned to Elin. “Your stepmother is sweet. She wants to see you get the honors, the fanfare, you deserve.” He reached out and placed his hand over hers on the tablecloth, his long fingers arched, his hand calling to mind an oversized spider. Hedirected his gaze back to me. “The king is making his way back. It is only that Elin and I cannot stand to wait. We are ever so impatient. Young love. You must have known it. I think, in fact, I recall my mother knows a bit about both of your long-ago, ill-fated engagements. Each were only a few weeks, were they not? My condolences, by the way. Twice over. But you understand the heart has a sense of urgency. Even just yesterday, I was itching to ride out here, to set eyes on my pretty flower.” His hand flattened on Elin’s. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Yes,” she assured. Yes—the conditioning of her book. Yes—the dreams of a girl. What else but yes?
Simeon’s smile, which had remained in place, relaxed. He stretched his neck, chin extended toward the sky, revealing its whiter underparts, skin untouched by sun, the cords around his throat taut. His head snapped forward once more. “And rest assured, Elin will get all the fanfare she wants. A lifetime of it.”
“Indeed,” I said. My own version ofyes. Decades of being habituated to accord. For I had said the word, smoothed all things forward in our perpetual march, despite having realized what was bothering me. Since he had first mentioned it, I had been turning over Simeon’s elaborate metaphor of a cage. Walls were designed to keep danger out. A cage was built to keep a threat contained.
I felt a prickle of concern—a sense of something going off course. I stood, needing, suddenly, to leave the room. To breathe air that wasn’t shared. “I will go see about something sweet.” I looked at Elin, her pink cheeks. “To eat,” I added. “Something sweet to eat.”
Sucket was most often consumed with a double-ended utensil. On one side, there was a two-pronged fork, a devil’s spear, which was used to stab and ferry candied fruits to waiting mouths. On the other, there was a flat spoon, used for scooping and slurping the leftover syrup. The liquid was all sugar. Boiled and reduced and boiled once more. More sugar added. More reduction. It was decadence—a concentrationof the most expensive ingredient. And Simeon had said he didn’t care for sweets.
Balancing a tray of forks and the sucket, the fruits bobbing in their cloying syrup, I pushed back into the hall. The prince was alone with the girls. All my daughters were turned toward him, like flowers to the sun. He was still eating.
“Put it just there.” He nodded to the space in front of him.
Looking down at the candied fruit—citrus rinds in curls and spirals—I wondered if Simeon himself was a sucket. Flesh and skin boiled in its own syrup.
“Your Highness.” I placed the tray where he had directed and began to pass out the forks around the table. Otto’s seat sat empty. “Will the counselor not be joining?”
