“Apologies, my king.” I blush for effect, and in the heat of the room, the pump of blood in my ears, it is not hard. “I suppose I do not know much about ruling. I do not understand what the High Fae do.”
Yet he continues to frown. “Well, it’s because the Unskilledcannot become skilled like you if we gift them everything. Besides, those faeries need…gentler food than fae food. Easier on their bodies.”
My heart pounds in my ears, the strange logic applied to justify inequality so at odds with what is practical. The High Fae do this in almost everything—value silly ceremony over common sense. Females can only wear skirts, High Fae must rest yet by nature need less sleep, some faeries can’t process fae food. Deprivation untangles these rules—faeries clothe a baby in whatever garment they have on hand and take shifts sleeping because all must work, and the king’s own kitchen staff eat the leftovers of what they’ve prepared because that is what’s there.
“There’s more on your mind,” the king observes.
I fix my face. “Apologies, my—”
He waves his hand. “Tell me your thoughts. Please.”
“What is ‘gentler food’?”
“Well, it’s…it’s easier to…” The king stops, giving a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea. It’s what I’ve always been told.”
“Like a legacy.”
He watches me. “Careful. We are getting into radical territory.”
Recklessness grips me. If Lila offers proposals in writing, then perhaps he can handle a small dose of truth. “Because…the Unskilled do not deserve food?”
“Now…” He shifts, uncomfortable. “When you put it like that, it sounds cruel.”
“Are not all legacies radical during their time? Otherwise, why else would they be remembered?”
A brief pause, and I wonder if his violet eyes will be the last thing I see.
Finally, he declares, “I like you.” Then he’s picking his quill up once more, twirling it. “Reign governs the harvesting of the crops. I don’t even think I would need council approval, if there’s as much waste as you say.”
I curtsy. “The kitchens keep track of the inventory and food waste, so you could always gather a report from them. Like I said, I know very little about ruling, so I do not know if I could think up the right solution.”
An intellectual needs a puzzle.
“Ah, but you do know much,” he answers. “You know about Lady Kassandra.”
“She likes the color lavender on a male,” I say. “And it will bring out your eyes, my king.”
A lopsided smile grows on his face. “Thank you, Avery.”
The plane hums around us and I am unsure what he is feeling. I only know that it is not bad, that it keeps me alive, and relief washes through me. The servants’ door opens behind us. Carter waltzes in with a satchel of parchment and a plate of something that smells of cinnamon.
“Apple pie, my king,” he says. “Apologies for the delay, we ran out of custard and Lila needed an extra hand.” Carter gives me a look. A laugh bubbles in my chest, but I push it away.
“I suppose that will do,” the king says. “Oh, and, Carter? Be sure that my lavender tunic is cleaned and pressed for tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Magnificence.”
I suppress a smile.
The king reaches for his fork. “Carter, if I ask you a question, would you answer it honestly?”
The valet straightens. “Of course.”
“Is there much fae food waste in the kitchens?”
The valet cuts his eyes to me, then back to the king. “Well…some, yes.”
“Why not prepare less food if so much is being thrown out?” Maxian asks as Lila reenters the room with a carafe of sweet wine.
