Maybe he and Aria will be a good match after all.
Dinner turns out perfectly, but that doesn’t stop Lorraine from complaining about the doneness of her steak or Aria from whining about lumps in the potatoes.
Mason cleans his plate and then finishes seconds when I give him more.
I’m not allowed to eat with them, of course. I was never told I wasn’t welcome at the dining table, but after Annabelle left, I simply stopped. I have to do all the work in preparing and cooking. I have to serve the food and top off drinks. I have to clear and wash the dishes afterward.
I don’t have time to eat with them even if I wanted to.
I make myself a small steak and eat it with the potatoes and asparagus, standing at the kitchen counter in the small pockets of time between summons to the dining room.
Their conversation is actually rather amusing. I don’t think Mason has said more than ten words since he stepped into the house, but there’s never more than a moment of silence. He’s given exactly one second to respond to any new topic or question, and when he doesn’t, either Lorraine or Aria will fill the gap with more endless chatter about nonsense.
Most of it is focused on Aria’s accomplishments, her large circle of friends in the village, her perfect health, and her fashion choices.
Every time I come out from the kitchen, I check his expression to see how it’s changed.
The first couple of times his face shows nothing but his typical stoic blankness.
The next time he looks like he’s getting a headache.
The time after that, he’s trying to hide a yawn.
Then it’s definitely impatience.
And finally it’s a dryly amused astonishment that makes me want to giggle.
I don’t, of course. I keep my head down as I top off the glasses and remove empty plates.
“There are crumbs all over the table, Teresa.” Aria’s tone is the pseudopolite one she always uses when she’s criticizing but pretending to be nice. “Would you please clean them up before dessert?”
“Of course.” I grab a cloth and come around to Aria’s side of the table.
“Do try not to spill out all over our guest,” Lorraine says.
I freeze, confused not by the annoying supervision but by the complaint. I’m not touching Mason in any way. My hair is, as usual, slipping out of my braid, and my old gray dress has a long skirt and loose sleeves, but neither one is touching anyone but me.
Then I follow the direction of Lorraine’s glare and glance down at my chest.
The neckline is perfectly modest—a shallow scoop rather than the low square neck of new dresses—but the dress is too big for me.
Leaning over like this, the loose neckline is gaping and probably showing too much of my breasts.
When I glance over, Mason isn’t even looking in my direction, so I’m not sure why she even bothered to point it out.
I’m curvier than Annabelle and Aria, but that’s never been an asset or a point of pride, since the fashion of the Capitol prefers tall, slim bodies.
Definitely not me.
I do a few more awkward swipes without leaning over enough to expose any cleavage and then hurry back into the kitchen.
All that’s left is dessert. Then I can wash dishes, clean up, and be done for the night.
Dessert is honey cake with whipped cream. I plate it up prettily and carry them out to the dining room.
“This looks real good,” Mason says when I set his plate in front of him.
I jerk in surprise at hearing him speak at all. “Thank you,” I murmur, ridiculously pleased by the unexpected compliment.
