“For cake.”
***
The kitchen we arrive in, though larger than any I’ve seen, is in the same state as any other—a great bustle of noise, smells, and steam. There’s something comforting about the familiarity, and even more so when the scent of warm sugar is added to it.
The head baker greets us with genuine delight, ushering us over to a small table in the corner of the kitchen. A clean cloth is tossed over it, and in moments, the entire surface is piled high with cakes, pastries, and custards, each dessert more beautiful than the last.
The king falls immediately upon the platter of small, glistening cakes that are set in front of him while I stare down at the perfect sphere of ruby red something presented to me.
“It’s flavored with pomegranate juice,” the king says through a mouthful of cake. “Try it.”
“It’s so pretty,” I say, admiring the unfamiliar texture. “May I ask what it is?”
The corner of his lip creeps up. “Just try it.”
His gaze tracks my hand as I bring the spoon to my lips.
“It’s cold,” I gasp, my eyes swelling with delight.
“It’s a sorbet.”
“Sorbet,” I repeat, admiring it anew. “Am I meant to eat this with it?” I point my spoon at a delicate sprig of mint.
“No, it’s garnish.”
“Ah.”
Silence falls between us as we eat, though it’s not an uncomfortable one. It’s almost companionable. The kitchen staff sneaks furtive glances at us, but for the most part, they bustle about as if a king in the kitchen is an everyday occurrence. By the speed at which the spread before us was brought, I wouldn’t doubt it is.
How my sisters would love this, I think as I reach the bottom of my dish. I’ve never seen such delicacies, not even at weddings. Most of my people will never see such at all.
Most of my people are struggling to keep their families fed, and yet they always keep smiles on their faces. Suddenly, the spoon in my hand feels like a leaden weight heaped high with guilt.
“What’s the matter?” the king asks, startling me from my thoughts.
“Oh, nothing, Your Majesty.” Smiling, I glance about the table. “Which of these do you recommend I try next?”
His chewing slows as he observes me. “I sense you are not being truthful, Princess.”
A denial rises to my lips, but before I can give voice to it, he adds, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken.”
The preemptive apology softens me more than I wish, though I can’t say why. I look away. “You are not mistaken, sire.”
He remains quiet, his eyes fixed on my face when I wish he would look elsewhere. I’m not made for lies, and I know this. I don’tlikelying. Still, I don’t want to tell him more either. Doing so would only expose weakness, which mother would scold me soundly for.
“It has been a difficult few years for my people,” I say finally, lifting my chin. “I think often of them.” There. That’s simple enough.
The king regards me with a level gaze. “And you feel guilty for indulging when they cannot.”
The astute analysis takes me aback. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. “Yes,” I say.
“You care deeply for them.”
Faces flash before my mind’s eye—old ones, young ones, those of fishermen, and farmers, those of my sisters and mother, each of them precious to me before and even more so now that they’re far away.
“I do,” I say, and to my horror, I feel tears springing to my eyes even as the king watches.
What is the matter with me? I cannot cry here in front of everyone! A kitchen girl stirring the contents of the bowl is glancing my way right now. “My apologies, sire. Perhaps we could speak of somethingelse.” I swipe at my treacherous eyes. “I don’t wish for anyone to think something is wrong between us.”
