Laughter ripples around me as duck mousse begins to make its rounds. A shadow eclipses my view of Thalia snapping pictures of the edible 24-carat gold leaves on her chocolate pudding, and I look up to see Lydia. She hands me a green paper cone, folded from one of the fancy damask-print menus they ordered for the occasion. Inside are slap chips, perfectly golden andperfectlylimp, served with a tiny silver fork. The smell of salt and vinegar hits me square in the chest.
And I try—fuck, do Itry—not to smile. “I seem to recall being branded ‘difficult’ for requesting for this to be on the menu. Thought you said these weren’t appropriate for formal functions,” I say, reaching for the cone.
All she does is raise a thick brow and respond in a heavy accent, “They’re not, but you’re mos?1 not exactly an appropriate prince either.”
My smile slips free. There’s a little apron tied around her waist that wasn’t there earlier, and it takes me a second to realise this is what she left the ballroom for. To fry a few potatoesfor me, in the middle of the most ostentatious event in the duchy. Everywhere I look, guests are eating hors d’oeuvres with difficult-to-pronounce names, and I’m sitting here with a cone of slap chips. I can’t remember the last time somebody went out of their way for me like this: not because of my title, but in spite of it.
A ‘thank you’ builds in my mouth, stopped only by the fear that it wouldn’t even be enough. Lydia watches me with a knowing glint in her dark gaze, like she knows I don’t exactly have the words for this.
“Stay,” I offer instead, reaching to pull out Francesca’s seat. “Share this with me. Unless you’re allergic to salt, vinegar or my company. Still testing that latter theory, by the way.”
That earns me a half-hearted eye roll. “You’re too charming; did you know that? One of these days I’m gonna klap you, royalty or not. Can mos never make a lady swoon like this.”
We don’t talk much after that, mostly because I can feel about a million eyes watching my every move. Lydia uses a toothpick from the jar on the table to pick up her chips, and the cone gets passed back and forth. When there’s only one left, she gestures for me to have it because apparently I need it more.
Grabbing the empty cone, she gently pats my shoulder and says laughingly, “Sterkte, liefie.”?2
Then she’s gone, swept back into duty, and the ballroom feels carnivorous again. The ache only lessens once Francesca is back at my right, and I’m very polite about the way I squeeze her hand beneath the table in greeting—polite enough not to smirk at Charlie and Edmund, both pretending not to be watching us.
In the next few moments, the cakes are rolled in beneath glass domes; Francesca’s is seven layers of towering buttercream, rising like a forest at dusk with fondant of a deep green. Each tier is dense with detail, with moss-shaped marzipan scattered on the edges and twisting chocolate branches wrapped around the base.
By contrast, Percy’s cake is an explosion of colour, the precise shade of childhood dreams in a bold, brilliant purple. The tiers are separated by clouds of meringue with sugared petals of violet bursting across it. I get a toothache just staring at it. Though I look away, the sickly taste of overwhelming sugar doesn’t leave. It doesn’t come from the cakes, at least, not all of it. I’m being force-fed sweetness in different forms: velvet waistcoats, candied compliments and teeth bared in what the nobles here call smiling.
Sickening.
I reach for my wine glass to drown out the taste; the stem is so thin it practically vanishes between my fingers. The first sip tells me everything, and I freeze. You don’t forget a taste like this: plum and blackberries macerated in alcohol, so ripe it’s almost overripe. I could recognise it in a coma. Another sip takes me back ten years to my fourteenth birthday.
‘You’ll be king one day,’my father said, holding the glass out.‘You must know what power tastes like’.
Cheval Blanc. Nineteen forty-seven.A quick scan of the table, and my deduction is proven accurate upon spotting the vintage bottle.
I swirl it once, muttering just loud enough for Francesca to hear. “You do realise this wine costs more than some estates, right?”
My father’s bottle came in a locked case, handled like a hostage. This one just sits here, with three other bottles and a golden name card, served only for close relatives.
For me, by association.
“Percy chose it,” she hums in response.
That doesn’t even explain anything, as odd as Kai showing a sudden eagerness in fucking pomology.
“Based on what? Her deep interest in postwar viticulture?”
She traces the rim of her glass with a fingertip, fully aware that I’m watching her. Her teeth sink into the flesh of her lower lip, and there’s the smallest tightening at the corners as she swallows laughter. She’s about to say something that’ll trigger me.
I can feel it.
The rest of the hall fades away when she leans in, murmuring, “It’s the wine the critic orders inRatatouille. Her favourite film.” I go mute. Of course. Of fucking course. “What are you thinking in that golden head of yours?”
“That I’m torn between beingimpressed anddepressed.” She laughs, and it’s honest, loud enough to draw attention from a few tables. “I resent that I respect her decision. Well, at least she’s chosen accurately.” I clink my glass against hers. “We’re all pretending not to be rats here.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I was,” I say, not returning her an inch of her space. She’s the one who leaned in first, after all. Her lips part, but no words come. There’s a flash of teeth, a thin line between a smile and a bite.
She moves first, taking a sip from her glass, shutting her eyes to savour the taste. The wine slides around as though remembering being spilt on a battlefield, deep ruby moving towards her lips. In that abyssal dress, wine staining her lips like blood, she’s every witch made flesh. If there’s any magic in the room at this moment, it’s in the movement of her throat as she swallows.
Sylvaine cracks the low din of conversation by raising her glass ofCheval Blanc.The guests settle down as Frank helps her up and steps aside with a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t expect me to stand for too long; my knees are older than this castle, I tell you.” There’s a low ripple of laughter, and a quiet snortcomes from my right. “Francesca and Persephone, you’ve driven me absolutely mad. When you were small, I could seat you both in my lap. I remember thinking, the weight of this name is too heavy for shoulders sotiny. I should never have been afraid, should never have doubted you both.”
