He sweeps up his goblet and takes a long draught. Conversation resumes as the Shadow guides me to a seat halfway down the table—not near Amriel, thankfully, but not far enough away for comfort.
But since I chose to attend this dinner myself, I perch on the edge of a seat that resembles a nest of woven branches. The Shadow makes for the door, and I watch, plagued by equal parts relief and…what is that twinge between my ribs? Disappointment?
Not likely. I shove the unidentified emotion down and swivel to face the table. Before me, gleaming platters are piled high with various meats. Lavish cakes soar from silver stands, while ornate bowls offer an array of rainbow-hued fruits I’ve never seen before.
The display of excess turns my stomach, despite the fact that I haven’t eaten since this morning. This spread is staggering, obscene. Enough to feed my entire castle for a week, and for what? So these fae can gorge themselves at will?
“What’s wrong, little one?” The pink-eyed delegate sits across from me, his posture as loose as fae morals. A woman with pale skin, creaseless eyelids, and glossy black hair sits beside him, trailing her fingers up and down his exposed chest.
The delegate notes me tracking the movement and smiles. “Haven’t you ever had a proper meal before?”
“Oh, Calen,” the fae woman admonishes. “Of course she hasn’t. She’s human.” She aims a grin at me. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart? I’ve heard all about how you make a sport of depriving yourselves. Something to do with that goddess of yours, right?”
The blood in my veins runs cold. She mocks our values so easily, when her kind eats like…like… I scan the table, my lip twisting. Like they worship at the altar of their own gluttony.
“We don’tdepriveourselves,” I force out. “We just eat to nourish our bodies. Food is meant to be sustenance, not a”—I wave a hand to encompass the lavish spread—“celebration of greed. Or whatever this is.”
The woman laughs, the sound like a breeze ruffling through windchimes. “Oh, buteverything’sa celebration of greed, sweetheart. Of being alive, of being capable of pleasure. Why don’t you indulge a little and see? You might actually enjoy yourself.” She flashes a wink. “And we wouldnevertell.”
My lips mash together at the suggestion that I don’t enjoy my life. I enjoy plenty—the thrill of rising early, the touch of the sun’s first rays as I walk to the hilltop temple, the joy that ripples across my soul when the goddess acknowledges my prayers. “I like my life just fine. Myoldlife. Which I’ll go back to the second I can. In the meantime, I have no interest in your offensive…parties.”
Another tinkling laugh. “Oh, love. This is no party. It’s just a regular day. And ifthisoffends you, wait until dessert.”
The entire table erupts into laughter, and I frown. Surely this is dinneranddessert, already? I count at least seven cakes here, frosted and tiered and utterly ridiculous.
“I don’t want dessert,” I say stiffly.
That prompts another outpouring of amusement. The delegate with the locs—Calen, apparently—grins at me. “Much to Amriel’s disappointment, I’m sure.”
More laughter, only this time, frustration builds inside me. Dessert means…what, exactly? Something more than what’s on the table, judging by their amusement. But I can’t guess what any of it has to do with Amriel, and when I look to him for clues, he’s gone cold again, his stare drilling into me for a moment before shifting away.
“Actually,” he drawls, “when it comes to her, I couldn’t possibly care less.”
I narrow my eyes. No, of course he couldn’t. He can’t even stand the sight of me, and good thing. I can’t stand the sight of him, either.
The dinner moves on without me. The fae eat and drink with relish, their laughter abundant, their movements growing looser as the wine does its devilish work.
I sit straight, careful not to let my elbows brush my neighbors’. I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to eat again, so I take a small portion of something that looks like bread, then sip some water. Meanwhile, the touches around me grow bolder. Calen whispers to the beautiful fae beside him, who erupts into giggles, her fingers wandering down his chest and disappearing beneath the table.
The bread drops from my hands. I pin my focus to my plate, my appetite vanishing.
But Calen and his friend only lean closer, their movements turning brazen. Soon, the fae woman pushes aside Calen’s plate and slides onto the table to face him.
My stomach clenches around what little food I’ve managed to swallow. “What’re you doing?” I demand, no longer able to ignore their antics.
The woman leans back to regard me over her shoulder. With her elbows propped against the tabletop, her lowcut dress gapes open, granting me a view down her spine. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“Why’re you up on the table?” I say, louder this time.
She splays her knees wide. “Why do you think? I’m getting ready for my dessert.”
A sly smile plays on Calen’s lips as he pushes back his chair. He leans over the woman, catching her around the waist, angling his face toward hers. And then he…kisses her. Just like that. Right here in front of everyone.
I rear back, trying to escape the spectacle. In Aethrolia, kissing—and all that comes with it—is done in private, a sacred act between two people who love each other. Preferably between people who are also legally married.
Somehow, I doubt Calen and this fae woman share any kind oflawful bond, but that doesn’t stop his palm from sliding up her spine or his fingers from tangling in her hair. She arches into him, making breathy sounds I’ve never heard before. All around the table, the other fae follow suit. Beside me, a pale-haired, pale-skinned man unlaces his trousers while the woman beside him slides from her chair to her knees.
My entire body flushes hot, then cold. Every teaching, every prayer, every lesson laid down in the Book of Disciplines screams at me to tear my eyes from this debauchery. But I sit motionless, horrified, unable to do anything but watch as the woman settles between my neighbor’s splayed legs. She smiles up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, then gropes in his trousers and pulls out his?—
