Maremount wasn’t old enough to contain actual medieval buildings, so the Throcknells must have designed it to look ancient. Thomas had to admire their taste. Towering stone walls formed a long rectangle, each with peaked windows that overlooked gardens. There was no ceiling—just high arches enclosing the room like a stoney ribcage. And from these arches, a rainbow of wildflowers grew downward through some enchantment.
In the center of the hall stood a banquet table, and the setting sun cast it in a nectarine light. A half-dozen people sat around the green-clothed table. Flowers grew from the table itself, and around them, gold platters held colorful cakes, roast turkeys, rabbits covered in sauces and plums, and pies shaped like lion’s-heads. Tendrils of steam curled into the air, wafting aromas of baked meat and breads, and Thomas had to restrain himself from tearing a leg off a browned turkey to gnaw on like a caveman. Isn’t there some legend about not eating fairy food? Does that apply here?
The guests’ clothes were even more outrageous than his own: they lounged in gold tissue-cloth, green and blue velvet, ribbons, their hats sewn with rubies and emeralds.
At the end of the table sat the King and Queen. Bathsheba’s pale, shimmering skin reminded him of moonlight, a contrast to her warm golden gown. A snow fox panted by her side, its black eyes alert. To the left, Asmodeus slouched in his black robes, his viper coiling around his hat. He glared at Thomas, his receding chin wrinkled with distaste.
Thomas almost didn’t notice Celia sitting by his side. She was clad in a simple blue gown, and her face had a vacant look. She seemed to avoid his eye. Guilt, perhaps.
He turned to the King. Is there some rule about not standing in the presence of royalty?
King Balthazar stood, thrusting out a hand. Jeweled rings crowded his fingers. His neatly trimmed beard was the color of hay, and red veins discolored his nose. A mountain lion—his familiar—rested by his chair. “Thank you for joining us, Thomas Malcolm. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a high-backed wooden chair across from Celia and Asmodeus.
Wildflowers grew through the tiled floor, reaching toward their counterparts above. Thomas pulled out a dark wooden chair, the seat clothed in red velvet. He tried to catch Celia’s eye, but she was staring at the sky with a dreamy look, her eyes half lidded.
The King smiled. “You must be wondering why we asked you here.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I was surprised. I thought you were going to execute me.” Too blunt. The first thing sleep deprivation destroys is social filters.
To his relief, the King threw back his head and laughed. “Of course we wouldn’t kill one of my daughter’s friends. We wanted to speak to the man who buried the Wampanoag king.”
A woman in a canary yellow gown grinned and clapped.
“It’s quite a feat,” he continued, “and we owe you a great debt for ridding our city of the Harvester scourge. Also, my beautiful wife was terribly curious to meet someone from the other side.”
When Bathsheba smiled, her teeth were a dazzling white against her ruby lips.
Thomas took a deep breath. I have no idea what royal protocol is… Screw it. “What’s happened to my companion? He was taken from our cell. Your Highness.”
The King and Queen stared at him. In person, Bathsheba’s icy gaze was no warmer than her statue’s.
King Balthazar’s face was impassive. “We sent the boy home.”
Thomas glanced at Celia again. While Asmodeus stared at the girl, licking his thin lips, she plucked a flower from the floor and began threading it through the tines of a fork, singing softly to herself.
Thomas blinked. Has she lost her mind? Something was very wrong with her. Either she’d been given some sort of magical lobotomy, or she was pretending to be stupid because she didn’t trust her own father. Neither was an enticing possibility.
He replayed Oswald’s warning in his mind: Never trust a Throcknell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thomas
The rich scent of roasted and spiced meat was enough to distract him from his fears. He gaped at the pies lining the table, and the curls of steam that rose from their centers. Sure, he was supposed to be cautious, but there was no harm in enjoying a feast.
The King gestured to a gray-haired man to his right. “We honor another guest here tonight.” Thick eyebrows swooped up the man’s forehead, and a small hedgehog perched on the shoulder of his red tunic. He nodded as the King continued, “Sir Caspar is a great philosopher visiting us from Mount Acidale.”
Thomas had no idea what Mount Acidale was. He flashed a quick smile, wondering how long he had to wait before he could eat.
The King clapped his hands. “We are here to celebrate! Let the wine flow!”
As he spoke the words, three women strode into the hall, each wearing a small gauzy tunic. Their hair and bodies gleamed with gold, and they carried pitchers in both hands. They moved gracefully around the table, filling goblets with red wine.
“Let us dine and enjoy ourselves.” The King raised a goblet, and the guests followed suit.