After a moment of silence, Thomas whispers, “Give me your hand.”
The idea of touching this killer repels me, but the memory of Father's earlier hex is still fresh. I reach out my gloved fingers. He takes my hand, stands, and jerks me up beside him. He smashes his lips against mine. The jubilation is louder than ever. I can't think above the ruckus and pressure. I try to pull away from him, but he grasps my head, keeping me close. He tastes salty and rancid.
Finally he pulls away, a gleam in his eye. I force myself not to wipe my mouth. The foul taste of him lingers. He turns to the crowd, raises an arm, and shoots a bigger version of the newly made crest into the air above the field. Father edges closer to us, beaming. Cynthia stands on the other side of Thomas, out of sight and reach. I see nothing exciting about the two men at my side and another's body on the field before me.
Everyone is cheering. The boxes and stands are wild with people. Countries are yelling, though ours is the loudest, with colors waving madly. All except one group. The group that by all accounts should be letting their barbaric nature show the most. The Envadi stand silent.
Chapter Four
“The way you blocked and attacked at the same time,” Father's spoon waves about as he speaks, leaving green splatters everywhere, “it was the quickest I've seen anyone move during a tournament.”
Never have I seen him so lively. With any luck, the change will mean fewer punishments. The electric lights in the chandelier overhead flicker, casting an odd glow across the far stretching, but mostly unused, table. It makes me nervous. At home, Father makes us eat under candlelight.
Thomas gives a lopsided grin and makes like he's snatching a bug out of the air. “I've always had quick reflexes. Better than those spying Envadi scum. Only someone as powerful as me can have a killing during a tournament. What do you think, Serena?”
My spoon slips into my green pea soup. I've never been required to speak during dinner before. “I agree with Father.”
“You must think something beyond that, woman. Don't my spells impress you? My new title make you yearn for when you'll be my wife? I even have a new house. Have you ever been to Chancellor Jacob's manor?”
He stares at me expectantly. Could he actually want an answer? Why is he speaking to me in such a way? He should know women don't have opinions on things. At least not ones we speak aloud. Of course I don't yearn to be his wife. And I've certainly never had reason to attend a Chancellor's home. Until now. The small amount of food in my stomach protests.
The staring continues. I don't dare to pretend to take another bite while he keeps asking questions. “I haven't.”
“It's the grandest place I've ever seen. Been in his family for more generations than you can think. But now it's mine. Perhaps if you are good after we wed, I'll let you visit.”
“That's a treat indeed,” Father says. “Been often enough myself for council meetings. Do you think you'll use it to host council meetings when it's your time to host?”
“Chancellor Ryan said I shouldn't bother, but I may anyway,” Chancellor Thomas replies and the two go back to conversing without me.
Cynthia taps her spoon on the table to get my attention. With a nod toward my soup, she takes a meaningful sip of her own. I resume pretending to eat. It's difficult to feign hunger while sickened by the day's events.
After finishing an overly sweetened cherry dessert, the men excuse themselves, with a reminder that we're leaving early in the morning to go back to the tournament. I sigh.
“That was the most uncomfortable dinner I've sat through,” I say. “How can they eat when they saw a man die? When he killed someone?”
Cynthia holds a finger to her lips and looks around. “Let's go to the sitting room, shall we?”
There are several servants on the edge of our conversation. Mostly tarnished in their strange dark skirts and unmatched, dull blouses, but some of the lower class men wait as well. Servants who are serving to pay off debts are trouble. Gossip from them can spread as easily as mother gets with child. “Of course. Might as well take advantage of the space.”
We walk to the joined sitting room by our assigned rooms and close the door. A pungent candy-like aroma clings to the air. I spot sachets of dried flowers and leaves clustered on the small table in front of the sofa and chairs. The most offending odor is laurel. The leaves of success. A reminder of my new Master, no doubt. I want to throw them out.