Vespus spat something at his son, something that caused Rasmus’s skin to flush, and even the boy and Aphora looked taken aback. Rasmus abruptly closed his mouth, as the whole table lapsed into strained silence.
Rasmus had taught her Rhyllian, but it had always been conversational – greeting and parting phrases, talking about the weather, food, family members. Rhyllian was less straightforward than Rhannish, no one-word translation for most things – goodbye was “when next we meet I will be blessed”, and mother was “she who grew me beneath her heart”. Sorrow had loved the romance of it, but it made following a conversation between native Rhyllians impossible to anyone who hadn’t been born to it, or spent a lifetime studying it. It reminded her that she and Charon were at every disadvantage at this table.
The mood was broken by the arrival of the food. And Mael had not lied; Vespus really had ordered everything. The surface of the table was covered: bowls of olives, glistening with oil. Spiky leaves from unknown plants were dotted with bright blossoms and drizzled with something dark and sticky-looking, golden bread woven into knots and braids and sprinkled with seeds. She could smell almonds – mazarine, she realized, the sugar-almond paste Rhylla made for celebrations – and a cheese oozing from its rind, pungent and almost-sour. There were pears, tomatoes, plums, figs, dates, flaking pastries dotted with green nuts and dripping syrup.
“Eat,” Vespus insisted, and began to serve himself, Lincel and Aphora following immediately.
Sorrow didn’t know where to begin, staring helplessly at the food.
“The summer pears are especially good,” Mael said, holding one out to her.
Sorrow shook her head, grabbing a plum and a handful of dates before he could say anything else. Aware his eyes – all eyes – were on her, she pushed a date between her lips and bit down.
The flavour exploded in her mouth, impossibly sweet, chewy and soft, and she raised her hands to her face, convinced she’d have to spit it out because it was too much.
“Tasty, aren’t they?” Vespus said, holding the apple like an orb.
She nodded, and forced the mouthful down her throat. Without allowing herself time to think she took a bite of her plum. It was the opposite of the date; tartly sour and succulent, the antidote to the sweetness that she needed. She took a second bite, a third, a fourth. Soon she was gnawing at the stone in the centre; there was plum-flesh caught between her teeth, juice sticky on her chin.
She wanted more. Suddenly ravenous, she reached for one of the loaves and tore some off, using it to scoop up some of the cheese, taking her knife and smearing it across the bread. She followed that with a handful of olives, the stone at the centre a surprise that temporarily made her think she’d cracked a tooth. She devoured handfuls of the tiny, succulent tomatoes; plucked more dates from the pile, ready for their sweetness now; sliced a fig into quarters and ate it, skin and all, then another with more of the cheese. She ate with her hands, they all did, reaching out to take and grasp, using their plates for discarded stones and seeds and pits, using knives only when fingers wouldn’t suffice.
Rasmus alone didn’t touch the food, but Sorrow was barely aware of it, barely aware of anything except the feast before her, her worries and fears buried by the food. As Rasmus sat back in his chair, upright and stiff, sipping water from a tumbler, she and the others filled their bellies, drinking deep draughts of a sharp wine that tasted like sunshine.
“Shall I bring more, my lord?” The server had reappeared and addressed Vespus, and Sorrow realized they’d almost finished the food.
She sat back, dazed, looking at the remains of the feast. Only some of the fruit and the sleek slab of mazarine remained. They’d devoured it all.
Vespus glanced around the table, then shook his head. “No. Leave what remains, and bring coffee. That will do.”
The server nodded, and began to stack the empty platters before taking them away.
“How did you enjoy your meal?” Vespus licked his fingers as he looked at Sorrow.
“It was delicious,” Sorrow said honestly. It was delicious. Even now, with a painfully full stomach, she itched to reach for the golden peach that still remained. She wanted to split it open, eat half as it was and the other half piled high with mazarine. Everything here tasted extraordinary, she didn’t think she could ever tire of such food, hadn’t known it could be this good.
She sat back, frightened by the strength of her need, reaching instead for her water tumbler and taking a long drink. Even the water tasted better here, crisp and light and somehow cleaner than Rhannish water. She’d never known before that water had a flavour.
“There’s something ancient and honourable about breaking bread with friends,” said Vespus. “And your country showed me hospitality for a time. It is good that I’ve been able to repay that. To your health.” He raised his wine glass. “To you both.” He tilted the glass to Mael, then drank deeply.
The server returned with an odd silver pot and seven tiny cups, pouring a thick dark liquid into each one. The drink smelled warm, rich and faintly bitter, and Sorrow’s mouth watered once more. As the server placed a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes in the centre of the table, Vespus held up a finger to stop him.
“Open the window, would you?” he asked, and the server bowed, edging behind the Rhyllians and unlatching the hexagonal window, pushing it open, the scent of the blossoms on the wall mingling with the coffee aroma.
As the server vanished back into the recesses of the inn, Vespus added a single lump of sugar to his coffee. “To business, then?” he said. “Mael, are you ready to tell your sister what happened to you?”
At his words the good feelings from the meal, and the companionship that came from eating together, evaporated, leaving Sorrow on edge once more. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, watching as the boy nodded, reaching for the cream and adding a good amount to his own cup, turning the liquid a pale brown. He added two lumps of sugar and stirred the drink. He looked up at Sorrow, smiling briefly.
“Lord Vespus tells me the Rhannish drink their coffee black, but I never did develop a taste for it without cream,” he said.
Sorrow said nothing, raising her brows pointedly. No more chit-chat. She was there for a reason.
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t remember falling from the bridge,” he began, eyes fixed on the whirlpool he’d made in his cup. “But sometimes I dream; it’s cold, and dark, and I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I think it must be some memory of the river, but I don’t remember it truly. I don’t remember my mother, or my – our – father.” He looked at Sorrow and she lowered her gaze to the inky darkness of the coffee. “I can only tell you what I was told of that day, second-hand. But firsthand, I can tell you what I lived after.”
The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end, despite the heat of the day, and without realizing it, Sorrow leant forward.
“Tell me,” she said.