Page 60 of The Black Table
Yep. Definitely having the wine.
Before Elena can notice me—thank God—a bell sounds from somewhere unseen, and the murmurs and laughter dwindle down to a soft hum as people weave their way to their seats. They’re divided by year, I quickly realize, and the first-year table is farthest to the right, so I pick my way over, reading over shoulders and scanning for the capital G and V of my names like I’m reading minuscule in Emrys’s class all over again. At last, I find it—almost all the way at the end, which is when I realize (of course) it’s alphabetical by last name.
Which, unfortunately, puts S just a few Ts and Us away from V.
Across the table and two seats over, Elena stares at me. Nonarrowed eyes or wrinkled nose, just pure…astonishment, I suppose. I choose to ignore her—as much as you can ignore a heat-seeking missile, anyway—and pull my chair out.
That, for whatever reason, gets a reaction. Elena laughs, at once harsh and musical, and I stop, freeze in place.
Did I mess up already?
I don’t need to wait for an answer. Another bell rings—deeper, this time—and that’s when I realize everyone is still standing. Motion stirs at the front of the room, and I slink awkwardly out of my half-seated position and stand behind my chair as a pair of figures emerges to stand on either side of the head table platform.
Familiar figures, I realize, my breath catching in my chest.
It’s them.
Kingston, Kai, Lanz, and Callahan. Not dressed in tuxedoes and bow ties, but in some sort of…black doublets, with high necks and wide epaulets. Wordless, they each take a side, in pairs—Kingston and Lanz on the left, Kai and Callahan on the right—and draw swords high into the air. They stand like that—silent, still, one hand held firm at the small of the back—and hold the blades up as the faculty and deans to process to the head table, the whole room silent but for the shuffling of academic robes.
“Benedictus benedicat,” comes a sonorous voice from the head table. It’s the dean of the undergraduate college—a serious-looking man in dark-framed glasses who I only know from brochures.
Around me, heads bow.
Grace. Of course. I duck my head as whichever dean finishes his brief prayer.
“…Dominum nostrum, amen.”
All at once, life returns to the hall, movement and sound.
But when I look up, the four of them are gone.
Not something befitting us holy rollers of Camlann.
So they can come to hold up swords, but not stay longer than that?
I don’t get it.
I don’t get a lot of things about this place.
Immediately, a flock of stewards appears from the side doors, interrupting my thoughts: some bearing tureens of soup, others with wine decanters.
“Crema de Mariscos con Azafrán,” one says to me, suddenly at my left elbow, and proffers his holdings. “Saffron seafood bisque with cream.”
“Thank you,” I say, self-consciously, as he serves me a portion, sliding a thin slice of garlic toast beside it, and again when a different steward appears at my right and pours my glass neatly half-full with white wine. Drinking age be damned, I suppose.
Conscious of my earlier faux pas—but in fairness, who thehellwould’ve expected a sword ceremony before dinner?—I look around at everyone else to follow their lead. But things appear to have relaxed somewhat, with conversations springing up between seat partners and music—faint, Andalusian-sounding—playing from somewhere.
I gulp the wine and pick at the soup. The food’s not bad—it’s excellent, actually—but my stomach is too twisted with nerves to have much appetite.
Wine, though…
I take another healthy sip.It’s not like I have to drive anywhere, right? And it’s not like anyone’s really going to talk to me.I take another. And another.
A prickle of realization creeps over my skin, and I turn. Across the table, Elena seems to have noticed me.
But all she does is smile.
“It’s so nice to see you out here, Gwenna,” she says, her tone as warm and bright as the sun-colored marigolds dotting the tablescape. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
