Page 32 of Prima
She is not going to turn into any kind of fiendish demigod, much to her regret. There is a 25% chance that after she finishes her Grand Tour, she will be selected for the honor of serving on the Secretariat, as the representative member of her age cohort. And if she does, her rotation will not start for another two-and-a-half years. Half of that time she will spend in various lower-level decision-making bodies, familiarizing herself with their inner workings. The other half of the time she will travel to all the reclaimed islands of New Ryukyu, to make sure that she has seen life up close everywhere, not as someone the local officials might try to entertain and suck up to, but as just another pair of sandals on the ground, another chair pulled up at a busy noodle shop.
And during that entire time, she will have only a minimal stipend and must squeeze into shared housing and cook for herself.
“I may never be the Prima,” she says. “Just an ordinary young woman who managed to lose a whole yacht during her Grand Tour.”
“Your formidable mother isn’t the current Prima?”
“My formidable mother works for the Secretariat, but has never been one of the seven.”
Her mother might be, in her own way, one of the most powerful individuals in New Ryukyu, the gatekeeper to the decision-makers, the one constant in a rotating cast of characters. But she rose from nothing and would never countenance her daughter relying on others to do what she could do for herself.
She glances at him. “I’m no princess.”
“Lucky you.” He points at her scallion flatbread. “Might want to flip it now.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” she answers meekly and complies.
The flipped flatbread glistens, all golden and appetizing. He leans forward for a closer look. Without her quite realizing it, her left hand lifts and takes hold of a strand of his hair. It is still a bit damp—and very, very silky.
After lunch she nearly embraced him, one hand holding his, the other spread against his nape—and she didn’t feel the least bit shy. But now this slight contact burns her fingertips. She lets go.
He glances at her, his cheekbones gilded by sunset, but only says, “Smells good. Let’s see how it tastes.”
* * *
Alas, her flatbread smells better than it tastes. It managed to achieve some layers—the boy was correct about the necessity of fat—but it’s dry in places, too oily in other spots, and undercooked at the center because it’s so thick. Not to mention, as it turns out, even she can tell the difference between fresh and rehydrated scallion.
And compared to his simple yet delicious soup? She would have to apprentice in his kitchen a good long time before their food could be served at the same table.
In the half light of dusk, he eats silently.
She licks the back of her teeth—might as well get the worst over with. “It’s not so bad you’re at a loss for words, is it?”
“No, it’s not so bad.”
She waits, somewhat encouraged, but also bracing for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s…it’s nice to eat something someone else has prepared.” He hesitates. “It’s nice to eat with someone else.”
She, as loquacious as she’s been with him, doesn’t know what to say.
He looks at her with those beautiful yet opaque eyes. “You must have many friends.”
“Iknowa great many people.” She hesitates again. “But my mother has always been wary of anyone trying to influence her through me and maybe these days I’m wary myself. So it’s likely I don’t have as many friends as you think I do, but I have them.”
“Do you eat together with them often?”
“Yes and it’s always fun.” She hesitates once more. “But sometimes I don’t particularly want boisterous companionship. Sometimes I would like to eat quietly with someone, and then to sit quietly with them afterwards.”
He says nothing for a while, until she wonders if she comes across as extremely silly to him, wanting this and that, when the women in his life have so few choices. When he himself has so few choices.
“I want that for you,” he says, his voice low, “a rich and varied life, with the whole world at your feet when you wish it, and when you don’t, a quiet, happy domesticity.”
Again, that chaos of emotions inside.
She leaps up, more as a reaction to her internal turbulence than anything else. But now she can’t just stand there.
“You know what? We never drank the spirits you brought to lunch.”
