Page 4 of Bride of the Black Dragon
The three of us are at the head table, up on a kind of stage so everyone can see the Royals dine. I have never felt more judged or exposed—it feels like every eye is on me and I see plenty of people pointing and talking behind their hands. Which is extremely rude, if you ask me. Only no one has asked.
I would have thought that I would be seated by Prince Dorian, my husband-to-be. Instead, he is all the way over to my right, sitting at the right hand of his father, the King, while I am at the left hand of the Queen. For some reason, Dorian’s friend, Henri has been allowed to join the Royal table too. So the seating order goes as follows,—Henri, Dorian, King Harrow, Queen Virelda, me…and Prince Xaren, who is seated at my side.
I felt uncomfortable at first, when the Steward sat me beside him, but the Dark Prince has mostly ignored me. He stares straight ahead, the left side of his face obscured, as always, by his black hair. He has said nothing to me but, “Don’t worry, little dove—I don’t bite,” when he first sat down. Other than that, he’s been ignoring me.
I wish he was a less dour dinner companion. It would be nice to have someone to talk to during the banquet. My only other option is my soon-to-be Mother-in-law and that’s not a very pleasant prospect. Queen Virelda has made it clear she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son and we really have nothing to say to each other.
But just because she doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t mean she won’t interact. To my dismay, she’s decided that she gets to decide what I eat. When the first course arrives—a rich cream soup with little bits of vegetables and meat bobbing in it—she allows the server to fill her own bowl and then waves him away before he can fill mine.
“None for the Princess-to-be,” she says firmly. “She’s a little too plump to be eating such a rich fare. Bring her plain broth instead.”
Her words both mortify and enrage me. How dare she police what I eat? And what must everyone around us think? Queen Virelda has a high, sharp voice that carries easily. I can see the Nobles at the tables nearest the stage we’re sitting on tittering behind their hands and staring at me as the servant returns with a steaming bowl of plain, watery broth.
I sip the broth with poor grace, taking only a few spoonfuls. When the servant whisks the bowl away and the next course comes out, I’m eager for it. A rich, fatty haunch of pork on a silver platter, surrounded by cooked vegetables is being carved. The smell of roasted meat tantalizes my nose and makes my mouth water.
But when the servant tries to put a few slices of pork on my plate, Queen Virelda stops him.
“I think not. Just a few vegetables for the bride-to-be. After all, we want her to be able to fit into her wedding dress tomorrow,” she says—loud enough for everyone to hear.
I want to sink through the ground. I’ve never been publicly shamed for my weight before—maybe because the people I grew up with back home were all shaped more or less like me. We Northerners are hearty stock—not thin and spindly like the beanpoles here at the Citadel. But even if I lost fifty pounds, I still wouldn’t have the thin, waifish appearance that everyone seems to favor here. I’m simply not built to be slender.
This goes on for the entire banquet. By the end, when the servants are coming around with huge serving platters of delicious-looking cream filled pastries, I’ve had nothing but two sips of broth, a few mushy bites of overcooked carrot, and a lean, dry piece of fowl breast with no gravy, because Queen Virelda decided it was “too rich” for me.
The whole meal has passed and I’m still hungry! My stomach growls angrily as the servant passes by with the tray full of flaky pastries. Some are drizzled with chocolate and others with some kind of red berry syrup. How I wish I could have one! But I don’t even dare to try. I know what my Mother-in-Law to be would say.
Will it be like this my entire marriage, I wonder dismally? Is she planning to starve me to death? Because I can’t live like this—I truly can’t.
Then, to my surprise, Prince Xaren reaches out to stop the servant with the pastry tray. Just a moment ago, he’d refused dessert and the server was about to move on. I guess he’s changed his mind.
Indeed he has because he points to the two plumpest pastries—one covered in chocolate and the other drizzled with the berry compote.
“Those,” he says and the server nods and starts to put them on the clean plate in front of him. But the Dark Prince shakes his head. “There.” He points to my dessert plate, which I was sure would remain barren. “Those are for her—for the Princess,” he tells the servant shortly.
The server shoots a nervous glance at Queen Virelda, but she’s turned away speaking to King Harrow about something.
Xaren sees the look and takes the server by the wrist.
“Ask yourself something,” he growls, low and menacing. “Who are you more afraid of—the Queen…or me?”
The servant gulps, his Adam’s apple moving convulsively in his skinny throat. Then he quickly deposits the pastries Xaren chose for me on my plate and scurries away.
I look down at the delicious treats, my mouth watering. But I don’t know if I dare to eat them. Queen Virelda?—
“Let me worry about my mother,” Xaren murmurs. “You eat. She’s starved you enough for one meal.”
At that point I’m asking myself the same question he asked the servant—who am I more afraid of? I decide that I’d rather not offend the Dark Prince. And besides, I’m really hungry.
I pick up my fork and make short work of the first pastry—it’s heavenly. Flakey and sweet and the cream filling melts on my tongue—it’s like eating a cloud.
I’m halfway into the second one when Queen Virelda turns and sees me. Her face goes dark, her nostrils flaring until two little white dents appear on either side of her nose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, glaring at me. “I gave orders that you were to be on a diet!”
The bite I just swallowed seems to stick in my throat. But before I can say a word, Xaren speaks up.
“I gave her the pastries,” he growls, glaring at his mother. “You can’t starve her into a fucking skeleton like the rest of the women at this Court. She’s built to be curvy—so leave her alone and let her eat!”
I’m so surprised by his words—which echo my own earlier thoughts—I can’t speak. Queen Virelda seems surprised and angered too. I get the feeling that Xaren doesn’t often speak to her like this. Or maybe he just doesn’t speak to her at all. I know I wouldn’t, if she was my mother.
