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Gen feels his grandfather’s eyes on him, even though he knows better than to look up and check for a set of too-human eyes peering down from the mosaic procession above.
He clenches the silver platter with both hands and passes Eurykleia to set the tray of pine nut-strewn tarts in front of a baron and his entourage. The wine has made their faces shiny and their voices loud, as it has for everyone at the wedding not dressed in a servant’s tunic.
Everyone except the bride, Gen thinks, his stomach tightening into a cannonball so heavy. Irene’s pale face disappears among the orange silk of her veil and the sunset folds of her gown and the layers and layers and layers of gold that dangle from her forehead, ears, and neck like she is a mannequin in a jeweller’s display. Her eyes stare blankly ahead or down to her plate, although Gen hasn’t seen her take a single bite since the start of the feast.
The man next to her takes up all the space she doesn’t. His lips are stained the same dark purple as his cloak. When he throws his head back and laughs, Gen sees that his teeth have darkened from the wine as well. His companion, a cousin likely to be elevated to chamberlain the next morning, grins in satisfaction and beckons a pretty serving girl to refill their glasses.
‘You’re in the way,’ Georgias mutters, nudging Gen along.
He mumbles an apology and follows the steady flow of servants out of the megaron. On his way, he picks up two empty dishes and casts another look at the princess. Queen, her crown corrects him.
Out in the hall, Gen tugs at his collar to let in the cool air and skips to the kitchens. When he passes two older girls comparing the guests’ outfits, he remembers that he is supposed to eavesdrop on the guests and pull together a report for his grandfather, who would share anything interesting with the king. More attention to barons, less to Irene, he reminds himself.
The kitchens start in the corridor before the furnaces, and Gen knows they extend well into the gardens this week. A whole hecatomb has been sacrificed to bless the union and make sure the guests don't go hungry. Gen passes the empty platters to Brachos, who piles them on top of a cart; in the same movement, he takes a fresh tray from a kitchen boy Gen doesn't recognise, and immediately passes it on go Gen in a never-ending clockwork of food, drink, food, drink. Entire cities eat less in a month than those inside the megaron do today.
When Gen has turned the corner, he brings his nose to the golden loaf and breathes in the warm steam. A circle of sauces girds the bread, each looking tastier than the next, and Gen wonders what the point of is being a Thief if he can’t even steal a bite to eat after a long day.
He sets his feet to work before he does something he’ll regret.
Barons, not Irene, barons, not Irene.
He repeats this chant as he returns to the megaron. Whenever he meets a sweaty, tired servant, he remembers that he should be listening to the staff, too, although he isn’t quite sure how he is supposed to listen in on that many conversations at the same time. Most of them aren’t even about anything remotely useful, he grumbles to himself as he crosses the threshold and the excitement of the feast washes over him in a wave of heat. All these barons talk about is what types of statues they’re considering for their libraries or which set is going to win at the chariot races tomorrow.
‘How is your tutor? I’ve had to let go of Stesichorus after that incident in the baths…’
‘It was a nightmare; Marina planned to wear the exact same shade, and you know how she always draws the attention, so yesterday — yesterday! — I still had to figure out…’
‘… going to raise the royal taxes, knowing full well that my lands are struggling after that flood last summer. He’s acting like he’s considering a sign of generosity, but I know the house of Kallicertes, and their charity won’t come cheap…’
The complaint comes from his right; the table has recently been cleared; they could do with some more bread to soak up the wine in their bellies. Moving with deliberate, excessive care, Gen leans between the two men — the one who spoke baron Marsyas, the other a figure unknown to him — and places the tray in the empty space.
‘At least if it’s a one-off…?’ the other man suggests.
‘Do you hear yourself? You know how Kallicertes treats even the patronoi on his lands. He’ll use the same approach for us now his son is king. Because, let’s face it, our new Attolis couldn’t care less about where the gold comes from as long as he can spend it.’
‘If you speak less loudly, he might spend it on you.’
‘He won’t,’ Marsyas says, and his companion shrugs.
Gen retreats. As he does so, he dares cast a glimpse at the high table. On either side of the bride that is Irene, the men lean towards their other companions, like she’s of no more interest than the pillars that hold up the ceiling. She sits motionless, only giving in slightly when her fiancé — husband, king — sways against her in his impassioned monologue.
He has never seen anyone so sad, or so alone. His throat tightens.
Gen's eye roams across the table; a bunch of pitchers look empty, one of the platters for the bones is so full it will soon spill over. A small, blue-and-white bowl at the far end sparks his attention. It is ignored by the four men around it, whose words slur as they argue over one another about the winner of the Ferrian Games twelve years ago.
His instincts prove him right; the inside of the bowl glows with the rich gold of Brinna’s honeyed almonds. Unnoticed, he lifts it and sets off. Not for the kitchens, to make himself useful again; nor to the crenelations, where he might finally be able to hear his own thoughts; but up along the rows of guests until he reaches the high table.
He places the gift in front of an empty stare.
‘Your Majesty,’ he says.
Irene blinks; her eyes focus; she sees him. Gen’s heart does something strange inside his chest, lurching like it’s stumbled over its own beating and tries to right itself in time.
He looks up at her, tongue-tied by her beauty and her loneliness. She lowers her gaze to the almonds.
‘They’re Brinna’s special recipe,’ he says.
The shadows in the corners of her mouth seem to deepen. ‘I know.’
‘I – I heard you like them.’
She nods.
Her fiancé — husband, husband, husband — thrusts his hand into the bowl. Almonds drop from between his fingers and scatter across the table and the floor. Irene’s face doesn’t move, except that the shadows fade into the whiteness of her face.
Gen can tell he’s growing more unwanted by the second, but his feet feel glued to the dais in front of her.
‘I thought you danced beautifully,’ he says, and the surprise in her eyes sends his heart tumbling all over again. He bows before she sends him away.
Her fiancé — husband — lifts his cup and turns it upside down, spilling two or three ruby drops. ‘More of this, boy,’ he says.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ says Gen. ‘Immediately, Your Majesty.’
He looks around; already a cupbearer approaches, not that it’s fast enough for the young king. Gen glances over his shoulder as Irene’s husband takes her wine as casually as he might take — but scarlet blotches cloud his vision, and he stumbles away before he draws any more attention to himself. He can already feel the back of his head burning with his grandfather’s anger at this needless, dangerous, pointless exposure. He thinks of Irene’s eyes, called away from whatever faraway place her mind had wandered, and wonders if he did her a favour at all by bringing her to this noisy, hot present. With every step, he grows more frustrated at what he’s done, as if a bowl of almonds matters to a queen on her wedding day. And to top it all off, he hasn’t heard anything anyone else at high table has said.
Once he reaches the wall, he turns around. Irene might as well have been hewn from marble; it would be easier to carve a smile in stone than move her pale, absent face. The king of Attolia gestures with her cup, and Gen wants to run back and slap it from his hand and shout in his stupid, red, smug face until he realises how lucky, how goddamned lucky he is to sit next to Irene, not only tonight, but for the rest of his life.
Gen clenches his teeth and moves down to the entrance, his feet moving down the familiar path but his eyes seeing only red where the wedding should be. Once at the door, a serving girl immediately sends him back to pick up the empty platters on the side opposite to the queen, scolding him for his inefficiency.
He focuses on the table she directed him to. Heartbeat by heartbeat, his vision expands beyond the crumb-covered silver, to include the guests, and then the guests around them. Gen hovers between two middle-aged women when a hush ripples over the room.
Gen twists, reaching for his belt. Guttural, wet heaving blends with cutlery falling against plates, wood, tiles.
The king of Attolia has gone pale as death. The struggling noises come from him, from his throat, from inside his lungs, and the whole court watches as a stream of purple pours forth from his mouth and nose.
A glass shatters; a woman shrieks; and mayhem breaks loose. The king’s cousin is slapping him against his back with bruising, terrified force. More and more wine-coloured vomit spills over the groom’s food and clothes, like he’s become one of the fountains celebrating the royal marriage. Gen can’t believe that one man could fit so much inside him, nor that it would turn so dark, so quickly.
‘The king! The king!’ people shout all around. 'To the king!'
Baron Kallicertes is callingfor water, for milk, for a bezoar, for fucking anything, why can’t they do something? His son retches and retches, slumped over the table; the streams down his nostrils drip thick and red like blood. The whites of his eyes have gone pink, and stare across the room, meeting Gen’s gaze directly, like he knows exactly what Gen wished upon him.
The princess sits frozen in shock, her left hand and arm splattered with filth. Her eyes are locked on her husband, even as she pushes back her throne and steps backwards. She has gone so pale that the bride-red on her cheeks stands out like a fever, not a blush. Her lips are pressed together into a thin line that keeps any panic locked away inside.
Baron Kallicertes has tipped back his son’s head and is pouring a stream of milk down his throat, but even Gen can see that the battle is lost already. The groom gags, and the liquid that spills out of his nose is pink with blood, gore, wine, whatever is left in him. Guards cluster around Irene’s husband and hide him from Gen’s sight, but their swords are useless now. Already, the barons are shouting at one another, calling to arms and to council, ushering their wives out of the megaron, shooing the servants away. One of them grabs Gen by the scruff of his neck and drags him out.
He cranes his neck, pushing onto his tiptoes to see over the cresting crowds.
Irene has taken a napkin and is wiping her husband’s dinner off her arm. Calmly, she drops the napkin on her plate and navigates around the table. She avoids the supporters of baron Kallicertes that throng around her husband in a desperate attempt to save him.
She doesn’t look desperate.
She looks like she doesn’t feel anything at all.
Two guards jump to her side as she heads for a separate exit, one used only by the king and queen. The last Eugenides sees of her is the orange veil atop her hair, and then the flood carries him away from the scene where Irene’s husband lies dead.