Page 8 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)

Before dinner, Favian was finally able to clean himself off again.

Using the washrooms multiple times a day was a luxury he knew not every servant was afforded, but he also knew that his access to the facilities was not a sign of decency, much less kindness.

More so, the smell of a sweat-soaked human would have soured the Majesties’ appetites.

The set of clothes he wore to meals was carefully laid far enough away from the basin that it would not get wet as Favian glided the sponge over his chest, his arms, his legs.

His face was always the first thing he washed so the water would still be mostly clean when it ran over his forehead, cheeks, and chin.

He was allowed water twice a day, but soap only once.

The suds on his skin smelled of olive oil, and he breathed it in, savoring each moment of the experience.

Once he was dry and back in clothes as clean as they would get, Favian made his way toward the kitchens, where he was once again met with frantic bustling and, this time, a panicked head cook.

“What is going on?” he asked Nico, who was in the middle of cleaning a layer of burned black from a large pot.

“Giulio burned the soup,” his brother replied quietly.

As quickly as he could, Favian was on Giulio’s side, asking the man what to do. “Do you need new vegetables? Meat?”

“There’s no time,” the cook fretted, the shake in his voice indicating more fear than he was trying to let his tone permeate.

“We will do what we can. What do you need?”

Giulio pinched his nose with one hand and used the other to count. “Four yellow onions, four red, two white. Four lemons — and the parmigiano!”

The storage room right next to the kitchens was still familiar to Favian, despite the five years during which he hadn’t cleared away a single purchase from town. Not much had changed in their arrangement, and so his hands found the onions and lemons without needing to search for them.

Back in the kitchen, Giulio’s face was red as he worked on the new batch of broth, taking the ingredients from Favian without comment, only a jerky nod.

As he made for the parmigiano, Favian almost ran into Lelia, who was balancing the finished — un-burned —dishes in her hands on her way to the hall.

“Apologies,” Favian explained. “The soup got burned, and I am trying to—”

“It’s all good, Favian,” Lelia interrupted him without slowing down her steps. “You keep helping Giulio; Silias and I will do the rest.”

He gave her as much of a smile as he could muster before returning to the task at hand, finding, moving, then grating the large cheese wheel into a bowl while asking the cook what else needed to be done.

Skinning onions, Favian knew the scent would stick with him throughout the meal and after.

The sharpness nestled underneath his nails and into the crevices between his fingers.

He knew they were running out of time before Lelia called for him, and he saw the resignation on Giulio’s face when the cook wiped his hands on his apron. “How bad do you think it will be?”

Up to this point, Favian had been too overtaken with the task to consider the reactions around the table. After the previous night’s supper, he had to admit to himself that, much like everyone else, he had no idea what the consequences for this would be.

When Giulio began moving to the doors before Favian could respond, he stopped him. “Don’t worry about it. I will tell them.” Without waiting for a reply, Favian made for the hall, cleaning his fingers on a towel along the way.

He had just made it to his post when the large doors opened and King Amondo, Queen Irmina, and Prince Leonardo entered the dining hall.

Unlike his parents, Leonardo greeted the servants with a smile, then asked Silias to help him to a serving of soup. It was in this exact moment that his father noticed the absence of said dish. Eyes darting from Silias to Lelia to Favian, the king’s voice rang out, “Where is the soup?”

Favian spoke first, not waiting to see what the other two would do. “Your Majesty, our deepest apologies. There has been an incident in the kitchens, but the cooks are preparing a new batch of soup as we speak. It should be—”

His Majesty’s curled fist landed on the table.

Leonardo opened his mouth, but his father held up his other hand, adorned with rings despite the impracticality.

Piercing eyes found Favian—he felt them on his body as if they were fingers roaming despite his unspoken objection.

Silence in the room, each of them holding their breath.

A deep, intentional inhale.

Then: “Tell the incompetent cook to hurry and bring the finished soup here himself.”

Had he not trusted his senses as much as he did, Favian would have wondered if he had misheard His Majesty. Instead, he hastily made for the kitchens and repeated King Amondo’s words to Giulio, whose eyes almost bulged out of his head at the order.

When the soup was finished, the cook joined them in the dining hall, the pot’s weight apparent in the strain on his face.

He set it down in the spot which Favian had instructed, then bowed deeply.

The desire to speak was written clearly on his face, the desperate need to apologize risking words he was not allowed to speak without invitation, without request, without command.

Instead of a hand on his face, Giulio got only icy words. “You imbecile better not make such a mistake again.”

“No, Your Highness.” The cook’s voice was shaky, quivering with both fear and relief.

His Majesty’s voice, on the other hand, was as secure as ever as he instructed, “Leave.”

Giulio returned to the kitchen—Favian could only imagine what the cook must be feeling—and immediately, Favian was commanded to serve the fresh, hot soup. The King brought the spoon to his mouth, slurping down the liquid without another word on the matter.

Leonardo, too, was quiet.

The rest of the meal passed without reprimand.

So did the following. And the one after.

It should have calmed him down, but instead, Favian only grew more agitated as time went on.

The anticipation was beginning to wear him out.

He had intended to visit his mother one of these days, but the unease he felt made it impossible to conceive of a calm, relaxing visit, and Favian had no intention of burdening his mother with his convoluted feelings.

It remained a mystery how the talk between His Majesty and the prince had gone.

They must have come to some kind of agreement; not a single servant had been physically punished since the prince had put himself between his father and Lelia.

Instead of relieving, however, it was unsettling.

It was unsettling and eerie, their familiar motions disrupted.

Every single servant was braced for impact, anticipating the violence to return to its usual vigor at any moment.

Favian frequently found himself contemplating the preferability of a familiar evil over an unfamiliar one.

There was no doubt in his mind that this was not the new normal.

Whatever the king’s intentions were, they would find out eventually.

On the fourth day after Leonardo’s return, Favian forced himself to ask.

The prince had been coming to the stable every forenoon to take Azure on a ride.

Despite Favian’s hesitancy, Leonardo continued to nurture their relationship but avoided talk of his father.

Favian’s unwillingness to outright look at the prince, to address him like an equal, or to initiate any exchange between them unquestionably concerned Leonardo, yet he never pressed Favian after his initial request.

Today, Favian didn’t need his hat. Heavy clouds were darkening the sky, the air humid in the anticipation of rain, and he had assumed the prince would not want to risk taking a ride in this gloomy weather.

He was surprised, then, to find Leonardo at the stables when he returned from a break to relieve himself.

The prince was sitting on a bale of hay next to Azure’s pen, elbows resting on his knees. He looked up when Favian entered, a smile spreading across his face.

“Hello there,” Leonardo said like they were old friends.

“Your Highness,” Favian replied like he was a servant talking to his prince.

“You can call me Leonardo,” the prince said like he did not know exactly how this conversation would go.

“Your Highness knows I cannot do that,” Favian replied like he did not desperately want to drop the act.

Every day they played this game, but it was no use.

The sigh from Leonardo seemed less like one of frustration with Favian and more like one of overall exasperation. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to go on a ride today. Not that I mind getting a little wet, but Azure doesn’t need any more discomfort.”

Then why are you here?

“That appears to be a wise decision,” Favian replied.

It was difficult to keep his eyes averted when Leonardo was sitting on the low bale of hay, closer to the ground than any of the chairs in the halls of the palace allowed him to be.

Had he chosen that spot on purpose? “Does Your Highness need anything from me?”

Leonardo leaned back, placing his hands behind his head and one of his feet on the ball of hay, softly swinging his knee back and forth.

“I’ve gotten so used to coming here around this time of day.

I thought I’d keep you company, like I used to.

” When Favian didn’t reply, he added, “If you don’t mind? ”

Favian did mind. It was difficult enough to remain focused during their brief interactions when Leonardo came to collect Azure; having the prince around while going about his regular duties sounded like a punishment catered to him specifically.

Not to mention Leonardo’s seating arrangement, the prince wiggling his propped-up leg around like he wanted Favian’s eyes to be drawn to him.