Page 27 of The False Prince (Ascendance 1)

“Off to be burnt, I’d guess. They’re not fit for much else.”

“Get them,” I said firmly, and then added, “Just as they were before, Errol. Exactly as they were.”

Errol considered that for a moment, then said, “I can get them back, I suppose.”

“If you do, I’ll see that you get a silver coin for the service.”

Errol tilted his head. “Where would you get it?”

“That’s a small detail and my concern, not yours. But it would buy months off your debt to Conner.” I widened my arms. “These clothes aren’t mine and they’re not me. I suspect I’ll want those other clothes back in two weeks.”

Errol shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. Now come. The master is expecting you at supper.”

Conner had bathed and shaved as well. He cleaned up nicely, now looking more like a noble and less like a road-weary traveler. Roden and Tobias were already seated when I walked in. This small dining room appeared to be reserved for everyday meals and more intimate affairs. It was clearly designed to impress whoever ate here with an idea of Conner’s wealth. I couldn’t help but do the math on how much a clever thief might earn from stealing a polished silver fork or a gold-rimmed goblet, or a single crystal hanging in beads from the sconces on the wall.

“Sit, please,” Conner said, motioning to the plate at his left. Tobias was at his right, and Roden was beside Tobias. Roden was clearly distressed that I had been seated closer to Conner than him.

As soon as I sat, servants began bringing in the food. They started with cheese as soft as butter and fruit in the prime of ripeness. At the orphanage, we got the leftovers from the kitchens of the wealthy after they were too wilted or brown to be served at their tables, usually within minutes of the scraps turning to mold. Conner was served first, but he waited for the rest of us to be served before he began. Although I was served second, I assumed I had to follow the same guideline. It was a horrible temptation to ignore Conner’s example and begin eating.

My senses were overwhelmed by glorious smells on my plate and others coming from the kitchen. “Do you eat like this all the time?” I asked enthusiastically.

“All the time,” Conner said. “Would you like a life of this luxury?”

“This exceeds any expectation I might have had for my life,” I answered.

“It’s a humble meal compared to a king’s feast,” Conner said.

“But who’d need a king’s feast if they had all this?” Roden asked as his plate was served. Then he looked at Conner, knowing he’d made a mistake but not sure exactly what it was. He searched for the words to correct himself, and failed.

Tobias took his opening. “I’d need a king’s feast.”

A girl reached over my shoulder and set a bowl of burnt orange–colored soup in front of me. She had dark brown hair pulled into a single braid down her back. She wasn’t necessarily beautiful, but something about her was definitely interesting. Her eyes fascinated me the most, warm and brown, but haunted, maybe afraid. She frowned when she caught me looking at her, and returned to serving the others.

“Thank you,” I said, getting her attention again. “What kind of soup is it?”

I waited for her answer to my question, but none came. Maybe in Conner’s home, the servants were not permitted to speak at his table. I turned away quickly, hoping I hadn’t gotten her into trouble.

Conner prattled on, telling us what we could expect to eat for dinner that evening: crisp bread still steaming from the oven, glazed roasted duck with meat so tender it could be cut with a spoon, fruit pudding chilled from an underground cooler. I heard him, but continued to watch the girl as she refilled drinks for each of us. When she leaned to refill Tobias’s cup, another servant bumped her with his shoulder, and a little water splashed onto Tobias’s lap. Conner glared at her, irritated. I opened my mouth to defend her, but she handed him another napkin and hurried from the room before anything could be said.

When we were all dished up, Conner picked up the spoon at the top of his plate and said, “This is your soup spoon. It is for the soup and only for the soup.”

Following his direction, I grabbed my spoon, trying to hold it the same way he did. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position. Maybe gentlemen had to feed themselves this way. Poverty-stricken orphans didn’t. I was used to holding my spoon the same way I might grip an ax.

“You eat with your left hand?” Conner asked me. “That’s unacceptable. Can you do it with your right?”

“Can you do it with your left?” I countered.

Conner sounded offended. “No.”

“Yet you ask me to switch to my right.”

“Just do it.”

I switched hands, but made no attempt to imitate Conner’s delicate grip with this hand. Instead, with my ax grip, I went straight for the soup.

“No, Sage,” Conner said. “Scoop the soup into your spoon by pushing the liquid away from you, like this.” He demonstrated, and added, “That way, if you spill, it will go onto the table, not onto your lap.”

The last bowl of soup I’d eaten had been consumed by my holding both sides of the bowl and drinking it as from a cup. My right hand was sloppy, and as soon as Conner looked away, I switched back to my left. He noticed but said nothing.