by Vivian Wood
The palace was freezing and miserable. My mother worried constantly, desperate for any scrap of news about my father, fighting for his life. I spent my days exploring secret, unknown wings of the palace until it was time for dinner, putting the prizes that I found — a bat skeleton, a scrap of gold cloth, a child’s spinning top — into a box in my bedroom.
My mother wasn’t the queen then. I wasn’t a prince, just a kid whose ancestors had sat on a throne once. We were always cold and usually hungry, and twenty-odd years later, here I am talking about china patterns.
“Don’t you think so?” Yelena says, looking up at me.
“Of course,” I say. I have no idea what I think, but I doubt I have an opinion.
“That would be very stately,” my mother agrees.
The doors open again, and the same footman steps through.
“May I present United States Ambassador Eileen Towers, her husband Mr. Thomas Sung, and their daughter Miss Hazel Sung.”
He steps aside, and the three of them walk past him. Each thanks him, because they’re American, and Americans love thanking people who are simply doing their jobs. The footman looks slightly confused.
Hazel nods her head slightly as she thanks the man, her long black hair shining in the light. Then she walks toward us, looking around the room as she does, taking in the portraits on the wall, the heavy wooden furniture, the overstuffed chairs.
She even walks like an American: shoulders back, head high, hips barely swinging even though she’s wearing heels. Nothing less than confident, even though we’re royalty who saw her in a sweatshirt earlier today and she’s a loud, brash commoner.
We all exchange pleasantries again, I introduce Yelena, and her parents start talking with mine. Something about architecture, but I’m not really listening, I’m looking at Hazel. She’s got on a black cocktail dress that’s curve-hugging yet tasteful, with a deep V that just barely hints at her cleavage.
Now that she’s rested and polished, she’s nothing short of breathtaking.
The waiter with the wine comes back, and Hazel grabs a glass and takes a sip.
“It’s nice to see you again, Konstantin,” she says.
“Likewise, Miss Sung,” I say.
“You can call me Hazel,” she says, with a little half-laugh. “We’re going to be seeing each other for a month.”
I don’t know why she’s laughing, but I nod.
“Then please, call me Kostya,” I say. “Konstantin is far too formal.”
She nods again and looks around the room.
“This is a beautiful palace,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and I’ve certainly never stayed anywhere like it.”
“It was built five hundred years ago to withstand barbarian attacks from the Black Sea,” I say. “The walls are five feet thick at the base.”
“Wow,” she says.
“Many of the interior passages still have murder holes in the ceiling,” I go on. “They’ve been plastered over, but if you know what to look for, you can find plenty.”
She takes another sip of wine.
“Murder holes?” she asks, politely.
“If the gates were breached and enemies got past the walls, the defenders would boil water or oil, and pour it through grates onto the attackers,” I explain.
“Did that ever actually happen?” Hazel asks.
“Once,” I say. “During the reign of Maksim the second, the castle was left undefended while he was fighting across the country, near the Russian border. But when he returned, he took the castle back and mounted the head of every man who’d taken it from him on spikes outside the walls.”
Hazel’s got both eyebrows up, her mouth partly open.
“All of them?” she asks.
I just nod.
“It was a simpler time,” I say. Then I lift my hand with my wine glass in it and point at a portrait. “That’s him,” I say.
Maksim the second stares out of the frame, his gaze intense five hundred years after his death. I’ve never had a problem believing that he would execute hundreds, maybe thousands, and display their heads on spikes.
Hazel looks from the portrait to me, then back again.
“I see the family resemblance,” she says.
“I’ve been told we have the same chin,” I say. “Though I’ve never put a head on a spike. I understand that’s frowned upon.”
Hazel just looks at me uncertainly for a long moment.
I guess that’s what I get for trying a joke.
“Maksim was a third cousin twice removed to Vlad Dracul,” I go on. “Known better as Vlad the Impaler.”
Her eyebrows go up again.
“Does that mean you’re related to Vlad the Impaler?” she asks.
“Very distantly, of course,” I say.
“I assumed,” she says, and takes another sip.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because he’s been dead for hundreds of years?” Hazel asks.
To my left, Yelena is absently examining her manicure. She’s probably heard about Maksim the Second a hundred times, and I doubt she ever cared to begin with.
“Of course,” I say to Hazel.
I’m getting the sense that I’m not being a very good conversationalist right now, and god knows Yelena isn’t helping in the least.
“Your parents told me you were traveling through Europe for the past two months,” I say. “You had no commitments in America?”
Hazel looks quickly into her wine glass. I can see her take a deep breath, the hollow of her throat expanding as she does it.
For just a moment, I wonder what it would taste like if I licked it there, then ran my tongue along her collarbone to the point of her shoulder—
I’m getting hard. I force myself to stop.
“No, I didn’t have any commitments,” she says, looking back up at me. “I dropped out of med school this spring, so I was pretty commitment-less.”
“Was it too difficult?” I ask. “I’ve heard that becoming a doctor takes a great deal of work.”
Her face stays perfectly neutral.
“It was very difficult, but I left because I realized I didn’t want to be a doctor any more,” she says. “There were a lot of reasons. It’s a long story.”
“I enjoy stories,” says Yelena, in her soft high voice.
Her English is very good, but she hasn’t spent much time abroad and doesn’t understand nuances well. Hazel takes another deep breath.
“What was your favorite city to visit?” I ask, trying to steer this conversation back into pleasant waters.
“Rome,” Hazel says instantly.
The doors open again, and the footman comes in.
“Dinner is served in the Emerald Dining Room,” he says.
Hazel looks relieved.
The emerald dining room is the third-largest in the palace. Since it’s summer, the sun is still setting, and the view through the west-facing windows is spectacular.
My father sits in the center of the long table, my mother on one side and me on the other. While I was telling Hazel that I’ve never impaled anyone’s head on a stick, other dignitaries and important Svelorians trickled in, so the party now numbers about sixteen.
A small, intimate party, at least by our standards.
Servants refill wine glasses and lay out the first course, a small plate of pickled smelt and new potatoes. I’m sitting directly across the table from Thomas Sung. On one side is his wife, the Ambassador, and on the other is Hazel.
The room goes quiet, and my father taps his spoon against his wine glass, even though no one’s speaking.
“I propose a toast,” he says. In English, of course.
The door at the end of the room opens, and servants with chilled vodka bottles walk out and begin pouring a measure of vodka into our aperitif glasses.
“I would like to welcome the Ambassador’s lovely, engaging daughter to Sveloria,” he says.
Hazel nods once, smiling politely.
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“To another generation of continued American-Svelorian relations,” he says, holding up his glass.
“Nah zdrovya!” everyone at the table says, including Hazel.
We drink. I down the glass as I see Hazel glance around quickly, like she’s making sure she’s doing the right thing.
Then she does the wrong thing and swallows the vodka in one gulp, the only woman at the table to do so. The other women sip their vodka, putting their nearly-full glasses back on the table.
Hazel is beginning to flush a pale pink, but she uses the correct fork as we begin the first course.
I don’t think she knows that it’s customary to begin every course with a toast. She certainly doesn’t realize that she isn’t obligated to drink a full shot of vodka each time, and it isn’t as if I can correct a guest’s manners at this formal dinner.
I eat my first course and make small talk with Yelena, who is telling me a charming story about a time when she went fishing with her father as a child. I’ve heard it before, more than once, but I don’t tell her that.
That course is cleared and the next laid down. Our vodka glasses are refilled. Hazel watches hers like she’s concentrating very, very hard, then thanks the waiter for doing his job. Americans.
My father holds up his glass.
“To the sunset over the sea,” he says, a traditional Svelorian toast.
I try to make Hazel look at me, as if I can tell her just take a sip. She doesn’t, her eyes just skipping past me like I’m not even there.
“Nah zdrovya,” everyone says again, and then we drink, Hazel tossing hers back just like a man.
“The American girl is getting drunk,” Yelena says to me, quietly, in Russian.
“She doesn’t know better,” I murmur.
“She should learn,” Yelena says.
Hazel flushes a brighter pink and continues avoiding my eyes.
Chapter Five
Hazel
The table is starting to wobble in front of me as we begin the next course. This one is grape leaves stuffed with some sort of spiced rice. It’s very good, or at least it would be if I weren’t quickly getting hammered just to be polite.
Is this going to be what my whole month is like? I wonder, very carefully cutting a slice and lifting it to my mouth.
I make it. Success!
It’s not like I’m a teetotaler. Fuck no. I went through a bottle of whiskey in a week after the shit hit the fan and I dropped out of school, but I’m a total lightweight.
Sveloria might be the death of me, I think. I successfully get another forkful into my mouth, and I just hope that I don’t look like a barbarian eating. I don’t want my head to end up on a spike.
The way Kostya keeps glaring at me, it’s starting to feel like that might be my fate. I’m not even doing anything, just trying my hardest to fit in here, be polite and demure, and not fuck anything up.
Partway through the course, my father leans over to me and speaks in a low voice.
“Your mother wants me to tell you it’s perfectly polite to sip the vodka, particularly for women,” he says.
I look at my empty glass, then glance at the queen’s glass. Mostly full. Yelena’s glass is also mostly full, as are all the other women’s glasses at the table.
Fuck, I think. How was I supposed to know this was gendered?
I nod once.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Hang in there,” he says, then leans away again. His face is beginning to flush pink.
I take a deep breath and keep eating. I make as much polite conversation as I can with the middle-aged man on my other side, but he’s much more interested in the other people, and that’s fine. I’m just trying to keep my shit together over here.
They clear plates. They fill glasses, and this time I watch the clear liquid fill the little glass triumphantly.
Not today, motherfucker, I think at the vodka. Not today.
The king raises his glass.
“To the grass in the fields,” I think he says. I mutter nah, froyo, and take the tiniest possible sip of vodka, then put the glass down.
Across the table, Kostya is still staring at me. Glaring at me. Stare-glaring.
There’s probably a word for that in Russian, I think. Or they don’t have a word for “looking,” only “stare-glaring.”
I look away first, because I know I’m not handling myself well, and I know he disapproves of me. Plus, I can feel my Asian glow out in full force, so I’m bright pink.
But I’ve cracked the secret to not getting super drunk at this formal dinner, and it’s gonna be fine. From here on out I can only get less drunk.
The waiter puts a very small bowl of soup in front of me. The second the steam hits my nose, I know it’s got kidney in it.
I cannot stand the smell of kidney, even sober, and my stomach lurches.
I take a deep breath through my mouth and focus on a salt shaker.
You’re fine, I think. You’re not gonna throw up from four drinks. No one does that.
I catch another whiff of kidney and have to grit my teeth together, because it’s abundantly clear that I am about to do that.
“Excuse me,” I manage to say.
I stand and somehow, through sheer force of will, I walk out of the dining room in my high heels. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get out of that room, filled with vodka and kidney smells.
I walk into some sort of passageway. The windows overlooking the sea are open, and the fresh breeze feels good. I take a deep breath, and some of my nausea dissipates instantly. I take another, and another.
There’s a bench along the wall, facing the windows, and I sit on it gingerly. I lean my head back against the wall and keep gulping air. Maybe if I can stay like this for a few minutes, the soup will be gone, I won’t puke, and I can go back in there like nothing’s happened.
A few minutes pass, and I’m almost feeling better.
Then I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
My eyes pop open, but before I can stand, Kostya comes into view.
Great, I think. The very last person I want to see.
I swallow hard and lean forward to stand, but he holds up one hand.
“Sit,” he says, like he’s commanding a dog.
I glare, trying to give him a taste of his own medicine. He seems impervious to it.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
I close my eyes and lean my head back.
“I’m sorry. Don’t put my head on a spike,” I say.
“You didn’t invade. You’re a guest,” he says, and I feel his weight settle next to me on the bench.
“I’m still a barbarian,” I say, eyes still closed.
I hear something rip, and open my eyes just enough to look down. He’s got a bread roll in his hand, and he’s torn a chunk off of it, holding it in front of me.
“You need bread,” he says. “It soaks up the vodka.”
“That’s not how digestion works,” I say.
His father must have sent him to do damage control with the drunk American girl, I think.
“Eat,” he says. I take the hunk of bread and put it in my mouth, chewing it slowly.
This is way, way worse than the train station. I look better now, but rushing out of a formal dinner because I’m so drunk I think I might vomit is beyond the pale. Hell, I should just pack my things and go home now, before this dinner is over, so I can’t ruin anything else.
My stomach stirs, and I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes. Kostya presses another bite of bread into my hand and the tips of his fingers brush my palm. They’re warm and surprisingly rough for a royal.
I eat the bread. I swallow. I don’t open my eyes. He presses another bite into my palm, and we repeat this over and over again.
After a few minutes, I do start to feel better. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. He’s stare-glaring at me. I just blink.
“Better?”
he asks. His expression stays flat.
“I think so,” I say. “You should go back. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and presses the last chunk of bread into my hand. “That vile soup will be gone when we return.”
I eat the last chunk of bread and try not to smile at vile soup.
“My mom gave me a brief on Sveloria, but I guess I skimmed the part about toasts,” I say.
“You’re not the first foreigner to be duped,” he says. “According to legend, that’s why we have so many of them.”
“To get foreigners drunk?” I ask. “Is Sveloria the frat party of Eastern Europe? You get outsiders drunk so you can get lucky?”
He frowns slightly and looks at me. I open my mouth, only to realize that I can’t possibly explain that dumb joke right now, so I just shake my head.
“We have an excellent tolerance for alcohol,” Kostya says. “In the old days, rulers would negotiate over a meal. In Sveloria, it was traditional for that meal to include a number of toasts, and anyone who refused to drink was committing a grave social sin.”
He still looks dead serious, but I start smiling.
“And your king would keep his head while the other guy got wasted,” I say.
“Precisely,” he says.
“Tricky,” I say. “You Svelorians are fucking crafty.”
I shut my mouth, because I probably shouldn’t call the crown prince fucking crafty.
“Times have changed,” he says. “Now it’s also considered polite for guests to sip their vodka. We can’t even put heads on spikes any more, even when we wish we could.”
I lean my elbows on my knees, take a breath in, and then look at him. He’s not smiling, but for the first time, he’s not exactly glaring, either.
“That was a joke,” he explains, and looks at the windows. “I don’t wish to put heads on spikes at all.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb and start laughing. I’m still drunk, so it seems extra ridiculous that the heir to the throne is here, feeding me bread and trying to be funny.
I’m sure his father sent him to check on me, but I have a feeling his father didn’t ask him to try to make me laugh.