Anden looks almost exactly like he did when I first met him at the celebratory ball—tall and regal and sophisticated, his dark hair tidy, his evening coat a handsome charcoal gray with gold pilot stripes on the sleeves and gold epaulettes on the shoulders. His green eyes are solemn, though, and there’s a very slight slouch to his shoulders, as if a new weight had settled there. It seems as though his father’s death has affected him after all.
“Sit, please,” he says, holding a white gloved hand (condor flight gloves) out in my direction. His voice is very soft, but still carries in the large room. “I hope you’ve been comfortable, Ms. Iparis.”
I do as he says. “I have. Thank you.”
Once Anden has seated himself at the other end of the table and the soldiers have all gone back to their regular stances, he speaks again. “I received word that you requested to see me in person. I imagine you don’t mind wearing the clothes I’ve provided.” He pauses here for a split second, just enough time for a coy smile to light up his features. “I thought you might not want to spend dinner in a prison uniform.”
There’s something patronizing about his tone that grates on my nerves. How dare he dress me like a doll? an indignant part of me thinks. At the same time, I’m impressed by his air of command, his ownership of his new status. He has suddenly come into power, a great deal of it, and he wears it so confidently that my old feelings of loyalty press heavily against my chest. The uncertainty he’d once had is quickly disappearing. This man was born to rule. Anden seems to have developed an attraction to you, Razor had told me. So I tilt my face down and look up at him through my lashes. “Why are you treating me so well? I thought I was an enemy of the state now.”
“I would be ashamed to treat our Republic’s most famous prodigy like a prisoner,” he says as he carefully straightens his forks, knives, and champagne glass into perfect alignment. “You don’t find this unpleasant, do you?”
“Not at all.” I glance around the chamber again, memorizing the positions of the lamps, the wall décor, the location of each soldier, and the weapons they carry. The elaborate elegance of this encounter makes me realize that Anden hasn’t arranged the dress and the dinner just to be flirtatious. He wants news about how well he’s treating me to leak to the public, I think. He wants people to know that the new Elector is taking good care of Day’s savior. My initial distaste wavers—this new thought intrigues me. Anden must be very aware of his poor public reputation. Perhaps he’s hoping for the people’s support. If that’s the case, then he’s taking pains to do something that our last Elector cared little about. It also makes me wonder: If Anden is actually looking for public approval, what does he think of Day? He certainly won’t win people over by announcing a manhunt for the Republic’s most celebrated criminal.
Two servants bring out trays of food (a salad with real strawberries, and exquisitely roasted pork belly with hearts of palm), while two others place fresh white cloth napkins across our laps and pour champagne into our glasses. These servants are from the upper class (they walk with the signature precision of the elite), although probably not of the rank that my family had.
Then the most curious thing happens.
The servant pouring Anden’s champagne brings the bottle too close to his glass. It tips over, and the liquid spills all over the tablecloth, then the glass rolls off the table and shatters on the floor.
The servant lets out a squeak and drops to her hands and knees. Red curls tumble out of the neat bun tied behind her head; a few strands fall across her face. I notice how dainty and perfect her hands are—definitely an upper-class girl. “So sorry, Elector,” she says over and over. “So sorry. I’ll have the cloth changed right away and get you a new glass.”
I don’t know what I expected Anden to do. Scold her? Give her a stern warning? Frown, at least? But to my shock, he pushes back his chair, stands up, and holds out his hand to her. The girl seems to have frozen. Her brown eyes go wide, and her lips tremble. In one motion Anden leans down, takes both her hands in his, and pulls her up. “It’s just a glass of champagne,” he says lightly. “Don’t cut yourself.” Anden waves a hand at one of the soldiers near the door. “A broom and tray, please. Thank you.”
The soldier nods in a hurry. “Of course, Elector.”
While the servant rushes away for a new glass and a janitor comes in to sweep the broken one safely away, Anden takes his seat again with all the grace of royalty. He picks up a fork and knife with impeccable etiquette, then cuts a small piece of pork. “So tell me, Agent Iparis. Why did you want to see me in person? And what happened on the evening of Day’s execution?”
I follow his lead, picking up my own fork and knife and cutting into my meat. The chains on my wrists are exactly long enough for me to eat, as if someone had taken the trouble to measure them out. I push the surprise of the champagne incident out of my mind and start planting the story that Razor made up for me. “I did help Day escape his execution, and the Patriots helped me. But after it was over, they wouldn’t let me go. It seemed like I’d finally gotten away from them when your guards arrested me.”
Anden blinks slowly. I wonder if he believes anything I’m saying. “You’ve been with the Patriots for the last two weeks?” he says after I’ve finished chewing a slice of pork. The food’s exquisite; the meat so tender, it practically melts in my mouth.
“Yes.”