famously unfamous | jaron artolius eckbert iii

Six

Conner had bathed and shaved. He cleaned up nicely, now looking more like a noble and less like a road-weary traveler. This small dining room qas reserved for everyday meals and more intimate affairs. It was clearly designed to impress whoever ate here with an idea of Conner's wealth.

"Sit, please," Conner said, motioning to the plate at my left. Tobias was at his right, and Roden was beside Tobias.

As soon as Sage 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 and Sage third, I assumed we 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?" Sage 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," he 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 Sage's 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 seemed to fascinate him the most, warm and brown, but haunted, maybe afraid. She frowned when she caught him looking at her, and returned to serving the others.

"Thank you," he said, getting her attention again. "What kind of soup is it?"

He waited for her answer to his question, but none came. Maybe in Conner's home, the servants were not permitted to speak at his table. He turned away quickly.

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, Sage grabbed his spoon, trying to hold it the same way he did.

"You eat with your left hand?" Conner asked him. "That's unacceptable. Can you do it with your right?"

"Can you do it with your left?" Sage countered.

Conner sounded offended. "No."

"Yet you ask me to switch to my right."

"Just do it."

He switched hands, but made no attempt to imitate Conner's delicate grip with this hand. Instead, with his ax grip, he went straight for the soup.