6
When I returned to the Prince’s residence, Alaric and Trista were already there. At lunch, a servant was sent to summon me.
I arrived to find them sitting primly at the table, though the affection in their eyes was impossible to hide.
Seeing me, Trista put on her gentle, caring mask. With her slender, pale hands, she personally ladled a bowl of soup for me.
*Sister, you must be exhausted from this morning’s ordeal,” she said sweetly. “Here, the kitchen’s chicken soup is wonderfully rich. You should
have some.”
She had a strong stomach, I’ll give her that. I’d heard people on the street whispering about how she’d led the Prince astray on their wedding night.
“They call her a paragon of virtue? Sounds more like a brothel madam to me.”
And yet, here she was, playing the gracious hostess, as if she were the true princess. It was clear I’d never have a peaceful meal with her around.
I glanced at the bowl. It was filled with chicken neck, the foulest part of the bird. Disgusting.
I said nothing, simply placing the bowl to the side. A servant saw my gesture and discreetly removed it.
Prince Alaric’s face darkened instantly. “The Princess is perhaps a bit too pampered.”
Trista feigned surprise, her voice laced with hurt. “This soup was prepared by the palace’s own chefs. Surely, sister, you don’t suspect there’s som-
ething wrong with it? You may not trust me, but you must trust the Prince’s staff.”
In one smooth sentence, she accused me of being paranoid and insulting the entire household.
But I wasn’t about to let them trap me.
I raised my sleeve to my eyes, as if dabbing away a tear. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I have been deathly allergic to poultry since childhood.”
Matron Lyra, ever my staunch ally, jumped in. “It’s true. Her Highness once ate a small piece of chicken as a child and was so ill it took three royal
physicians half a month to nurse her back to health. The Valerius estate hasn’t served poultry in years. It’s shocking the Prince’s chefs would be so
careless.”
My voice trembled, a single tear threatening to fall. “But I seem to recall that you, my lady, are particularly fond of white jade chicken porridge. It
wouldn’t be right for you to be deprived of your favorite dish just because of my unfortunate allergy, would it?”
Trista was speechless. “I… I did not.”
She looked like she was about to cry, too, but her tears were always more beautiful than mine–the delicate, tragic tears of a frail damsel. It was a
look that came from years of not eating enough red meat.
“I truly did not know,” she whispered.
The Prince, of course, fell for it completely.
