Dinner is Served

Chapter 11: Dinner is Served

Shaela

I sat at our feast table, next to my mother, facing the empty chair meant for our guest. My father sat at the head of the table, and his attention flicked from the closed kitchen door behind us to me and my mom to the great doors ahead of us and back again. I peeked at my mother’s pocket watch as she checked it. There were still five minutes or so before dinner was officially to begin, but the seconds dragged on as we sat in silence for our guest’s arrival.

My father’s attention suddenly shifted to me, “Where’s your saber?” He leaned his head around the table, noting my missing belt.

“In my room,” I replied flatly.

“You should have it with you. It carried meaning. And if you’re so committed to staying in the Navy, you should be committed.”

My father’s nitpicks took me by surprise. Why was this his concern all of a sudden? “It may mean something to us or even to the Hesperians.” I thought back to why I had sent it away in the first place: “But it may mean something else to someone who is expecting a sort of peace treaty.”

“These impressions matter, Shaela.” My mother joined in on the lecture. “What will the Witch think of us? What will she tell her people? How will she impact our reputation, our legacy, should her people attend our ball?”

The ball. It all seemed to circle back to this damn debutante ball. I stared out one of the windows, watching flowers and trees sway in the wind, trying not to lash out when Silva’s arrival seemed imminent.

“We want this ball so that we can secure the treaty with a marriage, but the Witches' opinion of you, your actions, may make it hard for that to happen. If this goes poorly, your chances of finding a husband at the ball disappear too!”

Of course, this is about my marriage prospects. I struggled to maintain my composure, biting the inside of my cheek as I thought of what to say next. “Shouldn’t we be focused on securing this treaty for the King? It’s not often the King gives such a direct task.”

“Exactly why we need to make a good impression on this Witch so that her people will join us at the ball!” My mother emphasized each word.

My father drummed the table with his fingers, having lost interest in our argument, “I’m still in shock that this Witch even showed up in the first place. We were so close to--”

The heavy doors that separated the great hall from the rest of our manor slowly swung open, and Silva stepped through the doorway. She stopped just a few feet ahead of the doors, as they were closed once more by two staff that moved to her flanks. “Announcing the Honored Guest, Silva. Representative of the Mistland Witches!” One announced. I stood, as did my parents, and focused on her as she was guided to a seat across from mine. She was in a deep red gown that matched my Prydannian naval attire. Its skirt was a brocade with black-stemmed, gold-leafed thistles cascading down from her waist to the skirt’s hem, which touched the floor. The bodice was masterfully tailored from the same brocade with a thick-weave lace rising up from the bodice and sleeves up to a high neck. The sleeves were exaggerated above the biceps and tapered down to flared cuffs that mimicked feathers. Her gown, along with her gloves and veil, left only the top half of her face exposed. Her eyes drew me in, they were sharper, more focused, determined.

It took me some time to fully register that the figure approaching was the same person I had spent the better part of a day with. Her presence demanded attention. It filled the room and choked whatever words I had planned to say. How could my impression have been so wrong? Was this what a Witch really was? My heart thumped loudly in my ears. What nerves I had started the day were gone, superseded by adrenaline. I glanced over to my parents, who shuffled uncomfortably, also taken aback by our guest’s arrival. I had forgotten that this meeting seemed to be an excuse for a ball, that we would have the ball regardless of whether the Mistborn Witches joined us, that they wanted the Witches to turn us down. I fought back a smirk. Somehow, this was a win for me. Somehow, this would lead to what I wanted. My ship. My freedom.

Silva stood across the table from me, waiting to be seated. “Let me introduce you to my parents. My father and head of the family, Lord Eoin MacCrow, and my mother, Lady Maeve MacCrow.”

Silva lowered her head. “I am Silva, representative of the Mistborn Witches.” She spoke evenly, cooly, face still partially obscured by a veil. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord MacCrow, Lady Macrow.”

“The pleasure is ours.” My mother smiled then extended a hand, “Please. Sit.”

The four of us settled into our chairs in awkward silence. From behind my father, a clattering of dishes and the shuffling of feet could be heard, muffled from behind the kitchen door. I ran my thumbs over one another in my lap. My father drummed the table with one hand, the other supporting his chin. My mother sat at attention, observing our guest. Eventually, the silence overwhelmed my father, who cleared his throat a few times, but before he could speak, the kitchen doors were flung open and a cavalcade of food carts and our staff burst forth.

“Ah, dinner!” MACROW said, raising both hands in front of him. “Excellent. Miss... Silva, have you had a chance to sample Prydannian cuisine?” Finally, we had found something to start the conversation. I was a little surprised at my parents' hesitancy to jump into their agenda. Maybe they had more tact than I gave them credit for.

“I have not.” Silva’s focus had turned to the staff as they encircled us with covered trays in hand or on carts.

“I must admit I’m not too familiar with what ingredients are available on the surface, but we have an excellent chef and access to food from the far Norlands down to the Midlands.” He winced as he tried to put on a smile.

“Lieutenant Shaela told me a great deal about your family's impressive agricultural background. We have many similar ingredients, but the variety on the islands is far greater.”

As we spoke, our staff placed salads and soups made from vegetables from our vineyards and farmlands on each of our table settings. My stomach growled imperceptibly. It had been a long day, and I had a light lunch to be sure I could meet the Witch on time. I dug into my salad, letting my parents lead the conversation while the conversation stayed in the realm of small talk and pleasantries.

My father turned sharply to address me, “Oh, the Lieutenant is not necessary here in our own home. Has Miss Shaela, my wonderful daughter, been good to you?”

Silva spoke to my father, but kept fixated on me. What face did I show? “I’ve no complaints. Miss Shaela has done well to help me catch up to what Prydannia has been up to after so long.”

“Please. Shaela is fine.” I spoke up, having cleared my plate well ahead of the others. Silva had yet to lift her fork. Would she remove her veil? I drank from the glass of water we each had been given, struggling to tear away my gaze from Silva.

“Oh, come now, dear, you are a young noble and should be addressed as such.” My mother cut in. “What history had you missed out on?”

“There was quite an ordeal with manure,” Silva responded flatly, academically. It threw both my parents off balance. “Solved by a genius inventor.”

“Ah, the crawlers. Yes, quite wonderful, aren’t they?” My father attempted to steer the conversation once more. “Prydannia is the most technologically advanced nation in the world. Dare I say. I believe Ludenbruh is the first city to be fully electrified.”

“Electrified?” Silva again turned to me.

“It wasn’t obvious since you arrived during the day, but the whole city has electric lighting along the streets and in most buildings.” I met Silva’s eyes as I spoke. I had shaken off the nerves, somehow. Silva’s gaze seemed different than when she first walked in. Was she smiling behind her veil when she spoke to me? “Perhaps tomorrow evening you’ll get a chance to see the city glow.” I feigned a smile.

“Oh, that would be fantastic! We already arranged for an airship ride, isn’t that right, Shaela?” My mother clapped her hands together, and Silva’s eyes shot back to my parents. The narrowing of her eyes, the slight furrowing of her brow, I’m not imagining it, right?

“Leave the tour to me, Mom.” My informality was met with a brief glare before my mother turned her attention back to Silva. Out of my peripheral vision, I could tell Silva was watching me.

“Ahem. Of course.” My mother returned to her salad.

Silence fell on the table again. I had finished our starter dish post-haste, with the exception of a thick cut piece of bread meant to be eaten with the soup that I had forgotten and now nibbled on as I awaited the main course. My parents, in their more practiced courtly graces, paced themselves in time with when the next course should arrive. While I picked at my bread, lost in thought about how to really begin the conversation around the treaty, my parents watched Silva’s every move. Each time she raised her fork or spoon up below her veil that had been lifted away by her other hand, still sure to cover her face with each bite, their eyes traced her movements. I gave up for the moment on my battle plan for the night, figuring that a full stomach would get me a lot further in that regard, and turned my attention back to my parents. I could tell immediately what was on their mind.

“Forgive me if this comes off as rude,” My father grumbled, dabbing the orange soup base from his lips, “but your veil seems awfully inconvenient for dinner...” He trailed off, clearly not pleased with his delivery.

Silva swallowed another spoonful of soup before placing her utensil gently, carefully back to its exact starting location. She blinked, opening her eyes slowly as she shifted her attention to Eoin. “I will forgive you.” She spoke sternly, implying clearly she had taken offense. “It is a custom to be worn when representing the Coven.”

“I see,” My father gulped.

“I should have made it more clear when introducing myself. I am Silva, but you are speaking to the whole of the Coven through me. Every word uttered in reference to our potential treaty, every part of Prydannia I witness, every moment outside of the Mistlands will be conveyed in full to the Coven.” Silva annunciated every single word as she chastised my father, the precision in her movement and words cutting deep.

“Again, my apologies.” My father shrank in his chair. There had been a few times I could recall my father being on the back foot in situations like this. He fought tooth and nail against other nobles to ensure our family's status among the King’s council. Even in arguments with the Grand Admiral, he wasn’t known to back down. What about Silva had shaken him?

Once more, we were saved by the staff who removed our cleaned plates and bowls and replaced them with the main course: a full roast boar resting on a platter of vegetables and aromatics. I could smell its impending arrival long before it graced us. “This boar was brought down from our ancestral home further north!” My father’s tone had lightened with the boar’s arrival. “While it may be no feast, your presence is worth celebrating. So I made sure you would have a taste of MacCrow tradition.” His tone was gregarious but hollow.

“Thank you, Lord MacCrow. Though I’m afraid you may have overestimated my appetite.” Shaela’s words were biting. She traced the boar's form with her eyes.

“I bet you’ve never seen a dish quite like this,” Eoin swung his arms wide, emphasising the grandness of the roast boar. “But worry not, the staff will get their fill when we’ve had ours.”

It was hard to catch, but Silva winced at the comment, only paying my father a nod in response.

“Now, Shaela, why don’t you do the honors of carving the beast! Make sure our guest gets the best cut.”

“Right.” I acknowledged my father’s whims and stood, taking hold of the carving fork and knife. I cut slabs of pork free, placing them on plates that the staff delivered. First to my father, then to my mother. Preparing the third plate, Silva’s plate, I looked past the boar and locked eyes with Silva. Her brow was furrowed, same as mine, as I performed this dinner task for my father. After staring at each other for some time, we both glanced at him and then back at each other. I cut free a piece with well-rendered fat and plated it. My father was watching excitedly as I finished serving, both Silva and I now having a plate of pork in front of us. The roast was moved down the length of the table, and I sat once more. While I was carving, the staff had brought out a fine wine and distributed a glass to each of us.

“Shaela, won’t you lead us in a toast, dear?” My mother’s eyes were intense, trying to communicate something as she spoke to me.

I stood once more, shaking my head slightly in confusion as I cleared my throat. “A toast! To Silva and the Mistborn Witches, who have graced our presence. To House MacCrow, for preparing today’s dinner. To Prydannia and the King who protect and provide for us.” I looked from my mom to Silva, who both watched me intently. What else was there? “And to our... blossoming relationship in the name of... peace!” I thrust my cup into the air, where it was met by three others.

The burst of energy the soup and salad had given me faltered under the pressure of the other dinner guests. I didn’t dare meet my mother’s eyes to find out if my toast was satisfactory, instead focusing entirely on my meal. I hardly tasted the roast despite my attempts to pace my chewing so I wouldn’t end up choking. When I finally looked up, Silva, with the same precision as all her movements, was cutting and eating small piece after small piece of the roast.

“Well, how is it? Fantastic, I’m sure.” My father leaned forward over his own plate to better gauge Silva’s reaction.

Silva ate another few pieces before responding, “Compliments to your staff, they have prepared this boar exceptionally.”

A smile crawled across my father’s face. He had gotten a win at dinner. No protest came from me or Silva. “Of course! We brought our staff with us. They may not be MacCrow’s, but they know their way around a hog.” He laughed from his belly as he boasted. “But it’s not just the food that's good. The wine in front of you is a vintage from our vineyards right outside the capital.” Now he was advertising the bottle’s label to Silva.

I looked at her to see how she was parsing the sudden shift in my father’s behavior. Her eyes were glazed over, unamused by whatever my father was prattling on about. Playing into my father’s egging on, she took a drink from her glass, careful to keep her face covered. “It pairs well. But I do fear you waste such fine wine on me. It’s not a drink I’m particularly accustomed to.” Her voice was flat, hiding behind a veneer of interest.

“Not much of a wine drinker, huh?” My father let out another deep laugh, “Well, I’m afraid you may be spoiled by such an excellent bottle. No other vineyards will live up to what you have in your hands.”

We continued to eat and drink, my father now unable to stop talking, a sharp contrast to earlier. He expounded upon our strengths as a family: our vineyards and other crops, how our family is as old as Prydannia, and how we were some of the first to pledge our banner to the newly established kingdom. My mother would fill in missed details here or there, having to correct him more as he moved through the bottle of wine. Silva and I drank slowly, careful not to lose ourselves before getting to the real negotiations. As dinner progressed it was clear the two of us were watching each other, studying body language, tone of voice, what my father’s ramblings distracted us, breaking eye contact if either of us lingered for too long, looking for tells and slip ups that may inform how the discussion surrounding the treaty and ball may go. Every stolen glance, every slip of my decorum, every misstep in my courtly graces, quickened my heart. What impression did she have of me? Was I letting my ship sink by not stopping my father? It became harder and harder to perform the role of young noble, but for Silva, nothing seemed to have changed. She still sat with perfect posture, moved so deliberately that it was unnatural. Her fork and knife would return to the exact place they started each time she set them down to pick up her glass of wine. My shoulders tensed, and my jaw clenched. Has she noticed? But when our eyes met, she would squint, little wrinkles appearing. It was a near-imperceptible sign of a smile, surely. Even still, the anticipation of what was to come tied knots in my stomach.

Eventually, we had our fill of the boar, and what remained was returned to the kitchen for the staff to share. Our empty plates were cleared from the table, and we sat with nothing but a nearly-empty bottle of wine resting in a bucket of ice before us. “We do have dessert planned, but I’m sure you feel much the same as I do,” My father patted his belly twice, the wine having totally freed him from table manners it seemed, “So I figure we can get to why you were invited here in the first place, and then have dessert to celebrate what surely is a new found understanding between our people.” His head rocked heavily as he spoke.

“As per my letter,” I inserted myself into the conversation, ahead of Silva and my mother. Not wanting my father to get off in the weeds now that it seemed he had had a little too much of our family wine. “King Drakgard III believes the nation of Prydannia and the Mistborn Witches should reopen diplomatic relationships, starting with a non-aggression pact.” Silva gestured with a hand to continue. “To accomplish this, it is tradition for the treaty to be backed by a marriage between two of either nation’s ruling class.” I paused again.

“How vital is this marriage? Could we not just draft and sign the treaty here and now?” Silva seemed bemused by the custom.

“Don’t be absurd!” My father shouted, surprising himself with how loud he was, “There must be a guarantee that the treaty is respected. If there is no marriage then you could sign the treaty, and then stab us in the back when you best see fit.”

“The wedding shows an investment in the other party. Their culture, their land, their people.” I explained.

“Yes, it’s proof you are willing to be part of each other’s worlds. It’s still important even within the Prydannian nobility.” My mother elaborated, “Take house MacDove, for instance. Their youngest just reaffirmed our alliance with the northern houses by getting engaged to a member of House Jormung.”

“House Jormung?” Silva turned her full attention to my mom.

“Yes, they rule the northernmost duchy.”

“I see. And I heard Jormung correctly?” Silva’s demeanor began to match what I had experienced in the gardens.

“Yes. I was under the impression the Witches were in isolation all these years. Have you met the Jormungs?”

“Your understanding is correct, I’ve not had the pleasure. It’s just...” Silva hesitated, “It’s just an unusual name.”

“The Jormungs are a house older than ours.” I cut in. What about them had piqued Silva’s interest? “Their youngest, Asta, will likely visit the capital after their first thaw.”

“Oh exquisit! We must ensure she receives an invitation to the ball!” My mother clapped her hands once in excitement.

“Right, the ball.” Silva steered the conversation back to the treaty, denying my opportunity to probe about the Jormungs further, “Let me give you my understanding of what we’ve discussed and correct me as I try to understand where this ball fits in with everything.”

“Go ahead.” My father and I said in unison.

“So the King would like a treaty with my Coven.”

“Correct,” I responded alone, my father leaning back and deferring to me.

“And to enforce that treaty, a marriage must back it.”

“Yes”

“Since you initiated it, does that mean a Witch must marry someone from house MacCrow, such as the Lieu- Miss Shaela?” My parents' eyes widened at her suggestion.

“No. Any noble would be sufficient.” My parents let out their breath in relief.

“Any eligible noble?”

“Correct.”

“Then why has the King tasked you specifically with this?”

“Someone had to initiate our contact.” My father interjected.

“So our meeting happenstance?” Silva’s tongue sharpened with each inquiry.

“No. I volunteered.”

“So am I to understand Miss Shaela is not eligible for a treaty?”

“She is but--” My father struggled to explain away why I hadn’t volunteered myself for this marriage.

“But, marriages that produce an heir are ideal. A child of two houses increases the commitment to peace.” My mother filled in for him. It wasn’t a lie. While a marriage between me and any Witch would suffice, after one of us passed, the legitimacy of the treaty could be called into question.

“I see...” Silva stared at the ceiling, processing the incongruencies of our meeting. “And what terms make up a Prydannian non-aggression pact?”

“A commitment to not participate in conflict alongside an opposing nation or peoples,” I responded, matter-of-factly. “The document itself will have more explicit text, outlining examples, duration, conditions for renewal or exit.” I had become quite familiar with military treaties and armistices over my forced leave. Perhaps I should petition the Grand Admiral to include discussion of diplomacy as part of the future officer’s curriculum. “I would be more than happy to go point by point through what our treaty may look like before we commit to anything.”

“That would be quite helpful, Lieutenant.” While I cracked a smile, my parents scowled at Silva using my military title. “I have one more question, I suppose. The purpose of the debutante ball is?”

“So an eligible Witch can find an eligible Pyrdannian noble and enter an engagement.” My mother patronized Silva with her explanation.

“An engagement? Not a marriage?” This seemed to throw Silva off.

“So eager!” My father laughed. “In ages past, you’d have to wait until the wedding day to be sure the treaty would happen. Nowadays, the engagement is proof enough.”

Silva seemed to grimace at the comment, “So there is no circumstance where we can establish this treaty without need for the ball or marriage?”

My father let out a heavy sigh, “The King could accept the treaty without any sort of backing, but his attention is stretched thin as of late. Even if we did petition him, it could be years before he has adequate time to review, and you may be asked to attend a formal event to commemorate it anyway... Now, if we could have your word that you’ll be joining us for the ball, we can have dessert and call it an evening!”

“I’m afraid, Lord MacCrow, that I cannot give my word before reconvening with the Coven.” Silva lowered her head in apology. “I welcome dessert, should your offer still stand.”

With two claps from my father, a servant with a tray of new dishes emerged. Upon those dishes was a dessert that had been rising in popularity among the nobles, torched custard. Served in small ceramic cups, the caramelized surface sparkled under the electric lighting in the great hall. In perfect sync with my father, Silva raised the spoon delivered alongside the dish, cracked the caramelized surface, and scooped a spoonful of the creamy custard from within.

“Oh? You’ve had this before?” My father inquired.

“Yes,” Silva swallowed her scoop before continuing, “though I must admit I am surprised it’s served in Prydannia.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“It’s a Surlands dish, is it not? Creme brulee, I think they call it.”

“I think you’ll find it’s from Prydannia. The Midlands, sure, but still Prydannia.”

“My mistake.”

The brief exchange put an end to our conversation, both in regard to the treaty and to any idle chatter or small talk. My parents, even more so than I, were in the loop as to the situation at the border. The pot, ready to boil over. Just the mention of Surlanders soured their mood. We finished our desserts in silence. When all of our spoons were back on the table, Silva waited a moment and then spoke, “I know we may not have been able to come to an agreement tonight, but it is still the first day of my visit. I hope to better understand Pyrdannia so that we can ensure we find a solution that is in both our interests. Thank you for the meal and for hosting a member of the Coven.” It was the most formal Silva had been since she arrived, and it was met with affirmative nods from my parents, who were a mix of exhausted, frustrated, and a little intoxicated. “If it is acceptable, I would like to retire to my quarters for the evening.”

“Of course,” my father raised his hand to motion his permission.

“Right then, Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to escort me back to my room?”

I stood, turned to my parents, who both nodded. “Mother, Father.” I lowered my head to each of them before rising from my chair. “If you’d follow me.”

Silva curtsied to each of my parents, “Lord MacCrow, Lady MacCrow,” and then we departed through the great hall’s doors, back down the hallways to the other wing of the house.