Glasswater Court writes first
The feast hall of Glasswater Court glows with lamplight and the clink of silver. The long table sits beneath tall windows, and every chair has been arranged with care. Your parents are at the center, deep in conversation with the physician summoned from the city. Your younger sister laughs at something the Crown Prince said, her cheeks flushed from the warmth, her shawl slipping from one shoulder. Nobody looks up when you take your seat at the far end.
A servant sets a plate before you, and the smell of roasted pear drifts up. Halfway through the first course, your sister’s shawl slips again. She catches it, looks down the table, and her smile falters the moment she sees you sitting alone.
Your mother’s voice rises from the center of the table, bright and distracted. “Of course the little one should have the warm room tonight. She cannot bear a draft.”
Do you stay quiet and let the evening pass, or do you rise, cross the hall, and ask your family to look at you for once?
