But the servants had already heard and were scurrying to obey.
“We saw that Vadik Demidov is here,” Nina ventured.
“Oh yes,” said Rasmus. “The Little Lantsov never misses a party.”
“And is he really of royal blood?”
“That’s the topic of conversation at every dinner party from here to the Elbjen. Why are you so interested?”
Hanne laughed easily. “Mila is obsessed with Vadik Demidov.”
“Sweet Djel, why? He’s a boring lump of country bumpkin.”
“But it’s such a marvelous story,” said Nina. “A boy of royal blood plucked from obscurity.”
“I suppose it does have the ring of a fairy tale to it. But it’s not as if he was found herding goats somewhere.”
“Where was he found?”
“I don’t really know. Shivering in some obscure dacha he couldn’t afford to heat. Or at least I think that’s the story.”
“You aren’t curious?” Nina pushed.
The servants returned and set a spread of smoked eel and herring before them.
“Why should I be?”
Nina felt her temper rising. “He will be a king, will he not?”
“So will I, assuming I live.”
An awkward silence fell.
“I … I’m in a mood today,” said Rasmus. It wasn’t an apology, but it was as close as a future king might come. “My parents felt it was essential that I appear in public quickly after what happened at the start of Heartwood.”
“They should have let you rest,” said Hanne.
“No, I was feeling quite well after that. But events like these … It’s hard for me to be in a room full of people I know wish me dead.”
“Your Highness!” Hanne exclaimed in horror.
Nina glanced at Joran, but the guard’s face remained impassive. “That can’t be true,” she said.
“I know the way people talk about me. I know they wish I hadn’t been born at all and that my little brother could be the one to inherit.”
Hanne’s face was fierce. “Well then, you must stay alive to spite them.”
The prince looked surprised but pleased. “You have a lively spirit, Hanne Brum.”
“One must to survive.”
“That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s very true.”
“Have you traveled to Ravka?” Nina asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to Demidov.
“Never,” he said. “I’ll admit I’m intrigued. I’ve heard the Ravkan women are very beautiful.”
“Oh, they are,” said Hanne.
“You’ve been there?”
“Once, near the border.”
The prince shifted slightly, as if trying out the new comfort he felt. “If you’re so interested in Demidov, I’ll introduce you.”
“Oh, would you?” Nina said breathlessly. “What a thrill.”
The prince’s eyebrows twitched, and Nina could tell he thought Mila Jandersdat was a trifling ninny. All for the best. No one takes care to guard against a dull blade.
He gave a brief command to a servant and a moment later, Demidov was sauntering through the room toward them, the Apparat drifting in his wake. Just her luck. Nina wanted to stay as far from the priest as possible.
“Taking his time,” grumbled Prince Rasmus. “I vouch if your father snapped his fingers, the Little Lantsov would come running.”
Nina wondered. How much of Fjerda’s policy was Brum dictating and how much did the prince resent it? She and Hanne rose to greet Demidov, who gave the prince a brief nod.
“Prince Rasmus, how can I be of service?”
The prince’s brow arched. “You can begin with a bow, Demidov. You’re not a king yet.”
Demidov’s cheeks flushed. His resemblance to Ravka’s exiled king was uncanny. “My most sincere apologies, Your Highness.” He bowed deeply, almost comically. “I have no wish to offend, only to offer gratitude for all your family has done for me and for my country.”
Nina had a profound urge to kick him in the teeth, but she beamed happily, as if she could imagine no greater joy than meeting this pretender.
Rasmus propped his head on his hand, weary as a student about to endure an hours-long lecture. “May I introduce you to Hanne Brum, daughter of Jarl Brum?”
Hanne curtsied. “It is an honor.”
“Ah,” said Demidov, bowing over Hanne’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “The honor is mine. Your father is a great man.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“I hope it isn’t rude, but … I must inquire about your extraordinary haircut. Is it the new fashion?”
Hanne touched her hand to the short stubble of her hair. “No. I shaved my head to show fealty to Djel.”
“Hanne and her companion are very devout,” said Prince Rasmus.
“I should have known it had something to do with their barbarian religion,” the Apparat murmured in Ravkan.
“She looks like more of a soldier than her father’s silken-haired troops,” Demidov replied, his smile still in place.
Nina narrowed her eyes. His Ravkan was impeccable, but that wasn’t necessarily meaningful.
“If you will allow me,” Hanne ventured, “may I introduce my companion, Mila Jandersdat.”
Demidov smiled, but no warmth reached his eyes. “Charmed.”
He clearly found conversation with a mere servant beneath him but was attempting to hide it. Nina took her chance, ignoring the Apparat’s piercing stare.
“What a great delight to meet you, Your Majesty!” she gushed, giving him the honorific that Prince Rasmus would not. A little flattery never hurt. “Prince Rasmus told us you grew up in the country. How lovely that must have been.”
“I have always preferred the country to the city,” Demidov said unconvincingly. “The fresh air and … such. But I will be glad to be in Os Alta again.”
“Was it a very beautiful house?” Hanne inquired.
“One of those lovely dachas in the lake district I’ve seen illustrated?” said Nina. “They have the most extraordinary views.”
“Just as you say. It had a rustic elegance one cannot find in the halls of grand palaces.”
Demidov’s eyes darted left, then right. He licked his lips. He was lying, but not about growing up in a dacha. He had that very particular embarrassment of genteel poverty. Exactly as a poor Lantsov relation might. Nina’s heart sank.
“But you will grow used to the luxuries of Os Alta,” said the Apparat in heavily accented Fjerdan. “Just as you will grow to be a fair and pious king.”
“And a biddable one,” Prince Rasmus said beneath his breath. Nina saw a muscle in Demidov’s jaw twitch. “Is there any wine to be had, Joran? Or maybe you’d like some of that filthy kvas Ravkans love so much?”
Demidov opened his mouth, but the Apparat spoke first. “Our king follows in the path of the Saints. He does not partake of spirits.”
Prince Rasmus gestured to the servant who had scurried forward to pour. “Isn’t Sankt Emerens the patron saint of brewers?”