Rye sat at one end, staring at the food on her plate. It all looked delectable—the cheeses and grapes, the cinnamon twists and raisins—but Rye had no appetite. A fire crackled in the fireplace of the Great Hall. Thin slivers of light peeked through each of the hall’s windows. Malydia Longchance sat at the opposite end of the table, plucking crumbs from the bread in her hand and placing them in her mouth. She never took her mismatched brown and blue eyes off Rye. There were at least two dozen chairs between them, all of them empty. A nanny came in and out of the Great Hall silently, clearing plates and refilling their glasses. An uncomfortable-looking guard stood by the door, staring blankly at the ceiling while shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Do you always eat alone?” Rye asked in a loud voice. She’d already learned that she needed to shout in order to be heard at the other end of the table. “Father never eats with me,” Malydia said. “He’s very busy.” Rye looked at the enormous oil painting of Earl Longchance hanging over the fireplace.
