Echoes of Silence by Elana Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

arrived, I ate with gusto, hoping to reclaim the energy I’d lost during my earlier magical releases—and to calm the squirmy feeling in my stomach.
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    I deliberately kept my focus on the happenings at table forty-two so I wouldn’t track the Prince as he made his way through the ballroom. Unfortunately, the girl behind me at table forty-three provided a running commentary for everyone within twenty feet.
    “He’s looking everyone in the eye.” She paused and gasped dramatically. “He’s not speaking to every person. Rather, he’s saying hello to entire tables and moving on. Table two . . . three . . . four . . . ”
    And on and on. Though I didn’t look up from my china, I always knew precisely where the Prince stood. When she said, “Table forty,” I sucked in a breath and held it for a moment.
    I pressed my eyes closed and told myself to calm down. He was just another man. I had bought thread from a man this afternoon in the market. I had sewn for them, bargained with them, kissed them even.
    The Prince wasn’t a god; he was no different than the merchant. I told myself these lies, trying to eradicate the fear of losing my power to the songs of his magician hunters, of helping Olive by somehow winning him over.
    I felt, rather than saw, his presence at table forty-two. When I raised my eyes to his, I was wrong. He was, in every way imaginable, different. He held his shoulders with dignity; his polite smile revealed full lips, and strength and confidence radiated from him without so much as a word. He clasped his hands in front of his body, completing the stunning image of sophistication. I wondered how long he’d worked to perfect his image.
    “Good evening, ladies. Thank you for joining me.” His voice oozed over the table, causing several girls to erupt into giggles. I could do nothing but stare. His hair fell in chocolate-colored waves, short yet splendid at the same time. His eyes pierced each person he looked at, telling them that he was the one in charge, that his word would decide things in the end.
    He nodded from girl to girl, complimenting their hair or their dress or asking them if the meal was satisfactory.
    The part of me that wanted to impress the Prince had the idea to stand. As I did, the Prince’s gaze gravitated toward me. “And how did y-you—” His eyes caught mine as he tripped over his words. The girl behind me at table forty-three gasped so loud, it sounded like a shout. The Prince blinked, which seemed to allow him the moment he needed to fold himself back into his tight box of perfection.
    “What is your name?” He drew closer to me.
    Though I needed to respond lest he think me slow, I simply stared as he approached. My stubborn half told my body to sit down! but it did not obey.
    The Prince flicked his wrist toward his scribe, who immediately made a note on a scrap of parchment. Probably of my idiocy.
    His Majesty stopped directly in front of me and held out his hand. I numbly put mine in his, surprised to feel the warmth in his skin thaw my vocal chords. He wore a tailored navy suit, the color almost identical to my dress. Red stripes adorned the chest, an indicator of his royal status. Gold glinted at his wrist and rimmed every button in his jacket.
    “Your name?” he asked again, raising my hand to his lips. His kiss sizzled against the inside of my wrist, sending heat up to my shoulder.
    “What’s yours?” I asked, the pomegranate wine swimming in my head. A moment too late, I realized my mistake. Of the hundreds of salivating girls here, only I could be so brash as to ask the Prince his name.
    A hush settled over the room as if a magician had uttered a silencing poem. One, two, three heartbeats passed while everyone absorbed the weight of my question.
    The Prince broke the spell with his laughter, filling the ballroom with a thunderous sound. Instead of joining him, tears pricked behind my eyes. I blinked quickly, pushing them back.
    He turned to his scribe.