And his grandfather had known plenty of grief.
A moment later, the double doors on the opposite side of the banquet hall flung open and the Patriarche, dressed in his usual late-morning robes of dark silk, blustered into the room, followed by the Matrone, swathed in a purple satin gown, and their two-year-old daughter, Marie.
“Good morning, General,” the Patriarche grumbled with barely a glance at Marcellus’s grandfather.
“Good morning, Monsieur Patriarche,” his grandfather replied evenly.
“Let’s get this over with.” The Patriarche sat down in one of the plush velvet chairs and immediately started to shovel food onto his plate. As always, the banquet table was overflowing with titan dishes piled high with smoked Novayan salmon, roasted quail, and duck pâté imported straight from planet Usonia. There were baskets of freshly baked brioche, a tray holding the finest sausages from planet Reichenstat, and every imaginable fruit, picked that morning from the hothouses that stretched across the flatlands below Ledôme.
Marcellus, at eighteen years old and still growing, could usually eat his own body weight in food, especially during brunch.
But not today. Not now.
Instead, he just sat at the table and stared numbly at the brioche on the plate in front of him.
“Your father is dead.”
He couldn’t stop his grandfather’s words from cycling through his mind. Although he knew he should stop them. Immediately. They were dangerous words. Dangerous thoughts.
But his mind was a traitor.
Just like his father.
Marcellus finally picked up his brioche and spread blackberry jam over the top, fighting to keep his face neutral as he took a small bite and chewed. He knew this was a test. His grandfather would be analyzing how he handled this news. Every reaction, every seemingly innocent facial twitch—they all had meaning in the eyes of General Bonnefaçon. And rightly so. If Marcellus had any hope of being promoted to commandeur in the coming year, he couldn’t be seen as anything less than unwaveringly allegiant to the Regime.
“Production is up at the aerospace fabrique,” his grandfather was saying, his voice firm and his back straight. His gaze flitted from his TéléCom on the table to the Patriarche, to whom he was giving his weekly update.
Dead.
The word continued to flutter around in Marcellus’s brain like a flock of quails frightened by the sound of a shot from one of the Patriarche’s antique hunting guns.
Marcellus took another bite as he silently reminded himself to look focused. Interested. Like a commandeur would. Like he was sure Commandeur Vernay used to do.
“But production is down in the garment fabrique,” his grandfather continued.
The Patriarche stuffed a piece of salmon into his mouth, wiped his lips with an embroidered napkin, and set down his fork. “And why is that, General? Is there a problem?”
“The foreman claims there’s been a shortage in supply of titan from planet Usonia, holding up the production of buttons for the Ministère uniforms—” General Bonnefaçon started to explain, but was interrupted.
“That’s unacceptable,” the Patriarche grunted. “The whole reason we helped Usonia win their independence from Albion was so our access to titan would no longer be hindered by that mad queen.”
Marcellus noticed a slight pulse in his grandfather’s jaw, just under one of his neatly trimmed sideburns. It was a rare chink in his usually impenetrable armor. But Marcellus knew the Usonian War of Independence was a sore spot for the general. The only reason Marcellus was sitting in this briefing instead of the more qualified Commandeur Vernay was because of that war.
But a moment later, his grandfather resumed his usual countenance: calm but firm, cool with a hint of a polite smile. Marcellus found himself adjusting his own face, wondering if he could ever achieve that look. A look that gave nothing away.
He dreamed of being able to give nothing away.
“Are you sure that’s not just an excuse?” the Patriarche asked, picking up his fork and digging into a pile of pâté. “Maybe the workers are just being lazy again.”
“Oh dear, mon chéri,” the Matrone said, pausing to take a sip from her flute of champagne. “You must not be so harsh on the poor workers. Perhaps they’re just tired. Or maybe they’re in need of a nice little treat from us, to boost their morale and let them know that we support them.” She blew at a ringlet of dark hair, which had escaped the tower of carefully entwined curls atop her head. “We must send them a crate of this beautiful gâteau.” She dug her spoon into the giant, three-layered, pink-and-green-frosted dessert in front of her and scooped out a large piece. “Don’t you think, Marcellus?”
Surprised to be spoken to, Marcellus almost choked on his mouthful of brioche. “Very good, Madame Matrone,” he sputtered.
The Matrone leaned over and fed the spoonful of gâteau to Marie, the Premier Enfant, who was sitting on the chair next to her mother. The little girl’s dark curls, held up with silk ribbons, glinted in the Sol-light streaming through the banquet hall’s vast windows.
“Don’t be ridiculous, chérie,” the Patriarche admonished. “If you sent gâteau to one fabrique, you’d have to send gâteau to them all. Lest you want to start a riot. As my late father would say, ‘That’s just basic politics.’ ” He shared a conspiratorial look with Marcellus’s grandfather. “This is why women should never run a planet, am I right, General?”
Marcellus saw the Matrone shoot a disdainful look at her husband before downing another gulp of her drink. Her brunch—and the majority of her meals, Marcellus speculated—seemed to consist mostly of champagne.
Oblivious of his wife’s reaction, the Patriarche turned and cooed at his daughter. “Except my little darling, Marie, who is the cleverest girl on all of Laterre and who will be an excellent ruler one day.” He blew a loud, wet kiss, which the child ignored.
Marcellus had been coming to these meals for only a few months, but already he dreaded them. Not just because he had to sit here watching the Patriarche shovel food into his mouth and the Matrone drink herself into a melancholy stupor, but because he never knew quite how to behave. How to sit. What to do with his hands. This room made him feel like a fidgety child forced to sit still in a scratchy uniform. As the future (but not yet) commandeur of the Ministère, Marcellus wasn’t supposed to voice his opinion on matters. He was supposed to just sit there looking impervious and paying close attention so that, one day, he could contribute. But he always found his mind wandering. Today even more so than usual.
“Your father is dead.”
“Oh, you little imp!” The Matrone’s voice brought Marcellus back to the banquet hall. The Premier Enfant was now standing on her chair, stamping her feet. “Now, why are you standing up there? You know Maman doesn’t like you climbing. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
The Matrone reached for her daughter, but the little girl jumped off her chair, grabbed two titan serving spoons from the table, and started to bang them together. The Matrone sighed a deep, loud sigh and drained the last of her champagne.
General Bonnefaçon cleared his throat and focused back on his screen. “The bread fabrique has also seen a dip in production, but it should be rectified when—”