“Of course I will be happy to give you my opinion,” he says, gesturing toward the great hall. His cape lifts as he moves, and I breathe in his fresh woodsy scent. “Let’s return to the table, dine, and drink your wine.”
I smile, feeling happily buzzed, and confide, “You smell wonderful, like your wine, sort of woodsy.”
He leans close, his lips curving up, his white teeth gleaming. “Your scent is also intoxicating.”
“Must be the wine cellar making us all smell so good,” Neli announces as she passes us.
I giggle. I probably should eat something to go with all the wine sloshing around in my belly. I barely picked at my dinner earlier because I was so preoccupied with my meeting tonight. And look how wonderfully it’s going so far!
We settle back at the long banquet table in the great hall. This time Neli joins us, pouring the pinot noir I brought, and offering a glass to me.
“Why don’t you have mine?” I say to her. “I’ve had my fill for the night, and I’d like your opinion on the wine too.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” She takes the chair across the table from me. “Cheers,” she says, lifting her glass.
“Cheers,” I say.
She sniffs, swirls, and sips. “Mmm-hmm.”
I wait, hoping for more.
“Full-bodied,” she adds, setting her glass down.
“Yes, I thought so,” I say. “Do you have any tips for improvement?”
Neli stares at her glass. “Let me think on that.”
That sounds promising. It’s so good, she’s not sure how to improve it. Maybe we do have a shot at winning an award for our wine.
I turn to Mr. Bozhidar expectantly. He lifts the glass and sniffs, his brows knitting together.
I hold my breath.
He sips and spews the wine back in the glass. “Horse piss!”
I gasp.
He shoves the glass away, grimacing. “Horse piss mixed with putrid fish entrails.”
“Boz, that was harsh,” Neli says.
“What?” He shrugs casually. “I would not serve that swill to the prisoners in my dungeon. It is an insult to my lips. The Baker family should have stuck to their proper vocation—baking.”
“Bakers? We’re winemakers,” I say with contempt.
“Are you so certain? Because the contents of that bottle say otherwise.”
My eyes and cheeks are hot, nausea rising in my throat. I stand, completely mortified, unable to make eye contact.
“Stella, I’m sure he didn’t mean that the way it came out,” Neli says.
“No, I asked for his opinion.” I swallow down bile and walk stiffly to the door. Only pride keeps me from bolting.
All the good feelings that built up around the eccentric Mr. Bozhidar vanish. He doesn’t care about helping me, and he insulted our wine. I push the front door open through a blur of tears. Did he have to be so harsh? Horrible, horrible man.
The night air is cool as I pass the moat and cross my arms against the chill, hugging myself. Horse piss? Putrid fish entrails? Our wine can’t be that bad, or my parents would’ve been out of business years ago. Right? I try to comfort myself with that thought. I like our wine, though I’m no expert.
My limbs are heavy as I trudge toward home. My parents pinned all their hopes on me to save the winery, and I’ve got nothing. Maybe it’s time to face the hard truth. Our wine is good but not good enough. There’s no hope to win an award. There’s no hope for Stellariva.
CHAPTER SIX
Boz
Stella takes her leave, and I immediately notice a shift in the air, an emptiness in the room that was not there before. The realization triggers a pang in my gut. Or perhaps I am simply peckish. Stella does smell rather delicious. And while my body may have returned to its usual masculine perfection, something inside me does not feel quite right. Call it a thirst or hunger, but the sensation goes deeper than that, as if my soul has a boundless craving.
Must be a hangover from this goddamned sleeping curse. Whatever the reason, I now need to hunt, which means a change of clothes is required.
I leave the great hall only to find Neli waiting for me at the base of the staircase.
“Seriously, Boz?” Neli taps her foot with that strange little sandal. “Horse piss?”
I raise a brow. “How else would you describe her wine?” Rancid ball sweat could work. “And would you please procure yourself a proper pair of shoes to hide your toes? I am not running a brothel.” In my village, only women open to courtship or harlots were allowed to show their toes in public. Neli is a slave and not permitted to marry. On the other hand, I was quite turned on by Stella’s pink little feet, nearly naked in her white sandals—a sinful little preview of what lies beneath her virginal white dress. She must be hinting that she wishes to offer herself to me.