“Rosario, wait.” I grab his arm. “Do you have a taster tonight?”

He glares down at my hand grasping his arm, as though I’ve affronted him. Rosario’s mind-set is that of an imperial prince tonight, not a friend. I release him.

“Sorry,” I say hurriedly. “But it’s important. If you don’t have one, I should taste all your food first.”

His gaze softens. “I have a taster, thank you. But Red?” He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. “Please never, ever taste my food. I can’t risk you. You either, Iván. Now let’s go.”

I stare at Rosario’s back as we return with him to the dining room. Does he realize that by becoming Royal Guards, Iván and I will put ourselves at risk every single day?

The ambassador, named Spring Floods Spark Songbird Joy, arrived during the short time we were in the kitchen. He stands tall behind his designated chair, for Invierno custom forbids him from taking a seat until the guest of honor has done so first.

He wears a soft robe of light blue trimmed in dark gray embroidery, and his long copper-gold hair is tied back in a queue. He greets Rosario formally, but when he sees me, he frowns. “Lady Red Sparkle Stone,” he says. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I’m just Recruit Red now, Excellency. But it’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

Ambassador Songbird cracks a rare smile. “You talk like a true Joyan, saying what you do not mean.”

I smile back gamely. “I am a true Joyan, Your Excellency.”

“And yet these Joyans refused to accept you as their princess.” The dining room is suddenly silent, save for the muffled sound of food sizzling in the kitchen. He adds, “I was really hoping they would. It would have been best for everyone.”

“That has no bearing on whether or not I’m a true Joyan,” I say. “I’m sure you can agree that most Joyans are not princesses.”

Someone clears their throat; I’ve been talking out of place. I’m only a Guard recruit, with specific instructions to comport myself with quiet decorum.

So I take up a posture behind Rosario’s right shoulder—head up, hands behind my back, heels together—which I hope will put an end to anyone addressing me.

“And Lord Iván,” the ambassador says. “Excuse me, Recruit Iván. I’m equally surprised to see you.”

Unlike me, Iván is wise and does not answer, simply stares straight ahead from his post behind the prince’s left shoulder.

Though everyone is acquainted, the ambassador formally introduces each attendee and then recites a blessing from the Scriptura Sancta. Servants sweep in with the first course—a tomato bisque soup with lobster and scallions. Just as Rosario instructed, a steaming bowl is handed to me first, and even though I know he has a taster in the kitchen, I give the soup a good long sniff for the scent of sweet dream before setting it before him.