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focus on a salt shaker.
    You’re fine , I think. You’re not gonna throw up from four drinks. No one does that .
    I catch another whiff of kidney and have to grit my teeth together, because it’s abundantly clear that I am about to do that .
    “Excuse me,” I manage to say.
    I stand and somehow, through sheer force of will, I walk out of the dining room in my high heels. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get out of that room, filled with vodka and kidney smells.
    I walk into some sort of passageway. The windows overlooking the sea are open, and the fresh breeze feels good . I take a deep breath, and some of my nausea dissipates instantly. I take another, and another.
    There’s a bench along the wall, facing the windows, and I sit on it gingerly. I lean my head back against the wall and keep gulping air. Maybe if I can stay like this for a few minutes, the soup will be gone, I won’t puke, and I can go back in there like nothing’s happened.
    A few minutes pass, and I’m almost feeling better.
    Then I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
    My eyes pop open, but before I can stand, Kostya comes into view.
    Great, I think. The very last person I want to see .
    I swallow hard and lean forward to stand, but he holds up one hand.
    “Sit,” he says, like he’s commanding a dog.
    I glare, trying to give him a taste of his own medicine. He seems impervious to it.
    “I’m fine,” I say.
    “You’re drunk,” he says.
    I close my eyes and lean my head back.
    “I’m sorry. Don’t put my head on a spike,” I say.
    “You didn’t invade. You’re a guest,” he says, and I feel his weight settle next to me on the bench.
    “I’m still a barbarian,” I say, eyes still closed.
    I hear something rip, and open my eyes just enough to look down. He’s got a bread roll in his hand, and he’s torn a chunk off of it, holding it in front of me.
    “You need bread,” he says. “It soaks up the vodka.”
    “That’s not how digestion works,” I say.
    His father must have sent him to do damage control with the drunk American girl , I think.
    “Eat,” he says. I take the hunk of bread and put it in my mouth, chewing it slowly.
    This is way, way worse than the train station. I look better now, but rushing out of a formal dinner because I’m so drunk I think I might vomit is beyond the pale. Hell, I should just pack my things and go home now , before this dinner is over, so I can’t ruin anything else.
    My stomach stirs, and I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes. Kostya presses another bite of bread into my hand and the tips of his fingers brush my palm. They’re warm and surprisingly rough for a royal.
    I eat the bread. I swallow. I don’t open my eyes. He presses another bite into my palm, and we repeat this over and over again.
    After a few minutes, I do start to feel better. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. He’s stare-glaring at me. I just blink.
    “Better?” he asks. His expression stays flat.
    “I think so,” I say. “You should go back. I’ll be okay.”
    “It’s fine,” he says, and presses the last chunk of bread into my hand. “That vile soup will be gone when we return.”
    I eat the last chunk of bread and try not to smile at vile soup.
    “My mom gave me a brief on Sveloria, but I guess I skimmed the part about toasts,” I say.
    “You’re not the first foreigner to be duped,” he says. “According to legend, that’s why we have so many of them.”
    “To get foreigners drunk?” I ask. “Is Sveloria the frat party of Eastern Europe? You get outsiders drunk so you can get lucky?”
    He frowns slightly and looks at me. I open my mouth, only to realize that I can’t possibly explain that dumb joke right now, so I just shake my head.
    “We have an excellent tolerance for alcohol,” Kostya says. “In the old days, rulers would negotiate over a meal. In Sveloria, it was traditional for that meal to include a number of toasts, and anyone who refused to drink was