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committing a grave social sin.”
    He still looks dead serious, but I start smiling.
    “And your king would keep his head while the other guy got wasted ,” I say.
    “Precisely,” he says.
    “Tricky,” I say. “You Svelorians are fucking crafty.”
    I shut my mouth, because I probably shouldn’t call the crown prince fucking crafty .
    “Times have changed,” he says. “Now it’s also considered polite for guests to sip their vodka. We can’t even put heads on spikes any more, even when we wish we could.”
    I lean my elbows on my knees, take a breath in, and then look at him. He’s not smiling, but for the first time, he’s not exactly glaring, either.
    “That was a joke,” he explains, and looks at the windows. “I don’t wish to put heads on spikes at all.”
    I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb and start laughing. I’m still drunk, so it seems extra ridiculous that the heir to the throne is here, feeding me bread and trying to be funny.
    I’m sure his father sent him to check on me, but I have a feeling his father didn’t ask him to try to make me laugh.
    “I think you may not be laughing at my joke,” he says, and stands.
    I take a deep breath, trying to get control of myself, and look up at him.
    “I think I may not be,” I say.
    He offers his hand. I take it. It’s warm and strong and rough, and even though I wobble a little getting to my feet, he’s got me.
    “Thank you for the bread,” I say.
    “It was my pleasure,” he says, and offers me his arm.
    It’s a formality, Hazel , I tell myself.
    I take it, and he escorts me back to the dining room. As the doorman starts opening the heavy doors, we look at each other. I slide my hand out of his arm, and we walk back into the dining room.
    As I sit, my dad leans over to me.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    “Fine,” I whisper back.
    I’m just in time for the main course, a heavily spiced lamb dish with some sort of thick red sauce. I inhale, and my mouth starts watering.
    The bread worked , I think, even though I know perfectly well that it shouldn’t have.
    I glance across the table. Even though I’m pretty sure Kostya was sent as damage control, and even though he just gave me bread and tried to be friendly, I have the strange urge to keep what just happened a secret.
    My stomach squirms again. I tell myself it’s the vodka.
    Yelena, Kostya’s pretty, blond, blue-eyed date, is speaking to him softly. He leans toward her, nodding intently, focused on whatever she’s saying.
    He was being polite to you , I think, and a sliver of disappointment slices through me, even though I don’t know why. It’s not like I thought I was going to date a foreign prince. For starters, I’m the ambassador’s daughter, and I can only imagine that’s frowned upon.
    For the thing that comes after starters, he’s a prince. He lives in a palace and stuff, and someday he’s going to be in charge of a whole country. A country where I don’t even speak the language.
    Yelena smiles and touches his hand, her big blue eyes exploring his face. Kostya nods, not smiling, but I’m not sure he can smile.
    Just appreciate the hot prince from afar and spend your month reading books and really finding yourself or some shit , I tell myself.
    Then, as Yelena’s still talking, Kostya raises his head a fraction of an inch and looks at me.
    I get that pinned bug feeling again. For a split second, I forget to breathe.
    Kostya’s mouth twitches, just a little, for just a moment. I look back at my plate.
    I think he just smiled at me.

6
    Kostya
    F or the rest of the dinner, the vodka level in Hazel’s glass doesn’t change. At every toast, the waiter pours a few more drops in, but she’s only pretending to drink now.
    Good. I’m glad she can learn.
    As soon as the main course is over, Yelena wraps her hand around my forearm and gazes up at me, fluttering her long black lashes.
    “What did you think of the lamb, Kostya?” she asks.
    I hardly