by Sally Laces
"Nor will I," I add. "Yes, King Olar, I too took a trip to Mendoza Province."
"Lovely! Which was your favorite vineyard?"
I shift slightly in my seat, giving myself a moment to respond. There's a balance you have to strike for questions like this. The King expects a certain reply, one that will satisfy him. So too does my step-mother, listening from the seat beside me. Isaac is listening, as are the various waiters and servants milling in and out of the expansive room, always keeping a perimeter from our high-backed seats and expansive redwood table.
"I'm afraid I did not have a chance to visit many vineyards there, your highness," I reply. "My visit was more business than pleasure."
"A businessman." The Queen's murmur surprises all of us, except for King Olar, who's kept his eyes on me. She spreads her hands softly on the table. Great. Just one more person to judge my response.
"There's a town near the Andes mountains called Algodon. Cotton, in Spanish, although it's more famous historically for its wool." I clear my throat, ensuring I'm speaking clearly. If people are going to listen, I want to them to hear the full truth. "We were looking for a new supplier for our military. The caps and jackets of our honor guard's formal wear need to be of a remarkable quality. I had the honor of meeting some Argentinians when I was working on a housing initiative for the UN. They put me in touch with the locals, and, well, we established a contract with the shepherds."
I shrug. The press loved the pictures of me in Argentinian fashion standing among the mountains looking haggard by altitude but smiling nonetheless. While I'd done my best to make the visit a low-key affair, the moment they found out a royal had come to visit, locals from miles around were there. Even citizens from Buenos Aires made the journey to the sleepy little town. The whole thing was a mess, but a beautiful one, and in the end the citizens of Algodon got a much-needed financial boon. The mayor and local developers still send me pictures and videos of the schools being built. The quaint town is growing into a regional hub, and I couldn't be happier.
The King seems to find my story amusing at the least. "Always good to drum up new income. Very important," he says, delivering a typical Femnosi platitude. I wonder if he knows I could have just bought the wool from China or somewhere where it's mass-produced. Then our soldiers wouldn't have looked quite as nice, and the town wouldn't avail itself of our income.
"We very much agree, your Grace," Annabelle chimes in. "You are wise to say so."
Laying it on a little thick there, Annie, I think to myself, looking at the last droplets of wine in my glass. It's unwise to have more than one before a meal begins, but if I have to wait any longer...
"So sorry to keep you all waiting."
All heads turn toward the double doors leading out to the main hall. There, standing in the illumination of what seem like a thousand candles stretching all the way toward the castle gates, stands a woman of sheer beauty.
My eyes adjust quickly from the dimly lit dinner setting to the bright castle lights surrounding her like a heavenly glow. That dress, yellow as a daffodil and brighter still against her pale skin, illuminates the room all on its own. A familiar face lingers behind her, in a plainer dress but with a wider smile. The maid I saw in the castle courtyard moves to the new woman's side and waits patiently. I watch her for a moment before the girl in the yellow dress steps forward in silver closed-toe heels.
"There's a Femnosi princess?" Isaac whispers to me from across the table. I can't answer him, not now, as I watch this rare beauty move slowly across the carpeted floor.
"I needed a bit more time to get ready," says the mystery woman, swaying her hips just enough to show the bold tight-fit of her dress. "I so hope you haven't grown bored without me."
"Not at all," says the King, nodding his head at the rest of us good-naturedly. He might know who this person is - chances are, he's just pretending. The man spends nearly all of his time gallivanting across the world on leisure trips and vacations, leaving what few duties remain of Kingly stewardship to trusted advisors. I imagine he hadn't considered the guest list for this event. "We were just waiting for Anya."
The woman stops beside my fiancè's seat, currently kept warm by my man Isaac.
"Well," she says, in a lilting voice, her light blue eyes on me, "here I am."
And with that, the room falls silent. I hadn't even noticed the sounds until they dissipated. Queen Petra had been bouncing her knee up and down, crinkling her grey dress. That's stopped. So has the movement of the waiters and servants. They all move to the far walls - all of them, that is, except Anya's maid, who hovers nearby ready to do her duty for her employer.
I stare at Isaac, who's twisted about in his seat across the table, staring up at the goddess with the knowing smile standing beside him.
"Oh, ummm..." He pushes the chair out, no small feat considering it weighs about 200 pounds. Isaac's no schlub but he's having trouble getting the seat far out enough to stand up. He's even sweating under the collar. Looking at the woman beside him, it's easy to imagine why.
Isaac's finally able to plant his feet for one final push, simultaneous to the way he leaps out of his seat. He grabs his dinner napkin and wipes down the seat. "Just uh, keeping it warm for you, prince, er, princess..."
"'Your grace' will suffice. Thank you, Isaac. I greatly appreciate your forethought."
With a red-faced nod, Isaac spares me one final glance before adjusting his tie. We both put on suits for this event, handmade by the finest Western tailor back in Dominar. I'm glad we did; now that she's here, even formal fashion seems too little to compare.
"I'll just, uh, go... help your..."
"Ellory could use your help in the kitchen, if you would."
"Ellory?" Isaac turns his head to face the woman's maid. "Oh, right. Cool."
"Right this way please." Ellory snatches my man's hand and drags him away. I feel a brief pang of loss at having my closest confidant taken away, although we both knew he couldn't stay for dinner. This is an affair strictly between royals.
No matter what they wear.
"So sorry," The King says, leaning toward the center of the table with a furrowed brow. Hi wife on his left moves too, scrutinizing eyes on the woman seated across from me. "I'm somewhat confused here." He laughs, dissipating some tension, yet the confusion remains. "You are...?"
Anya smiles, reaching a hand out to pinch her brother's furry cheek. "Oh, my sweet sibling. I know we don't see each other often, but surely you can recognize your own relative."
The blush on her cheeks. The liner surrounding those lovely blue eyes. Even the straight blonde wig atop her head cascading down to her shoulders. The King might be a bit of an oaf, but even I can't blame him for being unsure. She looks nothing like the boy I met earlier today.
She looks like a true princess.
"Of course," he relents, a man eager to avoid any confrontation. "Yes. My mistake." He reaches out to take his wife hand, squeezing firmly until she turns toward him. "Queen Petra and I are delighted to see you again, of course."
At the sound of her name, the onus is on Queen Petra to speak.
"What on Earth are you wearing?" She asks. "That dress is -"
"Perfectly appropriate for a royal supper," Anya replies, cutting off the Queen before she can say something regrettable. I have to wonder if these two have met before; Anya seems to understand what I've suspected about Queen Petra's unvarnished speaking style. In fact, Anya has been running the entire room since she walked in to stun us all. Even my step-mother hasn't said a word. "Have the hors d’oeuvre been served yet?"
There are many, many questions all of us around the table have that do not relate to the appetizers. For Anya, the oysters on the half shell are the only important facet of what has been a strange day indeed. She signals to a waiter who approaches to deposit the small plates before us. The King turns his gaze down at the fresh-caught seafood while the rest of us keep our eyes on Anya.
"Your Grace," my step-mother finally in
tones. "Far be it from me to question a Femnosi royal in her own castle. I do, however, have to say - you looked somewhat... different, when we met earlier."
"I did."
My step-mother's lower lip twitches. Her frustration can't help but bring a small smile to my lips - one that Anya matches, much to my surprise.
"Yes. Well, may I inquire as to the reason behind your most notable change?"
Anya places her hands in her lap. "Very well. In the spirit of loyalty and tradition, I felt it best that I wed as a woman. A Dominari prince does deserve a princess, after all."
Well.
This marriage is certainly more interesting.
I know Anya isn't a woman underneath that dress. Thing is, though, between the makeup and the hair and the outfit and whatever it is she's done to her voice to give it that dulcet tone, I wouldn't know otherwise in the slightest had she not announced it herself.
To the four of us around the table, this is a stunning and unexpected announcement two days before our wedding.
To princess Anya, it's merely dinner.
"Shall we eat, then?" She asks, lifting an oyster fork in one hand and glancing up at the waiter with the other. "I don't want my fiancè to wait any longer than he already has."
Neither do I.
Chapter 11
Anya
The food comes out faster than intended. My delays - necessary to ensure my makeup and hair were flawless for my debut - had created a backlog of dishes, one the foot-sore waiters were eager to clear up. The oyster hors d’ourves begat an arugula salad, which preceded a bowl of mushroom fennel soup, and moved onward through several entrée dishes of salmon and steak before reaching the light macaroons we dine on now.
"Delicious," my King brother notes, popping a third discus of sugar into his mouth. "Absolutely delicious."
I nibble at mine and make frequent, subtle glances up at my fiancè. He's been quiet tonight, only speaking in response to questions about his work and lifestyle. I know most of his stories - his work with the orphans in Brazil, his diplomatic efforts in Eastern Europe, his charity travels with documentary crews in Southern Africa. All of these noble & philanthropic efforts were matched with equal amounts of partying. One can't negotiate peace with prime ministers and deputies without enjoying a few nights out in the capital, I assume. I have to stifle a giggle once or twice when my husband-to-be skirts over the saucier details of his bachelor life, not wanting to bring any more scandal or scrutiny upon him than he's already earned from the media.
He's not lying. He's merely putting forth the best version of himself. Just as I am, when I run the backs of my fingers through a lock of my hair, just to get him to notice.
His step-mother, The Queen Regent, mostly makes indirect references to the wedding. She has no real power over the ceremony beyond its preparations and I can tell it's a frustration not to have every detail under control. I'm sympathetic, even. What woman wouldn't want to take part in a royal wedding? I've quite enjoyed meeting with the decorators and musicians and caterers and others. My blessing is merely a formality and the castle servants take care of the actual details, however what little I have taken part in has made me want more. Perhaps it is time to take a more active role in my life.
No, I tell myself, stealing a glance at my husband as he subtly pushes his dessert aside. He's too fit to take any sugar. It's not my life anymore.
It's ours.
As dinner draws to a close, I take the smallest of sips of my rosè and address what my future mother-in-law (step-mother-in-law?) can only hint at.
"Is there anything left for us to prepare for the wedding, dear brother?"
It doesn't seem right to call my brother ‘king' or 'your lordship' or any of the other dozen or so titles he's collected. My husband has the same, and looking at him now, sitting firm and sober and inscrutable in his seat, he surely seems more a king than my tipsy sibling.
"Oh, hell," he slurs, "I didn't have any say in the first one. Not like I'd know what to do with the next!"
My brother actually slaps his stomach as he laughs. His wife, my sister-in-law, draws away from him, a vicious scowl on her face. I remember their wedding. They're ten years older than me and I was just a kid, but even at nine years old I could tell what a debacle it was. Queen Petra didn't smile once. That's not an exaggeration; the media photographed nearly every second of the event, and she was in every single published photo. Not once did she break into anything but a frown or a pout. My brother got good and drunk for one of the first times in his life and focused on visiting dignitaries tell him sweet exaggerations about the beauty of their respective countries. His life as a hard-drinking nomadic King began that very night. Hers, unfortunately, changed little.
"Indeed, your grace," my fiancee says. "My people and I are greatly indebted to your staff."
"Servants," Petra corrects. Toras doesn't seem to have heard her.
"I've noted the way they've been working tirelessly for this event, and for my arrival. I'm quite impressed with their candor and ability - as I have been with your Kingdom."
"Well then!" Says my brother, sitting up straighter in his seat. "That's quite good!"
"It is," adds the Queen Regent in a subdued murmur.
"Which is why, following the wedding, I would be most honored to see them offered a week's respite from their efforts."
Queen Petra finally laughs. It's not a mirthful sound, but one that cuts through the relative quiet of the cavernous room. Frankly, I know why she finds my husband's request so amusing. It's not just the roundabout way he asked; that's necessary when you're speaking with a King. No, she laughs for the reason all Femnosi nobles would find his query so ridiculous: servants don't get breaks.
Nonetheless, my brother considers Toras' statement over a swill of his wine. He says nothing, yet my husband's unbroken gaze won't let him off without an answer. I want to reach across the table and take my fiance's hand, show him that I support his first royal request and his decision to address this - even if, frankly, I find it a little absurd.
"Toras," his step-mother says quietly, "perhaps there might be a better time to address this."
"I'm afraid there might not be. The upcoming wedding will fill our schedules soon. What's more, we must ensure the preparations are made for a staff vacation ahead of time. A skeleton crew of maintenance workers will remain, as will the guards, paid twice their normal rate. I'll cover this out of the Dominari coffers as my departing gift to your people. Since neither myself nor my spouse will be here, and nor will you and your lovely wife, there'll be little need to have a full retinue here to take care of people who are elsewhere."
"A superb point," Queen Petra intones. "There's no point in paying them if they will not do any work."
Her response is so harsh that my husband momentarily clenches his napkin. Arguing his case with my brother, an easy-to-read man, is a fruitful endeavor. With Queen Petra he must tread more carefully. She's a much more private figure than my brother, rarely granting interviews or speaking in public, yet her harder views toward royal privilege are well-known.
“I believe,” I chime in, “that my fiancé suggests the staff would be paid on their vacation. Which, of course, I think is appropriate, given their efforts over the past several weeks.”
The Queen bristles, looking at me like I just ate a roach. My husband, however, leans forward to touch me on the arm.
"That's correct. Thank you, dear."
Dear.
DEAR!
My lower lip quivers and I stare straight down at my cleared plate, counting the crumbs to keep from going giddy at the table.
"Well, if both the prince and princess support this... I suppose I can have my treasurer look into the feasibility."
"Wonderful. I'll have my accounting report sent to your man first thing on the morrow."
"Aha," Queen Petra says, folding her arms and sitting straight back in her seat. "You've thought about this already, then."
"I have. I tr
y to prepare for everything."
My husband picks up his macaroon, drawing it to his lips. His fierce emerald eyes set on me.
"Even that which we could never expect."
He takes a bite.
I quiver in my seat.
It's going to be a long night.
Chapter 12
Toras
The dinner ends the way most of these functions do, and for once I'm glad for it. Usually the endless bows and words of thanks and extended conversations feel like a fruitless petty power struggle, an effort to see who can last the longest as dusk turns to night. I admire the fortitude of King Olav and his ability to fight off the soporific effects of six glasses of wine. Queen Petra makes a good effort as well, having not moved an inch from her spot since we all stood. My step-mother leads the conversation, an expert in this sort of social game basically since birth.
My fiancee remains quiet, except when I talk. While I don't enjoy the way we all have to extend our parting words to new topics just to show each other how good we are at talking, I do have things to say, wit to deliver, ideas I want heard. And when I speak, Anya always listens.
What's more, she supports my words. A hearty laugh at a light barb, a tug on the arm when I'm being serious, a closeness I've never really felt with a girl before. It's odd. My support network is almost entirely venting to Isaac over a bottle of high-end liquor. Having someone nearby while I'm talking (who knows where Isaac went - or Anya's maid) helps keep me alive through this dreadful social charade.
"Well, I'll be off to bed," Petra eventually sighs, plopping her empty champagne flute onto a servant's tray. The man holds it for a long moment before leaving. "I've had a long day."
"As have I," My step-mother sighs. "Goodnight, dear."
And at the end of it all, the Queen-Regent of Dominar and the Queen of Femnos have a light-kiss on the cheek, one that, surely, spells the end of any animosity that ever existed between our rival nations.
Queen Petra helps the nodding-off King to their rooms while my step-mother bids me farewell, leaving me alone with the princess.