Chapter Sixteen
“You look terrible.”
Finn glanced up from the summit paperwork spread across his small office desk to find Jericho leaning against the doorframe. His brother wore court attire - perfectly tailored, perfectly appropriate - and the contrast between them suddenly felt stark. Finn had been at the castle for weeks now, and somehow Jericho still looked more at home here than Finn did.
“Good morning to you, too,” Finn said, trying for humor and missing.
Jericho pushed off the doorframe and closed the door behind him. “I’m serious. Marriage isn’t supposed to make you miserable.” He gestured at the papers covering every surface. “What is all this?”
“Summit preparations. Helena thought I should familiarize myself with the attending delegations.” Finn rubbed his eyes. The words on the page had stopped making sense an hour ago. “Do you know how many kingdoms are sending representatives? Seventeen. Each with their own customs, political alliances, historic grievances, and expectations for protocol.”
“And you’re trying to memorize all of it?”
“Someone has to.” Finn heard the bitterness in his own voice. “Can’t have the king consort embarrassing Safe Harbor by serving the wrong wine or seating someone below their station.”
Jericho pulled up a chair and sat down, studying Finn’s face. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Finn.”
The gentle patience in his brother’s voice cracked something inside Finn’s chest. He set down the paper he’d been holding - something about the Kingdom of Westmarch’s stance on fishing rights - and let his head fall into his hands.
“I’m failing,” he said quietly. “At everything.”
“Tell me.”
So Finn did. He told Jericho about the council meeting where he’d confused import and export taxes, about Aldric’s thinly veiled suggestion that he review basic economics. About reorganizing the laundry schedule and creating chaos throughout the household. About fixing the window latch and the maid’s shock that he’d do manual labor instead of summoning proper tradesmen.
“And then there was Count Villiers.” Finn’s stomach still turned remembering that dinner. “I seated him wrong. Made a joke he took as an insult. Served wine from a region his family’s feuding with. Thomas had gone over the protocol with me beforehand, but I got it all confused, and…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “The count thought I was deliberately disrespecting him. Darragh had to smooth it over afterward.”
Jericho listened without interrupting, his expression carefully neutral.
“I thought I could just be myself,” Finn continued. “That’s what Darragh kept saying he wanted. But myself doesn’t work here. Everyone can see I don’t know what I’m doing. The advisers think I’m incompetent. The staff think I’m inappropriate. And Darragh has to keep defending me like I’m some project he took on, some charity case who needs protecting.”
“Does Darragh say that?”
“No.” Finn looked up. “He says he loves me for who I am. That I don’t need to change. That I just need time to adjust.” He laughed without humor. “But time doesn’t teach you which regional wine feuds to avoid or how to calculate tax revenue or where to seat a count at dinner. Time doesn’t make me less of an embarrassment.”
Jericho was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You need actual training.”
“Thomas tried…”
“Not a single conversation before a dinner. That was ridiculous - giving you information without any context. You need real training, systematic instruction in protocol, etiquette, and court politics.” Jericho’s expression was serious. “I’ve been at court for years, Finn. I know this world. Let me teach you.”
Finn wanted to refuse. The thought of more lessons, more rules to memorize, exhausted him just thinking about it. But the memory of Count Villiers’s cold politeness, of Aldric’s suggestion to review basic economics, of the tension in Darragh’s shoulders as he’d apologized…
“Okay,” Finn said. “Teach me.”
/~/~/~/~/
They started the next morning in Finn’s sitting room. Jericho arrived with a stack of papers and a determined expression.
“We’ll begin with forms of address,” he said, setting down his materials. “Every rank has specific protocols. Get it wrong, and you’re either giving offense or looking ignorant.”
For the next two hours, Jericho drilled him relentlessly. How to address a duke versus an earl. The difference between “Your Grace” and “Your Excellency.” When to nod and when to air kiss.The proper way to introduce people of different ranks to each other.
Finn’s head spun. “There are too many rules.”
