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The ambassador, a stout incubus who looks in his fifties but is no doubt much older, spots the subtle expression of distaste on Princess Caroline’s face and pats her hand. “We have different customs in Otherland, my dear, though I can’t say greeting one’s serving staff is often among them.” He laughs uproariously.
Xander gives the ambassador a cool look. “I greet my friends wherever I find them. You ought to try it sometime.”
Beatrice Grictor had seemed mildly surprised to see me, but recovered quickly. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but she does comment on Xander’s ‘lovely sentiment’ and ask him how he and I know each other.
I ignore their conversation. I pour the required wine into Xander’s glass in silence, pretending I am deaf and mute, as I have been instructed to do in my training. When that is done I leave them to their conversation.
Seeing Beatrice with the ambassador has been more unsettling than I expected. The fact that he provided her with an alibi didn’t seem real to me until now. What if Storm has a point? It seems impossible that the ambassador would provide a false alibi. If so, then perhaps I ought to be looking for an accomplice. She can’t be innocent. Not after all this.
Princess Caroline does not let up on me so easily. Her expression sours every time I bring a new course to the table. When I arrive with the ‘Langue de boeuf’ — an artfully arranged cut of still-bleeding meat and some sort of frothy greens from Otherworld — she comments loudly how disappointed she is to see people sliding in life rather than improving themselves, and how she intends to improve educational opportunities in the country. And then, to everyone’s shock, she asks me what my educational experience has been.
She is supposed to pretend I don’t exist. I don’t know whether to answer or pretend I did not hear. I am not supposed to speak. I have a feeling that she full well knows that I have no higher education to speak of.
Tell the bitch to shove it, snaps the little voice in my head.
“I’m American, Your Highness,” I tell her politely.
She gives a condescending laugh. “One wouldn’t think that affects your ability to answer my question,” she says in her cut-glass accent.
Xander interrupts. “I think what she means, my dear, is that as her educational experience has been American, it has no relevance to your desire to make improvements in the British educational system.”
Caroline glowers at him.
Making no comment, I swiftly make my exit. By the time I have returned with the final course, ‘Couronne de framboises’ — a delectable little raspberry tart that makes my mouth water — the Princess Caroline is stewing. Clearly my presence here has ruined her evening.
I serve Xander his tart and am about to leave when the ambassador booms that Xander ought to try it with custard.
He tells the table at large that custard apparently is his favorite culinary discovery in this world. “Simply the most moreish yellow sauce you’ll ever taste,” he reassures his American guests.
Beatrice tries to dissuade him, but the ambassador is most insistent. “Have you tried it with this tart yet, Xander?” he demands, as if this is a challenge.
“I can’t say that I have,” says Xander.
“Then you must! Just a dollop!” booms the ambassador.
I am forced to return to the kitchens to fetch a dainty little jug of custard. When I return to the table, Xander motions amiably for me to pour a little onto his plate. I do so, and Princess Caroline insists that she will try some too.
I move to her side to carefully pour a small drizzle. She swings her elbow at me, knocking my hand. The jug of hot custard flies into my shirt, getting in through the collar and dripping down my front. Princess Caroline gives a dainty shriek and hastily pushes her chair away from mine.
Not that there was any chance of the custard hitting her or anyone else. She had expressly delivered her blow to humiliate only me.
Only the merest glint in her eyes tells me she is reveling in this little victory. “Oh dear,” she says. “One hopes the poor girl won’t lose her job over this. Then again, clumsiness never did befit a waitress.”
I see a fleeting expression of distaste cross Xander’s face, but he does not chastise her in front of everyone else. A few of the nearest guests at the table are aware that Caroline has done this on purpose and they ignore it. The others clearly think it must be my fault.
Refusing to make a fuss, I hastily mop up the couple of drops that have landed at the table, and make a swift exit, my shoulders stiff but refusing to reveal my humiliation to any of the people watching me.
I am baffled and silently stewing. The coolheaded princess had always been so careful to hide her animosity in public in the past. Perhaps it means all is not well in her relationship with Xander. I don’t care. I am furious that I didn’t see it coming. That I had not knocked it onto her lap. That would have been awesome.
And silly, says the little voice. We have work to do.
Since when did you err on the side of caution? I retort.
Fortunately the banquet is done, and I don’t have to return to the tables to clear them until after the guests are gone. Which I have no intention of doing. I head to a guest bathroom to wash off the sticky custard from my hands and neck, and to put on my glitzy gold dress that the little voice had chosen for me.
I take my time, enjoying the respite of being in this bathroom which is fancier than a bathroom has a right to be. Against one wall is an elegant chaise longue, the hand-painted wa
ll paper behind it depicting an Otherworld lush jungle with fabulous birds. A series of small oil paintings are lit by silk-canopied lamps. The half-lit quiet in here is calming.
