green in the middle of a desert, where Ottosland dumped its unwanted aristocracy and other assorted riff-raff. And you’re sister to its king, are you? Don’t think I’ve met him. Is he here?”
“No,” she said, still smiling. Or perhaps her face had frozen into a rictus of horror. “I have the honour of representing New Ottosland on His Majesty’s behalf.”
Another tray of pastries squeezed by. With a grunt of pleasure, the marquis snatched again. “You simply must try one of these, y’know, my dear. Deep fried Harenstein goose pate topped with our finest Hidden Sea caviar. Delicacies, I promise you. A gift from Harenstein to the happy couple. One of many. No expense spared to celebrate the glorious event.”
Melissande took the smallest appetiser on the tray then nibbled as little as possible from around its edges. The marquis inhaled his with gusto, and swiped a second one just as the tray was about to be swallowed by the press of chattering, drinking, eating guests.
I wonder if Hartwig’s invited any doctors? she thought, torn between dismay and fascination at the marquis’s inexhaustible appetite. Because at this rate we’re going to need one.
The next servant to appear carried a drinks tray. The marquis pursed his lips, disappointed, then soothed his pique with a slender flute of something pale yellow and bubbly. Melissande followed his example, needing the fortification, and managed to surreptitiously toss her pate and caviar onto the tray before it moved on.
Oh, lord. This is going to be the longest night of my life.
And to think she’d not even attempted to chat with the Lanruvians yet, which she would do as soon as they arrived. Not that Gerald wanted her to. He’d turned practically beet red at the suggestion. But given the looming shadow of Abel Bestwick’s disappearance, with everything horrible that implied, she couldn’t afford to worry about threats of retribution by Sir Alec. Besides, she had the sneaking suspicion that while he claimed to want her safely sidelined, in truth Sir Alec was relying on her to do whatever she could to assist Gerald and, to her complete surprise, she realised she didn’t want to disappoint him. Sir Alec might be chilly, self-contained and ruthlessly pragmatic, but he was also a good man. A man who, despite his flaws and under different circumstances she might have called a friend.
Which was more than she could say for the Marquis of Harenstein. He was complaining about the slow service, now.
“Yes, yes, it is terribly poor,” she said, with all the sympathy she could muster. “I wonder, Your Grace, could you tell me the story behind this fairytale wedding between Prince Ludwig and Princess Ratafia? It’s been very clever of you, a stroke of genius, really, to bring them together in wedded bliss. However did you manage it?”
The Marquis of Harenstein’s broad chest swelled alarmingly with pride. “Why yes, my dear, it was a remarkable feat.” His muttonchop whiskers wobbled as he let out a bark of self-satisfied laughter. “But the thing is, Princess Murgatroyd, can I trust you, eh? Got to know if I can trust you if I’m to tell tales out of school!”
“It’s Melissande, actually,” she said, her voice freezing, before she could stop herself. The marquis’s pebbly eyes bulged, as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Damn. Smile, smile, and toss in a high-pitched, girlish trill of coy amusement. What a good thing Reg had been left behind. “But Murgatroyd’s a lovely name, too. And of course you can trust me, Your Grace. We’re all aristocrats here.”
“Ha!” said the marquis, disbelieving, then flapped his hand across the crowded chamber towards its curtained doorway, where the unfashionably late Lanruvians were making their entrance. “Not them!”
Hartwig had arranged for a collection of string musicians to serenade the gathering before the State Dinner. What with the talking and laughing and chinking of glasses, their music had been pretty much drowned out… until the Lanruvians entered the reception chamber. Their arrival stilled tongues into a ripple of silence that left the musicians raucous.
“Bloody Lanruvians,” said the marquis, disastrously, into the void.
Someone in the press of invited guests laughed, a nervous honking. Someone else tittered. And then the waters of renewed conversation closed over their heads, spiced with a giddy relief, and Melissande let out a breath.
Lord. I hope Gerald and Bibbie are getting on better than this.
The marquis intercepted yet another passing servant, took two more crab puffs to soothe his offended sensibilities, and to her surprise handed her one. Trapped, she ate it.
“So, Your Grace, you were saying?” she prompted, wickedly tempted to wipe her fingers down the front of his over-braided velvet coat. “About how you played matchmaker to the happy couple?”
Another self-satisfied bark. “Yes! Well, Princess Mona, when you get right down to it, all of us here on the Small Western Continent, we’re just one big family. And families, y’know, they squabble, they disagree, but when push comes to get the devil out of my way, we have a care for each other. And all this biff and bash between Splotze and Borovnik, over one little canal? Not helpful, is it?”
“So you thought the time had come to say Enough is Enough?”
The marquis chortled. “Indeed I did! And I did. And now there’s to be a wedding!”
“Yes, but how did you manage it?” Melissande persisted. “I mean, after so much intransigence on both sides, how did you-”
The marquis tapped the side of his prominently veined nose. “Ah, indeed, wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes, she really would, because it was almost impossible to believe that this overdressed blowhard was capable of tying his own shoelaces, let alone finagling such an unlikely marriage.
The man’s a complete plonker. And a greedy old windbag, to boot. I’ll bet someone else is behind this wedding.
Humming with speculation, she slid her gaze over to the Lanruvians. They were standing in an aloof knot on the far side of the chamber, watching the reception’s goings-on like visitors at a particularly rowdy zoo.
“Actually, Your Grace,” she said brightly, “I must ask you to excuse me. But I’m sure we’ll chat lots more, during the wedding tour. And, oh, look!” She snapped her fingers, summoning another of Hartwig’s tray-bearing servants. “I don’t believe you’ve tried one of these yet, have you?”
Leaving Harenstein’s deplorable ruler to salivate over the prune-stuffed crispy bacon, she fled as fast as the press of her fellow-guests allowed. Her heart boomed as she pushed her circumspect way through the crowd. Was it madness, to march right up to the Lanruvians and introduce herself? Probably, but how else was she going to engage them in conversation? She didn’t want to wait until the tour. What if they weren’t invited? Or had refused to attend? Tonight might be her only chance.
But she’d not managed to squeeze more than halfway across the chamber when the serenading musicians fell silent, and a pompous horn blast rent the air. The wedding party had arrived.
Bugger.
Bibbie was flirting again.
Because this time it was in a good cause, Gerald gritted his teeth and tried not to care-but that was easier said than done. The wretched girl was depressingly accomplished at it. Probably she’d been practising since she was three.
I wonder what it means that she’s never flirted with me?
No. No. He was not going to think about it. This wasn’t a social event. Bibbie wasn’t flirting, she was working, and it was time he followed her example.
The Servants’ Hall was warmly crowded. Because they were mere lackeys, and ought to count themselves fortunate they were getting any kind of jollity, the palace and wedding guests’ minions weren’t being treated to a reception ahead of a sumptuous nine course banquet, or enjoying the talents of an exquisitely-trained string ensemble. No. Their food was laid out on long tables around the edges of what would become the dance floor, and they were expected to eat all of it standing up, entertained by a lone violin, a xylophone and someone haphazardly banging on a drum.
Appetite largely curtailed by the day’s alarming events, Gerald helped himself to a roasted chicken drumstick, then retreated to a bit of empty wall to seek out any hidden foes while he was eating. But even that was proving a challenge. Lowering his etheretic shield was too risky, and not only because there might be someone present sensitive to the inexplicable presence of a wizard. Bibbie was here, already alarmed about him… and it was practically certain she’d notice the new changes in his potentia, which he was nowhere near ready to discuss.
Leaving his shield up meant the Servants’ Hall buzzed at him indistinctly through muffling layers of etheretic cotton. So frustrating. What if the mission went pear-shaped because he was too busy hiding to notice a vital clue?
