[ Fortunately, Enger isnโt one to take dismissal poorly. She dips her chin and returns inside ahead of the group, quietly eager to be out of the cold. Tsera and her scowl are only just behind.
But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantinโs rooms. Itโs sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Engerโs spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that heโs quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Engerโs doing. But sheโs purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, thereโs always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
( the seal remaining unbroken upon delivery is a testament to the skill and artfulness of his minister of intelligence, monsieur de philippe. not that the king would notice or care, considering the stress of the long trip, the meeting, and the matter weighing heavily on his mind. by the time he receives the message, he is being dressed in his white tunic by his valet. he finishes the letter just as the blue sash is draped over his shoulders and the medallion that hangs around his neck is adjusted.
so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here โ the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander โ with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
[ The theatrics of dinner with a sitting king nearly catch her off guard, compared to the previous nights. Tsera being banished to eat with the servants isnโt terribly new, but it does make Enger even more acutely aware of the lack of spacing between words of casual speed and that Ornefluer custom uses twice as many utensils as sheโs used to.
Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Engerโs lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:
Donโt reach over people. No, donโt reach for things at all. Let the servants curate your meal. Pull your sleeve up, Mistress Thorhauge already called your blackwork barbaric. This fork, not that one. No, that one. Itโs just oil made of olives. Yes, itโs delicious. Calm down. You donโt want a repeat of the butter incident.
But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and sheโs rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesnโt seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that sheโs drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskanderโs situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ Itโs even true. Regardless of the Bishopโs inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
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no subject
But a royal entourage takes time to greet, and even more time to settle. Enger stays out of the way a-purpose, joining Madame Thorhauge in her parlour for mid-morning tea and conversation—language lessons, by way of conversational practice, although the madame is kind enough not to call it that—before retiring back to her rooms once the flurry has abated. (Princess and retainer both remain sensitive to every sound, every muffled voice and footfall.)
At the appropriate hour, a servant hand delivers a written message to Constantinโs rooms. Itโs sealed with a wax stamp depicting three stylised cresting waves and seven stars dotted in the space above, but written on borrowed stationery. The Thorhauge watermark is a bit unsightly, yes, but it can hardly be helped. The message itself is concise, bordering on austere, and painstakingly written in crisp calligraphy. While Engerโs spoken Orneord might be a touch fumbling in places, the only accusation one can make of her written Orneord is an uncanny, careful formality. Perfection, but alien.
In it, she requests sitting down for a conversation. Perhaps over lunch or tea, although she understands that heโs quite busy and will endeavour not to take up too much of his valuable time. Signed, Enger Khanal. No title; no national identifier to cling like burrs to a hemline.
If the seal is broken upon delivery, it will not be Engerโs doing. But sheโs purposeful in writing nothing curious, nothing that wandering eyes could find fault or opportunity in. It would be far odder for her to ignore him, after all.
Besides, if he declines to reply, thereโs always dinner that evening, and however many extra plates the Governor will be accommodating. ]
no subject
so he has no opportunity to reply to her request for a conversation, as reasonable as it is, before a servant leads him to the dining room. but there is little use for a written reply when he expects to see her at dinner, where he can give a verbal one. although the trip's purpose is singularly focused on the country's navy, as king, constantin is still expected to attend to diplomatic matters as if the situation doesn't exist and everything is fine.
nothing is amiss, and he can quite easily pretend as such as he waits outside the dining room for his entrance. any worry detected on his blank expression could be attributed to the dinner's seating arrangement. as king, it's only proper that his place is at the head of the table. as it is the governor's mansion, the governor's dinner, and the governor's ego, however, thorhauge should be at the head. constantin has no opinion on the matter, seeing as he has spent most of his life at the end or middle of the table. only recently, in his eyes, has he sat at the head.
thankfully, it turns out to be of no concern when, finally, his name is announced, and he enters the dining room with its silk wallpaper and portraits of fluer and sees a tastefully arranged vase of tulips on a circular dining table. they are all friends here โ the king, the governor and his wife, the minister of the interior, the minister of intelligence, captain thea walling of the king's guard, a bishop of fluer, and a princess of iskander โ with no need for a hierarchy.
with a practiced smile, constantin bids everyone to sit and takes the only empty chair at the table, between madame thorhauge and the duchess des hauteurs. )
no subject
Servants shuffle around, removing warming dishes and delivery refills of bread and butter, popping corks on bottles. When one takes the liberty of setting a fine cloth napkin on Engerโs lap, she nearly flinches.
The first course passes by. Smiling beatifically between dainty bites, Enger spends much of it in her own head.
For example:But not a drop is spilled, not a hair turned nor fumble made into a fracas. The conversation proceeds without much interest in her for the first little while; and sheโs rather relieved by it, particularly when her hands stop growing clammy at every unseen entrance over her shoulder or footsteps behind her back. In fact, the only other person who doesnโt seem to regard the staff as pleasantly invisible is the minister of intelligence. More than once, she notes his eyes seem to be everywhere at once with nary an untoward flicker of an eyelash.
It is only when the entree is served that sheโs drawn into the conversation. And by drawn into, we mean made the focal point of.
Evidently, they had been talking about religion. Several words and even more references escaped her, but when the Bishop of Fluer inquires about sending apostles to Iskander to help spread the library of God, she inclines her head calmly. ]
I am sure there are many back home who would greatly appreciate a sharing of ideas, your Excellency. But, Iskanderโs situation being what it is, I could not in good conscience accept your apostles when I cannot guarantee their safety in the crossing.
[ Itโs even true. Regardless of the Bishopโs inquiry making her teeth feel sore with its benign presumptions.
He seems to accept that response, and proceeds to describe how he would be happy to send a trunk full of literature—Bibles, he calls them—for her to have distributed among her countrymen.
She smiles like he and she are the best friends in the world. ]
I am honoured you trust me to escort something so dear to you, your Excellency.
[ Anyway, whatโs the rest of the table doing? ]