The footman looked at King Edmund.
“Chairs, Your Majesty?”
The king glanced along the walls. Servants stood between the marble columns, holding trays and waiting for the next command.
He had never considered them part of the assembly.
Lady Beatrice remained on her knees beneath a chandelier. Her ice-blue satin gown spread around her like a fallen banner.
Agnes lowered the decree.
“Yes,” Edmund said slowly. “Chairs.”
The footman moved toward the doors.
“Not you,” Agnes told him. “You’re carrying a tray.”
She looked at the courtiers clustered beside the empty ceremonial seats.
Several studied the ceiling.
The prince stepped forward and picked up a chair.
That settled the question more effectively than a trumpet.
Within minutes, six household workers were seated beside the dais. Their colleagues would take turns joining them between duties. The prince put down the last chair and tried to straighten his coat without appearing breathless.
King Edmund watched him.
“Are they heavy?”
“Only when one actually lifts them, Father.”
A cough traveled through the court.
Agnes folded the appointment decree and returned it to her cream apron.
The slap had brought her into the center of the room. She refused to let it become the only thing accomplished there.
“Your Majesty, may Lady Beatrice stand?”
Beatrice looked up.
Edmund frowned. “She struck a royal officer.”
“She struck a woman she believed had no protection. My appointment doesn’t make that more discourteous than it was a moment earlier.”
The king considered this.
“Stand, Lady Beatrice.”
She rose carefully. A maid instinctively approached to arrange the folds of her gown.
Beatrice looked toward Agnes.
For once, she seemed unsure whether accepting help required acknowledging the person giving it.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
The maid’s eyebrows lifted.
Agnes waited until the maid stepped away.
“Now we may begin.”
King Edmund had appointed Agnes the previous afternoon.
For eighteen years, she had worked in the palace wardrobe rooms, where the court’s elegance arrived afterward as torn hems, spilled wine, and sleeves pulled apart by people insisting they had done nothing unusual.
She knew which gentlemen apologized to servants and which apologized only to other gentlemen.
She also knew that Edmund’s ceremonial coat had six hidden repairs because he kept catching it on his throne.
Three months earlier, the king had requested suggestions for improving royal receptions. He expected comments about music, flowers, and the order of announcements.
Agnes submitted four pages.
The first sentence read: Your guests learn how to treat this household by watching whom Your Majesty permits them to ignore.
Edmund nearly threw it away.
Then he asked who had written it.
After two uncomfortable conversations and one inspection of the service corridors, he offered Agnes a new post: Royal Etiquette Inspector.
He imagined she would make the court more graceful.
Agnes intended to make it more considerate.
The difference had not appeared in the appointment ceremony.
There had not been one yet.
Agnes had arrived that evening in her modest burgundy dress and work apron because the king asked to see her before she had finished checking the costume rooms.
Lady Beatrice, responsible for the reception’s formal arrangements, intercepted her beside the dais.
She ordered Agnes to leave through the servants’ passage.
Agnes explained that she had an appointment.
Beatrice demanded she stop delaying the ceremony.
When Agnes held her ground, Beatrice slapped her.
Now the reception was delayed considerably.
Edmund cleared his throat.
“Lady Beatrice will apologize.”
Beatrice turned toward him. “Of course, Your Majesty. I regret the misunderstanding.”
Agnes looked at her.
“What misunderstanding?”
Beatrice’s white lace gloves tightened together.
“I didn’t know your new position.”
“That explains your surprise. It doesn’t explain your hand.”
The prince lowered his eyes, hiding a reaction.
Beatrice started again.
“I should have asked why you were here.”
“And if I had no royal appointment?”
She glanced toward the seated workers.
Nobody helped her.
“I should still have asked.”
Agnes nodded.
Beatrice drew a breath.
“I struck you because you refused to obey me. I apologize.”
The words were quiet enough that some courtiers leaned forward.
Agnes did not embrace her, bow, or assure her that everything was forgiven.
“I heard you,” she said.
Then she turned to the king.
“Shall we inspect the reception?”
Edmund looked relieved.
“Excellent. The ambassador will arrive shortly. We can review the procession.”
“First, the waiting room.”
His relief disappeared.
The ceremonial hall opened into a smaller chamber where petitioners waited before being presented. Every noble guest there had a seat, while three household workers stood beside a narrow rope marking the edge of the carpet.
One held a stack of folded table linen.
Another carried a written request.
The third had been told to wait because nobody could find the person responsible for hearing her.
Edmund glanced at Beatrice.
She straightened.
“The arrangement follows the established order.”
“Of what?” Agnes asked.
“Precedence.”
“Does precedence explain why that gentleman has two chairs?”
A count quickly removed his hat from the neighboring seat.
“An oversight.”
The prince carried the chair across the room.
The worker with the written request stared at it before sitting.
Edmund asked what he needed.
The man rose immediately.
“Sit,” the king said.
He sat.
Then he began to rise again as Edmund approached.
The king stopped.
Agnes watched without speaking.
Finally, Edmund took a chair himself.
“There,” he said. “We are both seated. Continue.”
The man’s request concerned the long ceremonial evenings. Workers assigned to late receptions were still expected to report at the usual early hour. He had asked whether the household could stagger the next morning’s duties.
The request had been returned twice.
“Why?” Edmund asked.
Beatrice knew the answer.
“Service arrangements aren’t presented during a reception.”
“When are they presented?”
“To the household office.”
“That office sent me here, sir,” the man said.
Edmund looked at Agnes.
She opened her hands.
The problem had survived every proper channel.
“This will be reviewed tomorrow with the household steward,” the king said. “And you will be present.”
The man thanked him.
Agnes asked who would send the invitation.
Edmund blinked.
“Someone will—”
He stopped.
The prince grinned.
“I’ll make certain he receives it.”
Agnes nodded.
“Thank you.”
By the time they returned to the main hall, Beatrice’s carefully planned reception had lost seven minutes and gained several people nobody expected to hear.
She drew Agnes aside.
“You could have spoken to me privately.”
“Before or after you struck me publicly?”
Beatrice looked away.
Agnes lowered her voice.
“I offered to explain why I was there. You decided that hearing me would diminish you.”
For a moment, Beatrice seemed ready to argue.
Instead, she looked toward the dais, where the king was attempting to carry a chair while his cape caught on its carved back.
The prince freed the velvet.
“Father, perhaps the cape could wait in your own chair.”
“It has never been asked to wait before.”
“An educational evening for everyone.”
Beatrice almost smiled.
Then she remembered why the evening was educational.
“The ambassador arrives in fifteen minutes,” she said. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Welcome him.”
“I know how to welcome an ambassador.”
Agnes glanced toward the workers along the wall.
“Then demonstrate it.”
Beatrice’s cheeks colored.
“You want me to greet the servants as though they were foreign dignitaries?”
“I want you to greet people without deciding whether courtesy will be rewarded.”
That sounded simple.
It proved surprisingly difficult.
Beatrice approached the footman with the tray.
“Good evening.”
He stared at her.
“Good evening, my lady.”
She hesitated.
“What is your name?”
“Thomas.”
“Thomas. Thank you for your work tonight.”
He nodded, visibly uncertain what response was expected.
Beatrice turned away, then stopped.
“Is there anything you need?”
Thomas glanced at his tray.
“A place to put this, my lady.”
She looked around.
Every nearby surface held a vase, a decorative clock, or an ornamental bowl.
The little table behind the column had been removed because it looked insufficiently grand.
Beatrice had ordered its removal.
She remembered dismissing the steward’s objection. Guests would never see a practical table, she had said.
Now she helped carry it back.
The ambassador arrived while Lady Beatrice was moving a plain wooden table through the ceremonial hall.
He paused in the doorway.
King Edmund stepped forward.
“Welcome. We’re improving the reception.”
“So I see,” the ambassador said.
His attendant carried a heavy traveling case. Beatrice noticed him shifting it from one hand to the other.
This time, she asked where it should be placed before describing the magnificent ceiling.
The ambassador looked pleased.
“Your household is very attentive.”
Beatrice met Agnes’s eyes across the room.
She could have accepted the praise as though everything had been planned.
Instead, she said, “We had a poor beginning. We’re making corrections.”
Edmund’s eyebrows rose.
The prince looked positively delighted.
The reception continued.
There were still candles, music, embroidered coats, and a ridiculous quantity of silver. Agnes did not demand that the palace become a bare room with honest benches.
She asked that the beauty function around people rather than against them.
A servant could set down a tray.
A guest could request a chair without being made to explain a private discomfort.
A household worker could speak without waiting for a nobleman to translate a perfectly clear sentence.
Not every change worked immediately.
One duke complained that the room felt less exclusive.
The king looked around.
“All the doors are guarded. I think you’re safe.”
Another courtier asked whether servants would next be permitted to give opinions about the music.
From beside the dais, Thomas said, “Only if asked, sir.”
Edmund coughed into his hand.
Agnes noticed the smile he tried to conceal.
After the ambassador departed, the king summoned Beatrice.
She arrived with her gloves folded in her hands.
“You will step back from directing receptions,” Edmund said. “Until you have worked through the arrangements with the household staff and Inspector Agnes.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened.
Then she nodded.
She would also apologize to the wardrobe workers who had witnessed the slap. The king made clear that nobody would be punished for describing what had happened.
Agnes asked that the apology occur during working hours.
Beatrice glanced at her.
“They should not lose their supper waiting for you,” Agnes explained.
The prince had to turn toward a window.
Beatrice did not protest.
Over the following weeks, she learned things her title had never required her to know.
The woman repairing her lace gloves was named Elise.
The footman who always appeared by the east doors worked there because another man needed to remain closer to the stairs.
The grand procession could begin ten minutes later without destroying the monarchy.
Edmund required instruction too.
When he asked Agnes to attend three meetings at the same hour, she returned the schedule.
“You are the king,” she said. “I remain one woman.”
He altered it.
When the household steward tried to describe the new courtesy rules as an experiment, Edmund asked for a date to review what had improved and what still failed.
The workers came to that meeting.
So did Beatrice.
She listened more than she spoke.
One month after the slap, another reception filled the hall.
Agnes arrived in her burgundy dress and cream apron. She had finished work in the wardrobe rooms shortly before and saw no reason to hide it.
Beatrice met her at the entrance.
For a moment, both remembered the earlier evening.
Then Beatrice stepped aside.
“Good evening, Inspector. Would you like a chair?”
Agnes looked at the seating, the useful tables, and Thomas greeting a new colleague by name.
“No, thank you. I’ve been sitting all afternoon.”
Beatrice nodded and turned to welcome the next arrival.
Near the throne, Edmund stood as a young servant approached.
The boy froze.
“Have I done something wrong, Your Majesty?”
“No,” Edmund said. “I’m moving my cape. You need that chair.”
Agnes caught the prince’s eye.
He smiled.
Across the hall, Lady Beatrice heard a visitor address Elise as “girl” and beckon without looking up.
She crossed the marble floor.
“Her name is Elise,” she said pleasantly. “And you may ask.”
Agnes folded her hands over her apron.
The decree stayed in her pocket.
