Beatrice brought the decanter upright.
Not a drop reached Agnes’s hair this time.
It was a remarkable improvement in aim, considering the distance had barely changed.
Agnes held the filled goblet steadily. Edmund’s brief laugh faded, leaving a silence in which Beatrice could hear the wine settling inside the decanter.
She set it back on the carved table.
“Your Majesty,” she began, “if we might proceed to the engagement toast.”
Edmund looked at her.
Beatrice tried again.
“I prepared a few suitable words.”
Agnes glanced down at the dark stain spreading across her cream apron.
“How fortunate. I seem to have arrived unsuitable.”
One of the three guests lowered his eyes.
The other two stopped looking at each other.
Beatrice pressed her ivory-gloved hands together.
“I had not been informed of your position.”
“No,” Agnes said. “You had only been introduced to me.”
Beatrice searched for a reply that would improve matters.
Several presented themselves.
All died young.
Edmund stepped beside Agnes, his red velvet cape brushing the marble.
“Would you like to leave?” he asked her quietly.
Agnes considered the question.
She had spent much of the afternoon being fitted for ceremonial sleeves, which seemed designed to prevent a woman from reaching anything she wanted. Afterward, she had returned to her own plain wool dress and apron.
She had agreed to marry Edmund.
She had not agreed to become an upholstered chair.
“No,” she said. “I would like a moment.”
He nodded.
That small exchange made Beatrice more nervous than a shouted order would have.
She understood commands. A king who asked his future wife what she wanted was considerably harder to prepare for.
“I can arrange another gown,” Beatrice offered.
“My gown is intact.”
“A more appropriate one.”
Edmund’s expression sharpened.
Agnes lifted her eyes.
“For which part of this evening was yours appropriate?”
Beatrice looked down at her ice-blue satin.
For the first time, it offered her no assistance.
Agnes had run the palace linen workshop for eleven years. She knew precisely how much labor went into a gown like Beatrice’s, how difficult red wine could be to remove, and how easily people mistook expensive fabric for evidence of character.
She also knew Beatrice.
Not well. Well enough to have received requests that began with kindness and ended with impossible deadlines.
Until that evening, Beatrice had known Agnes as someone who could be sent for.
The change had occurred faster than either woman had moved.
“I will pay for the cleaning,” Beatrice said.
“Yes,” Agnes replied.
“And any replacement.”
“If one is needed.”
Beatrice nodded quickly, relieved to have located a problem that could be settled with money.
Agnes did not let her stay there.
“Now. Your toast.”
Beatrice’s relief disappeared.
Edmund folded his hands behind his back.
“Yes,” he said. “I should like to hear it.”
“The circumstances have become somewhat—”
“Damp?” Agnes suggested.
One of the guests made a tiny movement with his mouth.
Agnes looked toward him.
He became solemn so quickly that it was almost a second offense.
Beatrice drew herself upright.
She had rehearsed the speech all morning.
She had not known the bride’s identity. Edmund had reserved that announcement for the evening, and Beatrice, charged with guiding its formalities, had assumed he would choose someone whose importance was apparent from across a room.
She had prepared accordingly.
Now every polished sentence seemed to contain a concealed blade pointing toward its speaker.
“It begins,” she said carefully, “‘We celebrate a lady whose exquisite breeding—’”
She stopped.
Agnes waited.
Edmund looked at the nearest chandelier with an expression of deep personal interest.
“And?” Agnes asked.
“Perhaps the opening requires adjustment.”
“Only if you intend to continue.”
Beatrice swallowed.
“‘Whose exquisite breeding has prepared her to elevate every room she enters.’”
Agnes glanced at her apron.
“I have certainly altered this one.”
Edmund turned away briefly.
His shoulders betrayed him.
Beatrice looked toward the three guests for support. They stared back with the restrained concern of people watching an expensive vase approach the edge of a table.
She had selected those guests as the first witnesses to the announcement because they were influential, discreet, and always responsive to her lead.
Two had smiled when she poured the wine.
Now all three appeared prepared to follow any lead except hers.
“I meant no personal insult,” Beatrice said.
Agnes looked at the silver stem between her fingers.
“Were you pouring it on someone else?”
“No.”
“Then we can save time on that part.”
The ballroom was not suddenly transformed into a place where everyone understood everyone else.
The same chandeliers hung overhead. The same golden columns framed the room. Beatrice still wanted desperately to recover her standing.
Agnes still had wine behind one ear.
But the possibility of politely pretending nothing had happened was gone.
“I thought,” Beatrice began, then stopped.
Edmund’s voice was quiet.
“Finish the sentence.”
She looked at him.
“I thought she was making herself too familiar with you.”
Agnes turned her head.
“By standing where you had just introduced me?”
Beatrice pressed her lips together.
Edmund remembered the introduction clearly. He had said Agnes’s name and welcomed her beside him.
Beatrice had looked at the apron.
She had apparently considered it a more reliable source.
“I intended to remind her of proper boundaries,” she said.
Agnes held up the goblet slightly.
“You have an unusually wet method.”
This time Edmund laughed aloud.
Then he stopped.
“You do not decide whom I may speak with, Lady Beatrice.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And you certainly do not enforce your opinions on their heads.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Agnes waited until Beatrice looked back at her.
Edmund could correct an offense against the crown.
The offense against Agnes remained.
Beatrice understood the distinction slowly, then with visible reluctance.
“I behaved cruelly,” she said.
Agnes said nothing.
“I wanted the others to laugh at you.”
At the back of the room, two guests shifted their weight.
Beatrice glanced toward them.
For a moment, Agnes thought she might spread the blame around.
Instead, Beatrice looked back.
“I am sorry.”
There was nothing elegant about the sentence.
It was the first thing she had said that did not need decoration.
“Thank you,” Agnes replied.
Beatrice released a breath.
Then, because she remained Beatrice, she asked, “May we consider the matter concluded?”
Agnes looked at Edmund.
Edmund looked at Beatrice.
The silence returned, now carrying luggage.
“The apology has been heard,” Agnes said. “The cleaning has not yet occurred.”
“Of course.”
“And the toast still exists.”
Beatrice’s face tightened.
“I could withdraw it.”
“You could.”
“I could prepare another.”
“You could.”
“Would you prefer that I leave?”
Agnes considered her.
Beatrice was offering a selection of exits, hoping one would lead back to being the person who decided how other people should behave.
Agnes was not particularly interested in a dramatic banishment.
She was interested in what would happen the next time Beatrice stood beside someone wearing an apron, without a king close enough to hear the splash.
“Why did you want to give the toast?” she asked.
Beatrice blinked.
“It is my responsibility to oversee the welcome.”
“Then welcome me.”
“I have apologized.”
“That is different.”
Beatrice looked at the goblet, the table, the floor.
There were not many places left to look.
Agnes waited.
Edmund did too.
At last, Beatrice said, “I do not know what you would like me to say.”
“Something true might be restful.”
Beatrice stared at her.
Then, very cautiously, she asked, “May I begin again?”
Agnes nodded.
Beatrice turned enough to include the three guests.
Her habitual expression began to return: the serene certainty of a woman about to explain the correct arrangement of the world.
She caught herself.
“I prepared a speech about qualities,” she said, “which I had not troubled to look for.”
Edmund’s eyes moved to Agnes.
Agnes stayed still.
“I assumed,” Beatrice continued, “that I would recognize the future queen by what she wore.”
One of the guests looked down at his embroidered cuffs.
“I was mistaken.”
She paused.
The next sentence had no rehearsal behind it.
“Agnes, welcome.”
Agnes inclined her head.
“Thank you, Lady Beatrice.”
It was not a magnificent toast.
It was short, somewhat uncomfortable, and entirely free of breeding.
Edmund seemed delighted with it.
“An improvement,” he said.
Beatrice looked as if she had completed a difficult crossing and discovered another river.
“Am I still to oversee the engagement reception?”
“No,” Edmund said.
The answer was immediate.
Her hands went still.
“You may attend as a guest,” he continued. “But I will not ask the person who insulted Agnes to direct her welcome.”
For a moment, Beatrice’s composure slipped.
“I have overseen royal occasions for years.”
“Yes.”
“I know the precedence of every household represented at court.”
“Yes.”
“I can seat forty rival families without anyone drawing a sword.”
“A useful talent,” Agnes said. “Tonight we required you to manage one woman and a goblet.”
Beatrice closed her mouth.
There was no dignified argument available that did not bring the wine back into view.
She bowed her head.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The three guests remained very quiet.
Edmund looked toward the two who had smiled.
They straightened.
He did not need to ask which ones they were. He had been standing one step away.
Agnes glanced at them too.
One began a bow.
Then the other followed.
The third, who had not smiled, seemed briefly uncertain whether innocence required a different angle.
“Please,” Agnes said. “You may all remain upright.”
They did.
“I am going to have enough difficulty remembering names without learning the tops of everyone’s heads.”
Edmund’s mouth curved.
The tension loosened by a fraction.
Beatrice watched the guests obey Agnes with obvious interest.
She was learning, perhaps, that authority could exist without making people uncomfortable on purpose.
Whether the lesson would survive the evening remained an open question.
Agnes did not intend to supervise its progress personally.
She had a wedding to consider.
And, just now, she had a glass of wine she had not yet tasted.
She raised it.
Beatrice made an anxious movement toward the decanter.
Agnes paused.
“It is full.”
Beatrice stopped.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Fortunately, the glass has a bottom. I shall let you know when I reach it.”
Edmund gave another brief laugh.
Agnes looked at him over the rim.
“Careful. You have begun to enjoy this.”
“I enjoyed you before it became fashionable.”
That caught her.
Not because it was grand. Edmund’s grand declarations generally involved too many people and at least one staircase.
Because it was true.
He had first spent an entire afternoon with her over a disputed order for table linen. He had asked why the workshop’s costs had risen.
She had shown him the figures.
He had discovered, to his surprise, that demanding twice as much cloth cost more money.
Later, he had returned to ask another question.
Then another.
Eventually he had arrived with no question at all.
Agnes had put him to work folding napkins.
He had been very bad at it.
The engagement had followed months later.
Now he stood beside her in his embroidered velvet, looking at a woman with wine on her apron as if there were no one he would rather see.
Agnes took a small sip.
“Not bad,” she said.
Beatrice brightened before she could stop herself.
“The wine is from—”
Agnes raised one finger.
“I was speaking of the company.”
Edmund smiled.
Beatrice let the information about the wine remain unshared.
It was a modest achievement.
Agnes appreciated it.
After a moment, she set the goblet on the carved table beside the decanter.
Edmund offered his hand.
“May I?”
She looked at the open stretch of marble beneath the chandeliers.
Then she looked at her stained apron.
“We shall be conspicuous.”
“We were already engaged. I had expected some attention.”
Agnes took his hand.
They moved only a few steps from the drinks table, still within the small circle of guests. Edmund waited for her to settle before beginning the slow, familiar measure.
Behind them, Beatrice remained beside the decanter.
She was no longer directing the room.
For the first time that evening, she watched it.
Agnes turned once with Edmund, her braided bun intact, the dark wine stain plainly visible.
No one laughed at it.
When they returned to the table, Beatrice looked at the goblet, then at Agnes.
“Would you like me to have that set aside while you dance?”
Agnes studied her for a moment.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”
Beatrice moved the goblet safely back from the edge.
Edmund leaned close to Agnes.
“Shall I announce your title again?”
She looked toward the glass, then back at him.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I think she’s beginning to remember my name.”
