“I didn’t know she was invited.”
The prince offered this explanation while still kneeling, with the confidence of a man who had located an unfortunate clerical error.
Agnes looked down at him.
“And if I hadn’t been?”
His mouth opened. Nothing useful emerged.
Beside him, Lady Beatrice adjusted the fall of her ice-blue skirts over the marble. She appeared to believe the arrangement of the fabric might improve the situation.
King Edmund’s brief chuckle ended.
“That,” he said, “is a question you should answer before standing.”
Agnes kept the invitation in her left hand. The crimson seal rested against her burgundy sleeve, bright enough that both people who had dismissed her could examine it at leisure.
“I would, naturally, have asked her business,” the prince said.
“You could have tried that before the shove.”
“I believed—”
“Yes,” Agnes said. “You did rather a lot of believing.”
Edmund lowered his eyes for a moment. When he rose, he did not offer Agnes a royal hand to kiss.
“May I help you find a seat?”
“I can find one. Whether I’m permitted to use it seems to be the difficulty.”
Two carved walnut chairs stood against the wall beside the open doors.
The king went to fetch one himself.
His son made an involuntary movement to stop him, then wisely reconsidered.
Edmund placed the chair within the circle of afternoon light and stepped back. Agnes sat, smoothing her apron with her free hand.
The king motioned the other two upright.
Beatrice rose carefully. The prince rose quickly, as if speed might erase the preceding minute.
“Before we discuss the invitation,” Edmund said, “you both owe Agnes an apology.”
Beatrice drew a breath.
“I deeply regret the misunderstanding concerning your position.”
Agnes looked at her.
“Which position?”
Beatrice hesitated.
“Your standing at court.”
“I was standing perfectly well until he pushed me.”
The prince stared at a gold-trimmed column.
Edmund waited.
Beatrice’s gloved fingers tightened together.
“I called you a beggar,” she said at last. “I meant to humiliate you. I’m sorry.”
Agnes gave a small nod.
It acknowledged the words. It did not make them sufficient.
The prince glanced at his father, searching for a shorter route.
None presented itself.
“I pushed you,” he said. “You hadn’t threatened me. I wanted you gone.”
“Because?”
He looked at her apron.
Then, with visible effort, he looked at her face.
“Because I thought you were someone I could order out.”
Edmund’s expression hardened.
Agnes remained still.
“Well,” she said, “now we have arrived at the actual business.”
The prince brightened slightly.
He would regret that.
***
Three weeks earlier, Edmund had visited an exhibition of work made in the towns surrounding the palace.
Among the gilded cabinets and elaborate writing desks had stood one plain walnut bench from Agnes’s workshop.
It had no carved lions, no climbing vines, and no little golden feet.
The king had sat on it for considerably longer than its neighboring exhibitors found encouraging.
Agnes had explained that its back supported a person properly, its edges would not catch a hem, and its legs could survive being dragged by someone too impatient to lift it.
Edmund had asked whether she could make seating for the people who waited outside his throne room.
She had said she would need to see where they waited.
That was why he had sent the invitation.
Not to test his son. Not to expose Beatrice.
He had wanted a practical conversation about furniture.
Agnes had arrived prepared to discuss wood, space, and the palace’s apparent conviction that visitors had no knees.
Instead, she had been introduced to the floor.
Now Edmund stood beside her chair, considering the empty stretch of marble outside the throne-room doors.
“I had thought six benches,” he said.
“Possibly,” Agnes replied. “How many people wait here?”
The prince answered immediately.
“That depends on the audience.”
“How long do they wait?”
“That also varies.”
“Who tells them when the waiting will end?”
Beatrice lifted her chin.
“They are informed when they are summoned.”
Agnes looked toward the great doors.
“And until then?”
Neither answered.
Edmund folded his hands behind his back.
“I see we have furnished this hall with uncertainty.”
“It matches the marble beautifully,” Agnes said.
The prince made a small sound that might, in safer circumstances, have become a laugh.
His father looked at him.
The sound stopped.
Agnes turned the invitation once in her left hand.
“I reached these doors before either of you spoke to me. No one asked whether I had an appointment. No one asked whether I needed directions.”
“You entered through the wrong approach,” Beatrice said.
“Then you might have directed me.”
“You were dressed—”
Beatrice stopped.
Agnes waited.
The king waited.
The prince, discovering the pleasure of someone else making matters worse, almost smiled.
Beatrice noticed and gave him a look sharp enough to discourage it.
“My dress is the one I work in,” Agnes said. “Your father invited the person who made the bench. I didn’t realize he preferred to meet the embroidery.”
Edmund’s mouth moved.
He resisted the smile this time.
“I don’t,” he said.
***
The prince tried a more promising tone.
“Then the misunderstanding has been corrected. We can order the benches.”
Agnes rested her right hand on the chair arm.
“And who will allow people to sit on them?”
He blinked.
“They will be benches.”
“So is the stone ledge outside the entrance. Lady Beatrice told me not to lean against it.”
“It is ornamental,” Beatrice said.
“So was my welcome.”
Edmund turned toward her.
Beatrice looked away.
The king had approved the polished hall, the impressive doorway, and the orderly reception of visitors. He had never asked how that order was maintained before he entered.
He looked at his son.
“When I arrive, everyone is already arranged.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Quiet. Upright. Properly placed.”
“Yes.”
“I have been admiring the result without asking what produced it.”
The prince said nothing.
Edmund glanced toward Agnes.
“That was convenient of me.”
“Yes,” she said.
Beatrice seemed startled that anyone might agree with a king so promptly.
Edmund accepted it.
“Then chairs alone won’t repair this.”
“No,” Agnes said. “But people should still have them.”
“Agreed.”
She shifted slightly, testing the walnut chair beneath her.
The prince leaned forward.
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“The chair is excellent.”
He looked relieved.
“The conversation needs work.”
Edmund laughed once.
This time, Agnes allowed herself a small smile.
***
“Show me how you would receive a visitor,” the king told his son.
The prince straightened.
“Now?”
“You have the hall.”
He had the hall, his father’s complete attention, and Lady Beatrice’s sudden interest in a patch of sunlight.
Agnes remained seated.
The prince drew himself up beside the doorway.
“State your business.”
“No,” Edmund said.
“I haven’t finished.”
“I’m hoping we can improve the beginning.”
The prince’s jaw tightened.
He tried again.
“How may I assist you?”
Agnes considered him.
“I’ve been invited to discuss benches.”
“Your invitation?”
She raised the parchment already in her left hand.
He looked at the seal.
For the first time, he actually waited for her to finish presenting it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Then he stopped.
Edmund lifted an eyebrow.
The prince looked at the empty space around Agnes.
“Would you care to sit?”
“I would,” Agnes replied. “An inspired suggestion.”
Beatrice pressed her lips together.
The prince flushed.
Edmund’s eyes warmed with amusement, but his voice remained even.
“She’s already sitting. What else might a person need?”
The prince looked toward the throne room.
“To know whether you are ready?”
“And if I’m not?”
“To know when you expect to be.”
“Good.”
Agnes lowered the invitation to her lap, her left fingers still around its edge.
“And if you don’t know?”
The prince hesitated.
“I should find out.”
“Better than inventing an answer.”
He gave her a quick, offended glance.
She met it without moving.
After a moment, he inclined his head.
“Yes.”
Beatrice shifted toward the doors.
“Perhaps I should arrange for refreshments.”
“You should remain,” Edmund said.
She stopped.
“Your turn.”
***
Beatrice faced Agnes with the expression of someone approaching a difficult dance.
“Welcome to the palace.”
“Thank you.”
“His Majesty will receive you shortly.”
“Will he?”
Beatrice glanced at Edmund.
“I mean, in ordinary circumstances.”
“Then let’s use those,” Agnes said. “Suppose I’ve waited an hour.”
“You would be told of the delay.”
“And if I have to leave?”
“You may request another appointment.”
“From whom?”
Beatrice’s answer did not arrive immediately.
Agnes waited.
For once, the waiting seemed useful.
“I would make certain you knew where to ask,” Beatrice said.
“And if I have no invitation?”
The prince looked toward his father.
Beatrice kept her eyes on Agnes.
“I would ask why you had come.”
There was no flourish in the answer.
Agnes nodded.
“That would have saved us all some kneeling.”
Edmund’s laugh escaped before he could restrain it.
The prince looked embarrassed. Beatrice looked annoyed.
Neither was treated as an improvement in character. But neither tried to remove Agnes from the chair.
It was a beginning she could measure.
***
The king returned to the business of seating.
Agnes rose and walked along the wall, invitation in hand, looking from the doorway to the walnut furnishings.
“Not here,” she said when Edmund indicated the narrowest space. “A bench there would put people directly in the path of those coming out.”
The prince stepped into the doorway and looked back.
He could see it.
“And that corner is too far from anyone who can tell them what’s happening,” Agnes continued.
Beatrice glanced toward a broad, empty section beneath the windows.
“There?”
Agnes studied it.
“There, perhaps.”
The prince went to move the unused chair.
He caught himself before dragging it across the marble, lifted it, and set it beneath the window.
Agnes watched.
“Your father listened when I discussed the legs.”
“He told me about the bench,” the prince admitted.
“And you thought?”
He looked at the plain cream apron.
Agnes spared him the answer.
“I see.”
Beatrice moved the second chair only after Agnes had stepped away from it. She carried it with care, arranging it at a sensible distance from the first.
For a moment, the two young aristocrats stood looking at two perfectly ordinary seats.
They had hosted ceremonies with considerably less concentration.
“People can pass between them,” the prince said.
“Yes.”
“And see the doors.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice tested the remaining walking space with a few restrained steps.
“The benches mustn’t extend beyond this point.”
Agnes nodded.
“Now we’re discussing furniture.”
***
Edmund asked whether she would accept the commission.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “Once we agree on the work.”
“You shall have whatever you require.”
“I require an agreed price and someone who answers questions.”
The king inclined his head.
“Reasonable.”
“Your son can be that someone.”
The prince looked up.
Agnes continued before he could decide whether this was an honor.
“He’ll visit the workshop, listen to the people making them, and bring back the measurements you need. Lady Beatrice can explain how visitors are directed through this hall.”
Beatrice’s face tightened.
Edmund considered them both.
“You wanted responsibility for welcoming people,” he said.
They had, although they had pictured grander company.
“You will begin here. I’ll speak with the people who wait, rather than simply admiring how quietly they do it.”
Agnes looked at him.
The king understood.
“And you may speak to them without either of these two standing over them.”
“Then we can learn whether anything changes.”
No one called that distrustful.
The prince glanced at the invitation.
“Will you come back?”
Agnes followed his gaze.
“For the work.”
He nodded, accepting the distinction.
“And my apology?”
“I heard it.”
“Do you accept it?”
“I’ll know more when I return.”
Beatrice opened her mouth, then closed it.
There was no command available that could turn an apology into forgiveness.
Edmund seemed content to let his son discover that.
***
At the oak doors, the prince stepped ahead of Agnes.
For one unhappy instant, he stood directly in her path again.
Then he recognized what he was doing and moved aside.
He opened the door fully, giving her room to pass without brushing her apron against the carved edge.
“After you.”
Agnes paused.
Her invitation remained in her left hand, the royal seal visible but no longer raised as a defense.
“An excellent start.”
The prince allowed himself a careful smile.
“Thank you.”
“Now try it when your father isn’t watching.”
Behind them, Edmund laughed.
Beatrice, standing beside two newly useful chairs, did not.
Agnes walked through the doorway at her own pace.
