Brimsley gave a solemn nod. “I understand, ma’am.”
“In this court.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Princess Augusta’s court.”
Brimsley opened his mouth. Surely it would be the new queen’s court, not Princess Augusta’s.
Pratt lifted an astonishingly imperial eyebrow. “Yes?”
Brimsley wasn’t stupid. Vain, perhaps, but not stupid. “I understand perfectly, ma’am,” he said.
“I thought you might,” Pratt replied. “It is why I recommended you for this position.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Pratt gave him a look that said his thanks were beneath her. “Do you want to know the other reason I recommended you?”
Brimsley was not sure that he did.
“It is your face,” Pratt said. “It is a bit like a fish.”
“Thank you?” He coughed. “Ma’am.”
“That is another reason, I suppose. I just insulted you, and you thanked me. You will get a lot of that from the Queen.”
Brimsley was not cheered by this. “Have you heard very much about her, then?”
“Not a word,” Pratt said briskly, “but royals are all the same in that regard. At any rate, your fish face lends you an air of perpetual disdain. You appear rather pleased with yourself, when we both know you have no reason to be.”
Brimsley was not sure he had ever been insulted so thoroughly, and if he were not the victim, he’d probably admire her for it. It was really rather deft.
“One last thing,” Pratt said. “The questions the new queen asks might not be the ones most conducive to her learning how to adapt to our way of life. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brimsley replied, because honestly, this woman was terrifying.
And he wanted the job. Which he assumed came with a raise.
So he had bowed and scraped before Princess Charlotte, who, it had to be said, was not at all what he’d expected, and he had begun what he assumed would be his life’s work—that was to say, walking five paces behind her elegant royal form.
Except the Princess didn’t seem to understand how any of this worked, because when they were walking down the long corridor to her rooms, she stopped.
So he stopped.
She stood still for a moment, possibly expecting him to join her, which of course he could not do, so he stood there in agony until she resumed walking, and then—
She stopped again.
He stopped again.
She didn’t face him, but he could see by the tightness in her shoulders that she was irritated.
She took a step. Just one, not even fully shifting her weight. Then she whipped around, as if trying to catch him doing . . . what? He didn’t know. Royals were strange, strange creatures.
“Why didn’t you move?” she demanded.
“You did not move,” he replied. “Your Highness.”
“I moved.”
“You did not move in space,” he explained. “You only pretended to take a step.”
She stared at him for a long moment, and it occurred to Brimsley that with time she would be even more terrifying than Princess Augusta or Mrs. Pratt.
“Your Highness?” he asked. Very carefully.
“Walk with me,” she said. “I have questions.”
He held himself still. “That is not how it is done, Your Highness.”
“What do you mean?”
He did not point, because one never pointed in the presence of a future queen, but he did motion with his hand in the vicinity of her elegantly clad feet. “You walk there and I”—he motioned again, this time toward his decidedly less elegant footwear—“walk back here, Your Highness.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “You cannot walk with me?”
“I am always with you, Your Highness.” He cleared his throat. “Five paces behind.”
“Five paces behind.”
“Five paces behind,” he confirmed.
“Always.”
“Always, Your Highness.” I am your shadow, he thought with burgeoning hysteria. Except that I am short and pasty and you are tall and glorious with skin the color of a majestic oak.
She was different, he realized. Not because of the color of her skin or the texture of her hair. She was different on the inside. She had that magical, intangible quality that made people want to be near her. To hear her words and breathe the air around her. If Brimsley were a more fanciful man, he’d have said she sparkled.
But he was not fanciful. So instead he would describe her as clever. And poised. And he realized that they had both been thrown to the wolves that day.
“You are always there,” she said.
Always, he vowed. But it would be unseemly to profess the fervent emotion that had very unexpectedly gripped his heart, so he merely said, “Whenever you need me, Your Highness.”
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Brimsley, Your Highness.”
“Just Brimsley?”
“Bartholomew Brimsley.”
“Bartholomew. It suits you. I shall never use it, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed. He was stunned she’d even asked.
“Brimsley,” she said, with—in his opinion—just the right degree of sharpness for a future queen, “tell me about the King.”
“The King, Your Highness?”
She regarded him as if he were a creature of considerably lesser intelligence. “The King,” she said again. “He is to be my husband. I wish to know about him.”
“The King,” he said again, stalling desperately. He was fairly certain he’d entered a living nightmare. Surely this was one of those questions Mrs. Pratt had instructed him not to answer.
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Princess Charlotte persisted.
“Well . . .”
The Princess did not cross her arms, possibly because her gown was too gloriously trimmed to allow it, but the expression on her face was clearly of the crossed-arms variety.
“The King,” Brimsley said.
“The King. You do know who he is.”
“I do, Your Highness. He is the King.”
“Mein Gott,” the Princess muttered.
And so it was that Brimsley did not tell her about the King. In fact, he employed every conversational trick he could think of to avoid telling her about the King. But now he wondered if that had been a mistake. Maybe if he’d said the King was handsome, or that he was honorable—both of which were true—she’d not have run off mere minutes before her wedding.
Maybe if he’d said the King was interested in agriculture and astronomy—which was also true—he, Brimsley, wouldn’t be slinking along the outer edge of the chapel, trying to render himself invisible as he made his way to the sacristy.
Fortunately for him, the wedding guests were far more interested in each other than they were in a lone servant, moving a bit like a terrified crab. He made it through one doorway, and then another, and then—
The King!
Brimsley tried not to piss himself. Mostly succeeded.
He scooted past the King, who noticed him not at all, bowed to the archbishop, who gave him some sort of priestly wave, and finally caught the attention of Reynolds, the King’s personal man.
“There is a problem,” Brimsley whispered.
Reynolds was taller than Brimsley, fitter than Brimsley, and more handsome than Brimsley. And they both knew it. But still, Brimsley did have a few advantages.
None right now, though.
“What have you done now?” Reynolds asked, condescending as always.
Brimsley gulped. “The bride is missing.”
Reynolds grabbed his arm. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” Brimsley shot a panicked look at the rest of the room’s occupants. The archbishop was clearly half-deaf, but the King was looking straight at him.