Meeting the prince.

You can only stay holding the maid for so long, until your responsibilities pull you away from her. As the maid goes about pulling on her clothes and attempting to un-tousle her hair, you draw closer, stroking her face.

"Thank you." you say. "Your kindness... means a lot. Truly."

"Well, Bryce." Sarah laughs. "If that's the sort of kindness you require, I'm always happy to provide it."

You smile, kissing her again. Spirits, you could do that for far longer than you have time to. You wrench yourself away from the lovely young maid.

"Now, Your Majesty..." Sarah begins, a touch of formality creeping back into her words as she stands, straightening her skirt. "Is there anything else?"

"There is one thing, but it's sensitive. I need a few things, from one of the apothecaries in the city below." you decide.

"I'm sure one of your stewards might be better suited to that task, Your Majesty. I've no knowledge of alchemy." Sarah says, uncertain now.

"Nothing of the sort is required. I simply require someone I trust to pick up a few... innocuous items. I can trust you, aye?" you ask, taking Sarah's hand.

"Of course, my lord." Sarah says. "I will do as you require."

"I need pouches of red ginseng and Moissan saffron, and a vial of Deanian oyster extract." you tell her. Turning your back on the girl, you ratch in the drawers and cabinets around the room until you find some gold tucked away.

"Here. Make no mention of my name." you bid her. "Can you remember what I need?"

You don't bother offering to write her a list. You'd been with more than your share of maids, serving girls, cooks and camp followers. You would be surprised if one among their number had her letters.

"Ginseng, Saffron, Deanian Oyster Extract." Sarah nods.

"It has the variety cultivated in Moissa, specifically." you remind her. "Keep any coin left over for yourself."

-

Your time on the throne seems to fly by. Unsurprisingly, administering a realm the size of Itheria was a full time job.

The next morning, you find the reagents you sent Sarah to buy in the city stashed in one of your drawers. You tuck them away, leaving them until the time comes for them to fulfil their shameful purpose.

Packed, frantic days flicker past on the throne, until you find yourself in one of the palace's grand dining rooms, prepared to receive Sinnabarrow's Crown Prince... and several members of his family.

“Now remember, Your Majesty, the specifics of this trade deal were finalised by myself and Chancellor Dresin months ago.” Sir Gilbert reminds you. Away from the prying eyes and venomous tongues at court, the much older man does not **** himself to project strength and vigour quite so much. His voice sounds tired, strained.

“What you really want to do, Sire, is get the measure of the young prince. One day, Pierre will shuffle off to the great counting-house in the sky, and it'll be his son, Garnier you're facing down across the negotiating table.” Chancellor Dresin chimes in. He sits with his slippers up on the table. With his fancy silks and smarmy demeanour, he could just as well be a Sinnabarrovian himself.

“Sir Erwin is perhaps too forward with his counsel, Your Majesty, but he speaks the truth. The Dauphin is known to be quite the scholar. Multiple degrees from the University of Copieux, an avid sailor and astronomer. Why, under his rule, Sinnabarrow will be quite something to contend with.”

“I'm sure she will.” you exhale.

The three of you remain in the dining room for another hour or so, discussing various strategies and topics to bring up, until a page informs you Prince Garnier, and Queen Emmanuelle are on their way.

The three of you rise to receive the Sinnabarrovian royals. Since their young realm's foundation, three-quarters of a century ago, Sinnabarrow had increasingly become one of the continent's premier engines of economy. They refined and exported their small kingdom's abundance of materials, ran trading routes and outposts beyond Motania's shores. Only Phebis and Svenborgia, far to the east, could rival them for riches.

Garnier strides into the room, quickly and confidently. He's a tall, slender man, fair of hair, and about twenty five years of age.

Queen Emmanuelle, a red haired woman in a fine gown, scarcely more than a few years older than her son-in-law follows close behind.

“King Bryce! It's an honour.” Garnier says, fixing you with a smile as he draws close and clasps your shoulder.

“Likewise.” you tersely respond, remaining impassive, letting the Sinnabarrovian speak next.

“This is... my father's bride, Queen of Sinnabarrow, and a damn shrewd negotiator, Emmanuelle.”

“Delighted.” Emmanuelle says, offering you her hand.

“Not remotely as much as I am.” you respond, quickly as you are able, before leaning down to kiss it.

“I must say, you're not what I expected, King Bryce.” Emmanuelle notes. “You seem... wise beyond your years. I'm sure Itheria has a bright future, with yourself to guide it.”

“Yes, we all stand to benefit from the alliances we affirm today.” Garnier chimes in.

“And what better way to truly cement this trade deal than by sharing a little food and drink?” Chancellor Dresin intones, oozing into the conversation. “I remembered how much you enjoyed that honeyed tea from the Far South, Excellency.” the master of coin tells Emmanuelle. “Not to mention, the cakes!”

On the Chancellor's bidding, a pair of servants enter, carrying a tea set and a platter of delicate little cakes.

“Oh, don't mind if I do!” Emmanuelle says, her beautiful features lighting up. As she makes for the table, Garnier follows in lockstep. With practiced ease, he pulls a chair out from the table for his mother-in-law.

“Merci, Garnier.” the ginger-haired queen says, shooting him a warm and loving glance.

Emmanuelle wastes no time tucking into the array of dainty cakes, while Garnier serves her a cup of tea before the maids at hand even have a chance. You glance down at the steaming, golden-brown liquid in the delicate white cup. Even from a few paces, the fragrance of it is pure intoxicating.

“So, Bryce, we should talk.” Garnier says jovially. Seeing you eye the tea, he gestures towards the a third cup with the pot. You consider it for a second or two, before shaking your head. “My father will want to know everything about you, of course. Your height, how you hold yourself, how you talk. Whether you take your tea with sugar.”

“Prudent of him.” you state.

“Perhaps. Of course, I'm not sure anything short of you having two heads could rouse the old codger from his ledgers and balance sheets.” the Dauphin says.

“Garnier!” his mother-in-law chides. “It simply isn't proper to talk about your father like that! Whether the shoe fits or not.”

“I do hope the refreshments are to your liking, Excellency.” Chancellor Dresin chimes in again. The queen tears her attentions away from you and Garnier to regard him.

“Oh? The tea... magnifique.” Emmanuelle notes.

“...and the cakes?” the Chancellor asks. The queen crumbles one, a confection of pastry and white frosting between elegant fingers.

“I'm sure your chiefs tried very, very hard, oui?” Emmanuelle says. You clear your throat.

Just as you're considering your next course of action, you hear a crash from the hall outside. It's quickly followed up by the clattering of feet.

“Maman! Maman!” a voice, high and lilting cries out, as the door is flung open.

A child, attired to match with, and quite resembling the Queen, barges into the dining hall, followed by a beleaguered and wheezing nursemaid.

Sir Gilbert's mouth hangs agape, thrown off guard by the girl's intrusion. Across from you, Garnier smiles, and rises from his seat, scooping up the ginger-haired child.

“Isn't that just like you?” the Dauphin laughs. “You'll have to forgive me, gentlemen, my sister has quite the knack for... including herself in all manner of functions.”

“Readying herself for the throne, no doubt.” Emmanuelle says, eliciting laughter from the men around you, which she joins in with freely.

On Garnier's lap, the child makes a sort of whining noise, a plea for her mother's attention.

“What is it, sweet?” Emmanuelle asks.

“Maman!” the girl begins “Nursie and I were looking around the palace! It's not as big or as nice as ours, and it doesn't have any animals. Or so I thought! I saw a lady who was also a cat, Maman! But she growled at me, and I ran away!”

“You pulled on her tail, didn't you, you little hellion!” Garnier teases.

“I didn't!” the girl protests. “I didn't.”

“I believe you.” you lie.

The child turns away from her brother now, regarding you. You take her in. She can't be more than three years old. There's a flush of colour in her otherwise pale cheeks, no doubt from her antics before. Her nose is upturned ever so slightly. All in all, she's a picture of a well-fed, ill-behaved noble child.

“My name's Madeleine. What's yours?” she asks, regarding you with a quizzical expression.