Turn Sarah down.

As intrigued by the serving girl as you, as much as you know you need the comfort and succour she's all too happy to provide, you wrench your hand away from hers. It wouldn't be proper. You had obligations, and a duty to perform. With the vast differential in power and knowledge between the two of you, it would be wrong to take advantage of her.

"That will be all." you say. It takes you a moment to find the words, or rather the strength of will to speak them. "Thank you, Sarah."

A look of understanding, mingled with disappointment, in her welcoming blue eyes, Sarah curtsies, and soon departs.

You do your best to centre yourself, preparing for the hectic hours and days to come.

-

Your time on the throne seems to fly by. Unsurprisingly, administering a realm the size of Itheria was a full time job. Packed, frantic days flicker past, 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 attempt to project strength and vigour as 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 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 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 the queen. “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! However... well-founded it may be.”

“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 young 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 says, curiosity sparkling in her blue eyes.