Chapter Three

OH, PRESTI. WHAT is that saying? Kansas has fled the building?” Astrid’s grip on my arm tightened as we walked in a processional into a grand ballroom or perhaps dining hall. Architectural terminology of palaces was not my strong suit.

“I’m not certain that’s quite right, Astrid, but I get your meaning.”

Not even Misty Cavanaugh’s wedding to Olga Rimini came close to matching the splendour of this event—and that had been the social event of the decade. At least it was according to Pat Malone of the Kincumber Khronicle . It was the first legal lesbian wedding in the district after the referendum. I lost count of how many times Misty had come crying to Mum, crumbling under the pressure of the well-publicized event. It had been made clear to her that anything but a well-turned-out reception in the Ettalong Diggers function room would have been a catastrophe.

Misty would need to spritz the lavender and magnolia calming mist she’d become quite addicted to during her wedding preparations in quite enormous quantities if she were here now.

Several round tables dotted the room. Each held a subtle yet ornate floral arrangement surrounded by perfectly set place settings. Fine, delicately patterned dinnerware waited only to be filled with whatever delicacies were on the menu. Light flickered off the shining cutlery that must be worth double the value of Mum’s small home.

Place cards decorated with richly calligraphed names of the guests adorned each setting. Hues of yellows, oranges, beiges in the flowers, and napery gave the enormous space a sense of warmth.

“Well, I must say, I am somewhat disappointed,” Mum muttered behind me.

Try as I might, I could not imagine what about this spectacle disappointed her. “Perhaps the jet lag has got to you, Mum. What on earth is lacking here?”

“It is not the jet lag, Presti. I expected candles at the tables is all.”

Ever the peacemaker, Howard added, “Perhaps, Penelope, we should be grateful for the lack of candles. I should think we’ve seen quite enough of candles after the incident at the Robinson’s Joshua-finally-passed-his-driver’s-exam-on-his-thirty-fourth-attempt party.”

“Yes. Quite so, How. Of course, I still maintain that one should not invite one’s guest to twirl in their newly created frock without at least warning them of the possibility of knocking over the numerous candles spread about the place.” Mum answered in a manner that was not…her. Come to think of it, Howard spoke with a bit more…poshness than usual. A plum in their mouths, I believe, is the term.

“Why are we all talking like the queen?” I asked.

“When in Rome, dear,” Mum answered. “Besides, you talk like this all the time, Pres. We can’t have you showing us up.” She smiled and winked.

At last, one of the butlers—footmen? Again, the correct terminology escaped me; at any rate, a finely attired gentleman—gathered us from the procession and led us toward our table.

Thus far, we’d only briefly sighted the royals, each resplendent in royal attire. Though nowhere near as expensive and elegant as theirs, I thought our little group looked entirely satisfactory in our finery. Howard and I wore the tuxedos we’d hired at Erina Fair. They fit…mostly well. I would have liked a little extra length in the legs, but I believe showing your socks is something of a fashion now. Astrid, naturally, looked stunning in her frock, and my mum… Well, the dress she’d made was remarkable. Entirely sewn from hand, I don’t think someone fashionable could have looked better. She’d chosen an off-white fabric and festooned it with sparkling diamantes across the shoulders and at the top of a short tail beginning at the small of her back.

Looking at Mum and Astrid in their magical frocks, I found it difficult to believe any of this was real.

At our table, we were to be hosted by Prince James, royal wild child or recluse, depending on the day of the week or which magazine you picked up.

As a rule, I did not follow the tabloids. Actually, the only means I used to keep myself up to date with the news of the world—or at least my tiny section of it—was the Kincumber Khronicle . Tabloids, though, I steered clear of and did not understand on any level.

Firstly, why were we all so terribly interested in what other people were doing, celebrities or otherwise? Secondly, I suspected that the people who worked for these rags sat around a table each week and decided which fantastical lie they’d spread about said celebrities in the following week’s edition. It seemed to be a competition for the most bizarre tale they could create.

I’d often sat in Howard’s waiting room, flicking through months- or years-old magazines with claims splashed all over the cover. Claims that, over time, turned out to be utterly false nonsense. Pregnancies, marriages, divorces. Speculation on the lives of celebrities meant only to sell copies of their peddled trash magazines.

Along with practising our formalities, Astrid and I spent much of our flight reading as much as we could about Prince James. All while doing our best to politely dislodge the sleeping gentleman who shared our row from our shoulders. We’d taken turns in the window seat as much for the view—not that there was much of one at thirty-something thousand feet—as for a reprieve from the slumbering gent who possessed no sense of physical boundaries.

He had, though, on one of the few times he was alert, regaled us with the time he’d met the hairstylist responsible for the locks of the queen’s stable hand’s aunt. It was a pretty momentous moment in the fellow’s life and, by virtue of sharing his experience, ours. I suspected he might be one of the palace insiders the tabloids relied upon for their news on the royals.

“Oh, my gods, Presti. There he is,” Astrid squeaked as we neared our table. “He’s quite immaculate, isn’t he?”

That’s not quite the compliment Astrid thinks it is, given that she tends to judge others on the immaculateness of their bathrooms. But the prince was…well, gorgeous, frankly.

He wore a tuxedo, as did most of the men present, yet his fit crisply and perfectly accentuated his broad shoulders and trim waist. I tried not to tug at my ill-fitting rental enviously. Prince James’s hair, an interesting mix of caramel waves interspersed with flecks of copper, fell in that purposely careless way just a fraction too long to be acceptable at the Tuggerah Lakes Secondary College.

From this distance, I still couldn’t decide if his eyes were blue or green, but intelligence lurked behind them as he watched our approach. An intelligence that never seemed to be attributed to the prince, according to the research Astrid and I had done. I suppose being an intelligent, thoughtful young man didn’t sell quite as well as being caught chugging a pitcher of beer, shirtless, barefooted and with your fly half open in a back alley behind a nightclub notorious for backroom sex parties.

As we neared, Prince James favoured us with a glorious smile. And I don’t think I’m embellishing when I say it looked like the sun coming out: warm, bright, and startlingly beautiful. His eyes held on to the intelligence I’d spotted across the room, but now there was an entirely unexpected hint of shyness or vulnerability thrown into the mix. His eyes were, in fact, a blend of green and blue, leaning towards a teal colour.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but the presence of Prince James devastated me in a way I had never experienced, as if the solid ground I’d always stood on had suddenly dropped away.

“Good evening,” he said, holding his hand first to Astrid, who shook it politely and silently.

Then it was my turn. I took the prince’s offered hand, dropped into an ungainly combination of bow and curtsey and—staggeringly—kissed the back of his hand. As if not entirely done with making a fool of myself, I then proceeded to thank him for coming.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, squinting adorably and looking at me as if not quite believing I was real, he stammered, “Well, yes. Of course. You are quite welcome.”

Determined to keep up the pretence that I was, in fact, the host and he the guest, I turned to introduce my mother. “This is my mother, Penelope, and her partner Howard. Mum, this is Prince James,” I said, entirely unnecessarily.

Mum glared at me. “Yes. Thank you, Presti.” Quickly shifting to an apologetic smile, she turned to the prince. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty—shit, no. Your Highness. Only the monarch is ‘your majesty’. Damn it, I knew that. And I’ve gone and cursed in your presence.”

“Is she for the tower, then?” Howard asked, at the same time offering his hand for a shake.

“Smooth,” Astrid whispered. I shot her a glare, but once again, she’d nailed the situation.

“Not at all.” Prince James laughed. “I am so delighted you all managed to make it such a long distance to be here for Gran tonight. I know she is thrilled. She’s never forgotten your first meeting.”

“Well,” Mum said, “I did ruin her pair of perfectly grand shoes.”

Polite laughter ensued, and I did my best to fit back in after my earlier gaffs. A glance at the table warned me I’d be sitting on the prince’s left for the evening. A thought that left me shifting nervously and trying to wrangle the butterflies fluttering a riot in my stomach. A pool of warmth spreading low in my belly that I’d never experienced accompanied the nerves. Could I be sick? I sent a silent prayer to whomever it may concern that I wouldn’t end the night ruining another royal’s footwear with bodily fluids that should not be shared.

The prince and I both reached for Astrid’s chair, awkwardly chuckling as we pulled it out for her. Astrid looked between us and murmured, “Um…”

Poor Astrid could not take her seat with us standing on either side of it. In tandem, we stepped away, leaving Astrid the choice of turning her back on either me or the prince. She smiled at him, glared at me and sat, swiftly pulling her own chair in before we had the chance.

By unspoken unanimous assent, we let Howard seat Mum and took our seats.

“Hello,” Mum said to the five other guests at our table—people already seated and watching our arrival with some amusement. “You must be the Bishops…es? Or is it Bishops?”

“Yes. The Bishops,” Mrs Bishop replied. “I’m Regina. Colin. Braxton, Miles, and Giselle.” She pointed to each member of her brood as she named them.

Regina Bishop and Mum exchanged polite conversation while we settled in, unfolded our napkins on our laps and the like. I was acutely aware of Prince James at my right elbow. Giselle Bishop, whom I took to be somewhere about our age, sat on his other side. They were murmuring together.

“Okay, Presti?” Astrid whispered.

“I made something of a fool of myself,” I muttered.

“It wasn’t so bad—”

“I kissed his hand and thanked him for coming, As.”

“You did, rather.” Astrid held my gaze for a moment before we both snorted a laugh, drawing the table’s attention. Thus far, all the practice we’d done on how to behave in royal company appeared to be a resounding waste of time.

“So,” the prince’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Prestidigitation, I believe you…um…work with paper towel?”

My ears flushed red and hot. As a general rule, I didn’t give a tiny rat’s behind what people thought of me. I’d long ago learned most thought me somewhat of a nuisance or not worth bothering with. I’d made my peace with that. My family and friends—ever expanding with the arrival of Larry—were all I needed. I liked who I was and did not intend to change for anybody.

But I’d never met anybody quite like Prince James before. Here was a man who lived in palaces, jetted about the globe attending all manner of soirees and functions, played polo proficiently and looked like he belonged with the gods of beauty and perfection. I couldn’t help but feel a tad self-conscious about my job, temporary though it may be.

“Please call me Presti, and um, yes. Yes, I do,” I tried with as much bravado as I could muster. I suppose I should be flattered he’d gone to the trouble of learning about me, but did he need to learn quite so much? “I sniff it, you see.”

Prince James laughed and said, “I’m afraid I don’t. Why do you sniff it?”

“The concise answer is to ensure it remains odourless. Paper towel should have no scent at any stage in its lifespan. Thus, it’s my job to, in effect, judge that it does so. Remain scentless, that is.” Prince James stared at me with the same look I’d seen many times before when people were puzzling me out. “Not the most glamourous of vocations, but it pays well. Certainly enough to keep me during my studies.”

“Ah, yes. Ethnobotany, I believe. I must admit I had to look it up.”

I nodded sagely. “Mm. Most people do. It really is quite fascinating. Australia’s Indigenous culture is a marvel when it comes to plant use. Food, medicine, tools, and weapons. A marvellous and unique relationship with the botanical environment. We—and by we, I mean humanity—have lost so much of that relationship with nature. Apparently, humanity isn’t quite as brilliant as we like to think we are.”

Prince James’s lips curled into a grin I couldn’t quite read. Not the beaming smile from earlier, something more like amusement. He wouldn’t be the first to laugh at my expense.

“I agree,” he said. Mocking or not, I couldn’t tell. “We have quite forgotten how to live co-dependently with the natural world. We’re too busy taking advantage of it instead.”

Prince James took a small sip of the wine that magically appeared in his glass—and mine, for that matter. I hadn’t even noticed the waiter. I followed the prince’s lead, wetting my dry mouth. Nerves continued to bubble in my gut, yet Prince James had an ease about him that was beginning to settle those bubbles.

“I believe you, too, are committed to working with nature, Astrid?”

There wasn’t a question so much as the prince allowing Astrid to speak about herself. She ran with the opening. “Indeed. Animal psychology is my great enthusiasm—such wonderment in the animal kingdom. So much we don’t yet understand. And to think some people think animals to be quite vacuous. Absolute balderdash, though I’d expect nothing less from most bipeds.”

While Astrid diverted the prince with her pronouncements on the intelligence of the non-human species, I took a moment to regroup. Despite a few hiccups, I thought the evening might not be going too shabbily at all. Of course, it was early days, but it could have been so much worse.

Prince James interacted with Astrid with interest, whether politeness or not. How many dinners like this had he sat through? How many people had he had to be interested in when he’d likely rather have his eyes pecked out by a raven? He may be fabulously wealthy and deliciously gorgeous, but I didn’t envy Prince James at all.

“And I believe you work in a pawnbrokers, Ms Jones?”

I returned to the conversation when the prince turned to my mother. Despite never feeling ashamed for what my mother did for a living before, I blurted out, “Yes. She assists with those who wish to pignorate.”

The whole room seemed to quiet and still at my declaration, though I knew it wasn’t the case. Astrid had found the term for pawning something in one of her father’s books months ago, and we’d all—Mum included—laughed ourselves silly over it. Nobody laughed now.

“It…um. It means to pawn something. Pignorate. And, of course, pignoratitious refers to the pawned item,” I explained, shame at myself flaming my cheeks. “Quite a funny word.” Finally, I stopped talking.

“My dad,” Astrid began, attempting to save me, “collects books about words, especially unusual or no longer used. Presti and I… We learn them.”

“How…unique,” one of the Bishop children muttered.

Nobody else at the table spoke, but they all leaned closer. Were they waiting for some other blunder to slip from my lips? They would not be disappointed. I could feel Astrid vibrating at my side. I couldn’t look at Mum. “King Charles the Sixth of France sometimes thought he was made of glass,” I blurted into the stifling silence. “He used to wrap himself in blankets to prevent his buttocks from shattering. We like to…learn strange facts also.”

Fortunately, at that moment, a gong of some kind sounded. From the movement around the room’s edges, I took that to mean dinner was served. Prince James—finally able to drag his stunned gaze from my person—turned to say something to Giselle on his right.

“Are you okay, Presti?” Astrid whispered.

“Did I just say the word ‘buttocks’ in front of royalty?”

“Afraid so. You only spout general knowledge facts or ramble when you’re terribly nervous. It hasn’t happened for some time.”

Astrid was right. Social events didn’t make me nervous. Of course, I was invited to so few that I couldn’t be sure if that was true or if I’d just been lucky so far. Visits to the doctor, flying—I’d recently discovered—giraffes and needing to operate anything with wheels made me nervous.

“I knew that,” Prince James said. His voice was so near that I jumped a little. He’d moved so close; his thigh pressed along mine with a startling zap. I expected him to jerk away from the touch, but he didn’t.

“Pardon?” I managed.

“About King Charles. Thinking he was made of glass. Glass delusion, it’s called. Quite popular amongst royalty and nobles, actually.” The prince leaned closer, his lips near enough that his breath stirred my hair. “Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to run in my family.” And then he winked.

“I wonder why it was popular amongst royals and nobles?” I mused aloud, fascinated by the prince’s revelation and doing my best not to quiver after the prince’s wink.

Prince James shrugged in a manner quite un-regal but adorable, nonetheless. “Perhaps it was a way of expressing how exposed and fragile they felt in their public lives.”

I stared at the prince whose gaze was far-off, somewhere over my shoulder. It sounded very much as if he spoke from experience. Not that I believed he had this glass delusion. But I could easily believe he felt that fragility and vulnerability. How could he not when he lived in a virtual glass bowl, the whole world watching each moment of his life?

Our first course was presented: some kind of soup. Green soup. I wouldn’t call myself a fussy eater; more discerning, I’d say. As I sat there staring into my green soup that looked for all the world like something from Shrek’s swamp, I berated myself for not considering the menu in more depth.

“Oh,” Mum exclaimed, “pea soup. How delightful.” She smiled around the table before her gaze came to rest on me. Part of my discerning taste is to eat only things I know the name of. I mouthed a thank you and a return smile before tucking into my food.

The meal went rather well, given the few hiccups at the start of the night. Conversation flowed; we all managed to eat without spraying food across the table or snorting wine out of our noses. Prince James conversed with the Bishops as much as my little group, though he knew them well. Mum and Regina Bishop appeared to get on like old friends. All in all, I’d say our little table amid all this grandeur did quite well.

And Prince James kept his leg pressed to mine the entire time.

“We’ll move into the music room now,” Prince James said as waiters removed our dessert plates like magic. “There’ll be tea and coffee, and we’ll be free to move around to chat to…well, everyone present.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I replied. We’d received a briefing on the evening, but I thought it kind of the prince to ensure I knew what would happen. He must know how very out of place my family and I felt here.

“Please call me James,” he replied with a soft smile, a rather delightful dimple forming on his left cheek. He’d asked me to call him James earlier in the evening, but I, somehow, hadn’t thought of him as just James quite yet. He’d been warm and kind all evening, but he was royalty. I don’t know what I expected of royalty. Aloofness, cold condescension, but Prince James—James—didn’t fit that image at all.

As I continued to stare, apparently beyond fascinated with that charming dimple, Prince James shuffled under my gaze. “Is there something the matter?” he asked, his fingers gliding across his face. Undoubtedly, he was searching for traces of food he might have left behind.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I just noticed your dimples. Dimples are actually a deformity. S-something about muscle not f-forming correctly,” I stammered, painfully aware I’d just insulted a prince of England. It seemed I was pretty determined to get myself thrown in the Tower.

James roared with laughter. Loud enough for guests at neighbouring tables to turn our way. “Now, that I didn’t know,” he bellowed, not even trying to curb his amusement.

Astrid poked me, rather viciously I thought, in the ribs. “Oh Presti, do try not to insult our host,” she whispered, though her tone strained with unreleased laughter.

We didn’t leave the stateroom in the same procession as we’d entered it, but there did seem to be a hierarchy of sorts as we exited. From the briefing, I knew that we would be introduced to the queen as we entered the music room.

In my head, I mumbled through the words I would speak and rehearsed an imaginary bow as we approached. James strode ahead of me, looking as wonderful from behind as from the front. I needed to stop thinking about how beautiful he was, especially as the queen—his grandmother—stood about two feet away.

Diminutive and silver-haired, she was anything but frail. She exuded a presence that would draw the eye even if she stood here in a sarong and a pair of thongs rather than the glittering jewels and evening gown. If I had to describe Her Majesty in a single word, it would be…formidable.

“Gran,” Prince James murmured as he bowed slightly before kissing her cheek. “This is Prestidigitation Jones.”

I took a step nearer, bowed low, and shook her hand. “Your Majesty. Thank you for having us this evening.”

“A pleasure, young man. You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

The three of us laughed politely, and then I was whisked away in the momentum of the receiving line. Astrid, Mum, and Howard all traversed their introduction to the queen with no fuss or fiascos. Then we found ourselves in a sea of people, most of whom we did not know.

Mum pointed out a few other royals and one or two minor celebrities. Otherwise, the room, like the evening, had been filled mostly with ordinary people the queen had encountered throughout the many years of her reign. I supposed, for whatever reason, these had stuck in her mind.

“Look at this room!” Astrid exclaimed. “I feel like I’m in a fairy tale.”

“I thought that happened when you met Larry,” I replied, twirling my gaze about the room like Astrid’s. Mum and Howard had gone to join the line for tea, leaving Astrid and me to wonder at our surroundings. Not long after we’d met the queen, Prince James had melted into the sea of people. I didn’t blame him. We were nobodies and rather boring ones at that. Surely, he’d had more than enough of our company.

Astrid smiled and playfully swatted my arm. “I cannot believe we’re here, Presti. This is the most amazing thing ever. And how nice is the prince? Not a hint of snobbery about him.”

We stood before an enormous painting, by whom I did not know, but it certainly wouldn’t have been out of place in a gallery. “No. No snobbery at all.”

“We mustn’t latibulate, Presti. We should make an effort to meet people while we’re here. People other than those at our table.” Astrid ignored the painting, her attention fixed on the mass of attendees milling about the room.

Usually, hiding in a corner didn’t bother me, but Astrid was right. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so we had to make the most of it. We walked together, smiling and nodding hello to others, each searching for a friendly face we could claim and strike up a conversation with.

“Well, here we are, James. These guests were at your table, were they not?” A booming voice sounded from my left.

Turning to look—telling myself it was because the voice was so loud and definitely not because I’d heard the name James—I found myself face to face once more with Prince James. He stood amidst a small group who all stared at Astrid and me.

“That’s right, George. This is Prestidigitation Jones and his good friend Astrid Rhys-Bomalier. Presti, Astrid. My brother, His Royal Highness Prince George.”

Bowing to Prince George, the nerves that had assaulted me upon meeting James and, to a lesser extent, the queen, did not materialise with James’s brother. “Good evening,” I said smoothly.

“Ah, yes. Braxton told me all about this fellow. Kissed your hand, eh, James.” Prince George and Braxton laughed riotously, quickly joined by his companion I’d yet to be introduced to and, after a moment’s hesitation and some flustering, his brother James.

Heat burned my cheeks and spread to my ears until I thought I might actually be aflame. What I had done might well be worthy of being laughed at, but the decent thing to do would be to do it behind my back. Astrid’s hand slipped into mine, giving me a gentle squeeze. God, I loved her.

“Yes,” Braxton said into the lessening laughter. “And during dinner he blurted something about glass buttocks.”

Prince George laughed so hard I thought he was at risk of tears. James’s gaze dashed to mine, wide and worried, then back to his brother. James gave a small chuckle, which I let myself believe seemed forced. It didn’t matter though. Whether he meant the laughter or not, it appeared his manners had ended with our meal.

“Excuse us,” I muttered, turned, and fled, practically dragging Astrid behind me.

“Well,” said Astrid once we’d reached the other end of the music room, “what an utter dick.”

“Mm,” I grunted, not wanting to talk about it. The heat of shame hadn’t cooled. Though I’d never see these people again and I didn’t care what they thought of me, nobody likes to be laughed at to their face.