Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dinner was both intimate and incredibly awkward and distant. Our fathers laughed about old times that I hadn’t even known they’d shared, while our mothers maintained a more solemn politeness.

Franny and Brendon sat at the head of the table while Kit and I had been foisted off to the foot, excluded from most of the conversation. Brendon remained in the suit of armor.

His mother watched him struggle to eat for about two minutes before telling him, “Son, we’re close enough to the wedding, it’s fine if you take it off.”

Brendon sighed in relief as he removed the helmet. My mother politely looked away, continuing to respect the fake tradition, but Father looked his fill. It wasn’t Brendon’s best showing—sweat stuck his hair to his forehead, turning the red a darker auburn, and his flushed cheeks drowned out some of his freckles.

“Been meaning to ask about that, Greg,” Father said as he washed down a bite with a hearty gulp of wine. “I don’t remember you wearing a get-up like that when you married Clarissa.”

“Ah, that’s because I was the one marrying in,” he replied with a grin. “The tradition is only for the grooms of Bane, and that generation was all girls.”

I snorted at this convenient explanation, then had to cover it by pretending to cough and take a sip of water to clear my throat. “What are the parameters of this tradition?”

Mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s impolite to interrogate people about their culture, Frederick.”

I gave her my best innocent look and replied, “I’m trying to get to know my future in-laws. After all, when Franny and Brendon—” have kids. The words died in my throat and my stomach revolted, tossing around what little I’d managed to eat of dinner. I swallowed bile and chugged the glass of water, gesturing for an attendant to help me fill it up again.

“The tradition began in my great-great-great grandfather’s time,” Clarissa explained, her expression calm and matter-of-fact, but something about the tilt of her eyes hinted at mischief. Brendon sometimes looked like that right before he did something that made me blush and lose my train of thought. “When he switched places with his older brother to marry my great-great-great grandmother.”

Brendon choked on his food and Franny smacked him on the back hard enough to rattle the armor.

Kit froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, eyes wide as she looked at the queen. She had already moved onto a second helping of everything. I wondered if she normally had that large of an appetite, or if she was making up for the days that she’d struggled to eat while impersonating Brendon.

“Why did they need to switch places?” I asked.

“Well, since my great-great-great uncle was the oldest, he was set to inherit the throne. My great-great-great-great grandfather wanted the best for his daughter, so chose to marry her to the heir, even though she and my great-great-great grandfather had already fallen in love prior to the engagement.”

“And did your great-great …” One more? Two more? I had no idea how she kept track of all those greats. Maybe it was easier since it was her family tree. “Uncle agree to the switch?”

“Yes, actually. He had little choice in the engagement, but he knew how his brother and fiancée felt about each other. They created the scheme together. The one person they forgot to include was the bride, who had no idea as she walked down the aisle that she was about to marry the love of her life.” Clarissa’s gaze grew distant, and she swirled her wine without drinking it. “She cried the whole time.”

“That’s terrible,” Franny murmured, her eyes flitting down to me, then back to Clarissa. “Then what happened?”

Clarissa’s lips spread in a contented smile. “Unable to withstand his bride’s tears, my great-great-great grandfather removed the helmet. Once she saw it was him, not his brother, waiting for her, she ran into his arms. They were married and lived happily ever after.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, because that ending made no fucking sense. “What about her father?”

Clarissa shrugged delicately. “How was he going to keep opposing the marriage after such a display?” Finished with her story, she tucked into her meal, chewing enthusiastically.

“But what about the brother? Did he marry anyone? Did he still inherit the throne?”

“This is quite good, Francesca,” Clarissa said to my mother. “I simply must have the recipe for my cook.”

“Of course—”

I looked between them incredulously, wondering how they could change topics so easily when the story was so frustratingly incomplete. It couldn’t just be ‘she was sad, so everyone gave her what she wanted’—otherwise someone would have given in before the whole damn suit-of-armor scheme.

“Let it go,” Kit whispered.

“But—”

She grinned and scraped her second plate clean, letting the noise cover our conversation. “The queen was just making it up as she went. There’s no actual tradition, no star-crossed great-great-great-grandparents.”

I blinked in confusion. Sometime between one blink and the next, my half-full plate had been swapped for Kit’s empty one. “So, she was lying.”

“Well, she had to say something.”

“But you’re the one who claimed it was a tradition. I thought maybe there was some basis of truth to it.”

“Oh, I didn’t come up with that idea,” she said. Before I could ask who did, she added, “Anyway, Clarissa’s a much better bullshitter.”

Which made sense. Diplomacy was basically fancy bullshitting.

“Would you like another helping, sir?” an attendant asked, noticing my empty plate. I glanced at the one Kit had pilfered, already almost gone. She looked up at me with big, pleading brown eyes, apparently too polite to request any more food for herself. Where was she putting it all? Probably in those damn muscles.

“Yes, please,” I said. The attendant prepared another plate and set it in front of me. My stomach had settled a bit, so I ate a few bites before surreptitiously pushing it over to Kit.

Except I didn’t have her stealth, so half of the table noticed the maneuver. Brendon’s brow creased and he frowned. My mother looked at me with disapproval, probably thinking I was insulting the cook by not finishing my meal.

Only Father commented on it. His eyes lit up and he chuckled. “What have we here? Getting close to Kit already? Might have a second wedding on our hands, eh, Gregory?”

Kit choked on her mouthful and smacked her chest to help it the rest of the way down. For my part, I used so much energy forcing my expression into a poker face that I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Franny stabbed her meat so hard that the resulting fork scrape distracted everyone. “Father,” she said, her smile fierce and deadly, “Fred and Kit don’t even know each other. Please give them the dignity of at least one full conversation before trying to hurry them to the altar.”

“I—” Father began, looking to Mother for help.

“Besides, she’s not his type,” Brendon added. He’d said it quietly, but Franny’s outburst had silenced everyone else, so we heard it anyway.

Mother smiled, somehow appearing kind and encouraging rather than enraged. “People’s tastes change. I think Frederick and Kit would suit each other quite well.”

I think her definition of ‘suit each other well’ meant ‘If I tried to lock Kit in a tower, she would knock me unconscious with one punch.’ Or maybe ‘specifically because Kit was a woman, I probably wouldn’t have the urge to lock her in a tower.’ Or, a third possibility, ‘I’m just saying things to be contrary because I don’t like how the conversation is going.’

Probably the third option.

“Well, Fred isn’t her type either,” Franny muttered.

Father blinked and swiveled his head around like an owl who’d somehow found itself prey rather than predator. “Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing.”

Gregory gave him a commiserating smile. “I’ve been in your position a time or two. Best just to apologize and change the subject. Speaking of, is there dessert?”

There was, in fact, fruit tart for dessert, and it created enough of a distraction that everyone forgot about any ill-fated matchmaking attempts between Kit and me.