Chapter 9

The day before our journey to Avivia was to commence, I was packing when Father knocked and entered my room. “Looks like my little linguist is all ready,” he said, ruffling my hair so it stood on end.

“Father!” I protested, smoothing my hair back down.

He flopped down on my bed, toppling a neat stack of my folded clothes. He lay there, grinning up at me as an avalanche of petticoats and corsets cascaded down around him. The funny thing about Father is that he was always so dignified and proper when he was in public. But at home with just our family, he was relaxed and playful.

He grabbed one of my corsets and held it out. “My lands!” he exclaimed. “How did you get old enough to be in one of these torture contraptions already?”

“How do you know they are torture contraptions?” I teased. “Do you wear corsets often?”

“How else do you think I have such a neat figure?” Father replied, sucking in his girth.

“I should have known where mine were disappearing to,” I laughed and threw a stocking at him. He caught it and threw it back at me, and the stocking wrapped around my face. We then proceeded to throw all my stacked petticoats, underwear, and stockings at each other, dodging behind furniture, then popping out and returning fire.

Mother opened the door. “Mercy me!” she exclaimed.

Father and I looked up, Father had a frilly petticoat draped over his receding hairline and was holding a corset back, ready to throw. I was holding up one of my gowns to defend against the onslaught, stockings thrown haphazardly over my shoulders and arms.

“Really!” Mother scolded. “Cuthbert, what are you doing?”

“We are discussing important matters,” Father declared. I nodded solemnly.

Mother rolled her eyes. “You two are so alike.”

She began tidying up the chaos surrounding us. We both bent to help, but Mother shooed us away. “Go on and discuss your important matters outdoors, you silly things.”

Father pecked Mother on the cheek. “Lenora, you are the best.”

“Am I?” Mother asked, plucking underwear off Father’s shoulder.

“Yes, you are,” Father said fervently, kissing her cheek again. This time, he rubbed his beard against her neck.

“Oh, get out of here you sly old fox!” giggled Mother, and swatted at the seat of Father’s trousers.

“Thanks Mother!” I hurried after Father. Mother sighed in a long-suffering way and turned to tidy up my room and pack.

Father and I spent the afternoon gathering documents to be carried with us—business proposals, trade agreements, and several letters.

Hubert added a letter to the stack, which surprised me. He had never struck me as the type to send letters. “Who is this for?” I asked.

“That is none of your concern,” Hubert said in a clipped, unfriendly tone.

I handed it back. “I can’t deliver a letter if I don’t know who to give it to.”

Hubert rolled his eyes and pulled a quill from inside his jacket pocket, scribbling on the outside of the envelope before returning the letter, which was addressed:

To: Crown Princess Aria

From: Crown Prince Hubert

“Thank you. I will see that she receives it.” I smiled at Hubert, but he simply turned and walked off.

“He is a charmer, that one,” said Father sarcastically.

The journey to Avivia was a merry one. Upon our arrival, Curtis leapt from the carriage and bounded up the front path, stopping to pump hands with anyone who stretched out an arm. His energy was contagious; the usually stoic greeting party broke into smiles as Curtis greeted each person by name. I envied his ability to naturally put people at ease, and his knack for remembering not only the names and faces of nearly everyone he met, but also tidbits of information about each person.

When greeting someone, instead of the mechanical ‘Pleased to meet you’ greeting Hubert gave, Curtis would grab hands, shake vigorously, and say, “Why if it isn’t the Duchess of Mostentia! How is your cat? Isn’t it the one with differently colored eyes?”

Once the entire company had disembarked, Curtis sprang up the front steps and was greeted by the same servant who always served us pale pink juice. “Jeorge!” Curtis cried jovially. “It is so nice to see you again. How is your daughter?”

I had never even thought to ask the servants’ names. I eavesdropped on their conversation as Jeorge told Curtis about his daughter, who suffered from uncontrolled tremors, and watched as Curtis followed Jeorge back to the kitchens, listening to his concerns all the while.

Curtis still wasn’t back by the time we were called in for Aria to welcome us before being led to our rooms. After the customary greeting, Aria held up her hand, stalling the servant who was to lead us out.

“Where is Prince Curtis?” Aria asked. “It was my understanding that he was to arrive with your company today.”

Father stepped forward. “Your Majesty, we beg your forgiveness, but our prince must have lost track of the time. He is with us, but we were separated. He is discussing urgent matters with colleagues.”

Aria stared at Father, not batting an eye. Her entire demeanor seemed to shout, ‘What is more urgent than greeting the crown princess?’

Father respectfully lowered his gaze. “Again, we apologize most deeply, Your—”

He was cut off as Curtis threw open the doors and strolled in. “Your Majesty!” he said upon reaching the throne. He bowed low. “Charmed, as always.”

“Likewise,” droned Aria. “What caused your tardiness?”

“Personal matters, Your Majesty.” Curtis answered breezily and didn’t elaborate about his time with Jeorge, only deepening my respect that he would consider a servant’s personal matters worth keeping confidential.