Chapter 43 – Lunch with the Future In-laws / The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 43

Lunch with the Future In-laws / The Calm Before the Storm

            The day before Izzy’s ball, I wake early, more out of anticipation than anything.  Today, Angus’s parents, the King and Queen, want to have lunch with me.  Me.  I have spent most of the morning trying not to freak out, after all, they have met me before and seemed to like me…  except they haven’t.  Not really.  Not me as I am now. 

            The morning so far has been spent with me changing my entire wardrobe three times, much to Mary’s distress.  My behavior actually got bad enough that my mother finally had to step in and put her foot down, telling me that I wasn’t allowed to change clothes yet again.  So here I sit with a book in hand that stopped holding my attention nearly thirty minutes ago.  I’m trying to appear calm yet the butterflies in my stomach keep fluttering.

            I glance at the clock on the library wall as I pretend to read. 

            Any minute now…

            The minute hand ticks over by one, then one more, then one more… and time just seems to slow.

            By the time Angus arrives to collect me, I am beginning to suspect that he has made a habit of appearing at precisely the moment my patience begins to wear thin.  Then again, maybe I’m just a bit on edge today.

            Today’s carriage is not the plain one he had taken for our trip to the Conservatory, but neither is it one of the larger royal carriages I have seen rolling through the city during my brief time here.  It is polished, understated, and just ornate enough to remind anyone who sees it that it belongs to someone with authority.

            The ride to Aberling Castle, though it is more of a palace, is short, too short, really.  I hadn’t realized just how close the Duke’s estate was to it.  By the time the carriage slows within the palace grounds, I have only just settled into the quiet comfort of his company, his presence putting me at ease and distracting me from who I am on my way to meet.

            “You’re thinking again,” Angus says as the carriage turns over the last stretch of stone.

            “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I say, glancing at him.

            “Only when you look like you’re preparing for battle,” he replies with a smile.

            I huff softly and look toward the window.

            “You brought me to the palace for lunch with your parents,” I say flatly.  “I think preparation is warranted.”

            “It’s lunch, Beira, not an execution,” Angus says, laughing, quiet and warm.

            “Those are not always mutually exclusive.” I point out.

            That earns me a full laugh.

            “You’ll be fine,” he says as the carriage comes to a stop.  “This is not court.”

            He steps out first, then offers me his hand as I follow him down.

            The entrance he leads me through is not the grand front approach used for court functions, but a smaller side entrance tucked into the eastern wing of the palace.  It is quieter here, less ceremonial and far less intimidating.  I suspect he chose this entrance hoping to ease my tension, but it does very little to calm me.

            Inside, the difference is immediate.  The corridors here are no less elegant than the memories I possess of the rest of the palace, but they feel lived in, less like a monument to the Crown and more like a place people actually inhabit.

            Angus guides me through them with easy familiarity, one hand resting lightly at the small of my back.  It is such a casual gesture that it takes me half the walk to realize I am leaning into it.

            We round a corner and head down the hall as a door ahead of us opens and a woman steps out.  She is nearly as tall as Angus, with the same easy confidence in the way she carries herself, though where his presence tends toward warmth, hers is composed in a way that feels practiced.  Her hair is a deep, warm red, similar to Angus’s but darker, and her green eyes are sharp in the sort of way that suggests very little escapes her notice.

            She takes one look at the two of us and stops.

            Her gaze moves from Angus, to me, to the hand still resting at the small of my back and one of her delicate brows lifts.

            “Well,” she says evenly.  “That answers at least three questions I had no intention of asking.”

            Angus sighs.

            “Margaret,” he says as if her name were a statement as opposed to an address.

            “Angus,” she replies, perfectly calm.

            Her eyes settle on me then, and whatever dry amusement had been reserved for her brother softens into something gentler.

            “Lady Beira,” she says, inclining her head with effortless grace.  “I was beginning to wonder if my brother intended to keep you hidden until the ball.”

           Heat rises instantly to my face and Angus makes a quiet, long-suffering sound beside me.

           Margaret either ignores it or has long since trained herself not to notice.

           “Forgive him,” she says to me, lowering her voice slightly as if confiding a great secret.  “He means well, but subtlety has never been one of his stronger qualities.”

           “You know I’m standing right here,” Angus mutters.

           “And yet,” she says, “I remain undeterred.”

           I fail, rather immediately, not to smile.  Margaret notices and amusement dances in her eyes.

           “Good,” she says, and though the word is simple, there is something quietly reassuring in it.  “You looked as though you were preparing to be interrogated.”

           I hesitate just long enough to answer for her to know she is right and her expression softens by a degree.

           “It’s lunch,” she says.  “Not court. You may breathe.”

           The words are so simple that something in my shoulders loosens before I can stop it.

           Margaret’s gaze shifts briefly to Angus, something unreadable passing between them before she steps aside.

           “Mother and Father are waiting,” she says.  “Try not to make her bolt before dessert, Angus.”

           “Margaret,” he replies, his expression steady.

           She smiles then, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

           “Enjoy your lunch, Lady Beira,” she says.

           Then she is past us and gone, leaving behind the distinct impression that she had assessed the entire situation in under thirty seconds and decided, for reasons of her own, to be kind about it.

           After Margaret leaves us, Angus guides me to a smaller private dining room tucked deeper into the eastern wing.  Opening the door, Angus leads me inside.

           The room is bright in a way the formal halls are not, sunlight spilling in through tall windows that open onto a private garden beyond.  The table set within is modest by palace standards, laid for four rather than forty, and the atmosphere is so absent of ceremony that it takes me a moment to reconcile it with where I am standing.

           The King and Queen are both already seated.

           King Malcolm rises as we enter, tall enough for me to see that Angus clearly inherited his height from him, though age has broadened him where Angus is still all clean lines and youth.  His hair is brown gone silver at the temples, his green eyes bright and far warmer than I had prepared myself for.

           “Beira,” he says, and there is nothing formal in it.  “It’s good to see you on your feet again.”

           Before I can decide how best to respond to the King of Elgoss greeting me as though I were a favored niece, Queen Catriona rises beside him.  The resemblance between her and Izzy is immediate enough to be almost unfair. Her pink hair is softer with age, her pale lavender eyes sharper, but the likeness is unmistakable.  Where Izzy’s presence is all exuberance and chaos, Catriona’s is quieter and more deliberate.

           “Come here, child,” she says, as if I have not just spent the better part of two days mentally preparing to be received by royalty.

           I obey on instinct.

           She takes my hands in both of hers, studies my face for one long moment, then gives them a gentle squeeze.

           “You look well,” she says.  “Better than the last time I saw you, which is a relief to all of us.”

           Something in my chest gives a strange, uncertain pull.

           Had the Queen been at my masquerade?

           “Th-thank you, Your Majesty,” I say, fighting the instinct to attempt a curtsey.

           Her mouth curves.

           “If you insist on calling me that at lunch, I shall be forced to seat you beside Malcolm and let him talk politics at you.”  She gives a warm smile as she says it.

           “An effective threat,” the King says dryly.

           Angus, traitor that he is, laughs.

           I blink, surprised by the casualness of it all.

           The Queen pats my hand once and releases it.

           “Catriona will do just fine here,” she says.  “Unless you would prefer ‘Mother’.”

           I stare at her for half a second, my brain taking a moment to process the fact that the literal Queen just told a joke.

           When I recover a moment later, I look at the King.

           “And Malcolm?”  I ask before I can stop myself.

           The King grins.

           “Careful,” he says.  “You’ll spoil Angus. He already thinks we like you more than him.”

           “That’s because you do,” Angus says as he pulls out my chair.

           I sit.

           “At present?” Catriona says lightly.  “Possibly.”

******************************************************************

           When I return to the estate later that afternoon, the quiet feels different, not heavier, just… still.

           Mary helps me out of my dress and into something simpler, though for once she does not fuss nearly as much as she usually does.  I suspect she can tell I am thinking too hard to tolerate much hovering.  Once she is satisfied that I am unlikely to ruin myself in the next hour, she leaves me to my own devices.

           I end up by the window in my room, one leg tucked beneath me on the cushioned seat built into the frame, watching the late afternoon light spill gold across the estate gardens below.

           Lunch had been pleasant and that, more than anything, is what unsettles me.  Not because I expected cruelty or any such unpleasantness as that.  But I had expected scrutiny.  The careful weighing of every word and movement to determine whether I was fit to stand beside their son in public.

           Instead, I had been fed, teased, and asked whether I intended to return to school as though the answer mattered for reasons beyond appearances.

           And somehow, somewhere between Catriona threatening to sit me beside Malcolm and let him lecture me about trade agreements, and Malcolm informing me that Angus had apparently spent the better part of two years making an absolute nuisance of himself over horses he had no intention of riding himself, I had stopped feeling as though I were being received and started feeling, dangerously, as though I belonged.

           That thought sits heavier than it should because it is not what my mother prepared me for.  Maybe her point is for me to be guarded at all times, even when safe...  maybe this is a result of the attack on me and the changes I have undergone since waking up in this world making her feel as though I need shielding at all times.  I don’t remember her being like this before.

           I stare out into the gardens and think of the electives conversation with the future In-laws.

           The Art of Equitation had been easy; that answer had left my mouth before I had needed to think about it.  It was familiar, expected, and safe.  Horses had always been one of the few things that felt uncomplicated.  The original Beira had loved them.  I love them.  More importantly, with Rún soon to be brought down from Braemar Keep, it would give me a reason to remain close to him while he grew.

           That choice had been simple.

           Archery had not; that answer had come more slowly, but not by much.

           I had not even fully understood why I said it until Malcolm’s brows had lifted and Catriona’s gaze had sharpened with interest.  It had not been disapproval, only curiosity, as if they had expected the first answer and were waiting to see what I chose when given something that was wholly mine.

           Archery is not practical in the way magic is practical. It will not make me stronger tomorrow, it will not make me safer at a glance, but it is something deliberate and requiring discipline.  Something I know from Michael’s life, something chosen by me in this life as Beira, something that would still be mine even if my magic failed me.

           I exhale slowly and rest my forehead against the cool glass.

           Maybe that is why it had come so easily after all.

           My mother had not been completely wrong, the jewelry had been political, curated with the gown in mind.  The Queen had made certain I would be seen exactly as she intended.  She had made a statement, of that, I have no doubt.

           What unsettles me now is the growing suspicion that she had done it kindly.  Not because kindness lessens power… because it does not.

           That, more than anything, may be the lesson I was meant to take from lunch.

           Power could be warm, measured, and deliberate; no less dangerous for the softness of its edges.

           Tomorrow, I will step into a ballroom wearing silk and silver and someone else’s intentions draped neatly across my shoulders.

           Tomorrow, I will be seen.

           For now, though, I sit in the fading light and let myself hold one quieter truth close… I had gone to lunch expecting to be judged; I had not expected to be welcomed.