Royally Not Ready(31)
A smile creeps over her lips as she leans back. “Ooo, you swore. I’m going to guess that is a big etiquette no-no.” She lifts her glass of water to her lips and takes a sip—her goddamn pinky lifting toward the sky.
“Yeah, but I’m not the future queen, now, am I?”
Sputtering water on the table, she sets her glass down and starts coughing. I give her a few moments.
When she wipes her face with a napkin, she asks, “Can you refrain from putting it like that? My ass just clenched, and I’m not sure it will unclench for hours. Do you understand how uncomfortable that’s going to be? Especially on this chair, which I can only assume was too hard for Goldilocks.”
I smooth my hand over my face and take a deep breath. “Okay, but can you let me fucking talk?”
“Deal.” She crosses her arms over her chest and gestures for me to proceed.
Christ.
Finally.
“The five categories are etiquette—”
“Oo, sorry, one more question.”
The grumble that flies out of me shakes the collar of her shirt.
“I know, sorry, but will there be a test after this? I’m horrible at taking tests, one of the reasons I had no desire to go to college. If there is, am I allowed to use a cheat sheet, like a full length of paper? Because, if so, I’ll start taking small notes now.”
Deep breaths.
In and out.
“There will be no exam. This isn’t a university.”
“Oh, wonderful.” She picks up another cookie. “You may proceed. You were saying, there are five whoosey-whatsits.”
With a strained voice, I say, “The five categories we’ll be going over are: etiquette, appearance, Torskethorpe history, crisis management, and cultural traditions. If you’re in line for the throne”—she winces—“then you’ll need to master all five.” She raises her hand and I hold back my eye roll. “Yes?”
“Crisis management, is that like . . . customer service? Like how to take care of a disagreement in the village?”
“No. You’re not a moderator by any means. This isn’t the eighteen hundreds where you decide whose cattle belongs to who. Crisis management would be if you were ever captured or kidnapped, something like that.”
Her smile droops into a frown. “Wait, captured? Kidnapped? Is that an actual possibility?”
“Anything is a possibility. That’s why we need to prepare you.”
“Huh, okay. So, a follow-up question—what kind of kidnapping are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Like . . . you know, what would they do to me? Because I’ve heard some weird things in my time. Like, this one girl who lived in South Beach was once kidnapped by a drug dealer, strapped to a chair in an empty warehouse, and she was tickled with feathers every hour on the hour. Like . . . that’s some real freaky shit. Or are we talking about a normal kidnapping?”
I blink a few times.
She’s unlike any person I’ve ever met.
“Do you want us to prepare you for tickle torture?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” She taps the table with her finger. “Add it to the list.” She lets out a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad I asked that question. Can’t be too prepared, right? So, where do we start?”
Sarcasm in my voice, I say, “Given your knack for hard-hitting questions—”
“Thank you.” She clasps her hands together and bows, as if she’s a celebrity receiving a compliment.
“Let’s start with something simple. Appearance.”
Can’t imagine that will draw up too many fictional scenarios in her mind.
She glances at her sweatshirt and leggings and then back up at me. “I’m guessing I’m missing the girdle?”
Christ.
“When around the palace, when you won’t be seen by the public, you’re welcome to wear what you want. Queen Katla has a vast array of comfortable clothes that are still stylish.”
“Uh-huh. As in, my grandmother . . . who I haven’t even spoken to? That grandmother?” I can understand why she’s sounding annoyed by that one. She hasn’t heard that her grandparents want to meet her, but just need to meet her. And nothing at all from her grandmother. But how do I reply to that one?
“Well, yes, your grandmother. I’m sure you’ll at least speak to her soon, Lilly.”
“Right.” She looks away for a moment, and I have no idea how to read her. And then she does something incredibly surprising. She composes herself and asks, “And what about when I’m in public? What does a royal of Torskethorpe wear?” Huh.
“Depends on the event you’ll be attending. You might be required to wear a dress or a pantsuit—”
“A pantsuit.” She chuckles. “Man, from bikini to pantsuit, that should be the title of a book.” She flips her hair and says in a movie-trailer voice, “She was the hometown hero, wetting every tourist with the spray of a hose. Known to the public as the girl in the lime-green bikini, a true free spirit, now turned into the posh, uptight, pantsuit-wearing killer of Torskethorpe. Murder wasn’t always on her mind, but the pantsuits . . . they did her in. Coming this year, in two months.”
She smiles brightly.