A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals #1)(14)
“Then it is settled. I can get close to her through this job and find out her secrets. It will be an undercover adventure, like in the Suncatcher novels of our youth!”
Just then, a lanky young man walked into the dining room, his hoodie and faded jeans indicating he was a student. He hesitated and, seeing no one else around, turned to Thabiso and Likotsi.
“Hey. I’m Jamal. I’m supposed to start working here this afternoon? Sorry I’m late. My train was stuck in a tunnel for like forty-five minutes. You know how it is.”
Ah. The source of their misunderstanding—and the man who had allowed him to gain closer access to his betrothed. The priestesses often said that Ingoka took many forms to shepherd believers onto their true path. Thabiso took such sayings with a grain of salt, but perhaps Jamal was one of these shepherds.
“The position has already been filled, Jamal,” Thabiso declared. “But you will be reimbursed for making your way here. Likotsi, please pay him for his troubles.” He glanced at the kitchen doors, through which Naledi could emerge at any moment. “Outside.”
“Wait. Hold up!” Jamal said, taking a step forward in protest. “You can’t just go back on your word. I need this job, man.”
The pleading in the man’s voice took Thabiso by surprise—who would be so upset over the loss of such trivial work? But then Thabiso remembered the charts about joblessness in American youth that he had studied; jobs were not plentiful in this country, and colleges were not free or affordable as they were in civilized nations like Thesolo.
“Give him fifteen thousand dollars,” Thabiso said, his gaze still on the kitchen. “Twenty. Just do it away from here.”
Jamal stood still, mouth wide-open. The hands he’d thrown up in annoyance dropped to his sides and smacked against his jeans. “That isn’t funny.” His brow creased. “You serious?”
“You question my honor?” Thabiso asked, slitting his gaze toward Jamal.
“People don’t go around slinging cash like this. Is this a joke or . . .”
“If you want the money, follow Likotsi and she will give it to you.”
Thabiso could tell Likotsi didn’t approve of this expenditure. “Your Hi—”
“I’ve spent more on shoes and you’ve said nothing. Get the young man his money and I will see you at the hotel tonight.”
She gave a brusque nod and made for the exit with Jamal quick on her heels.
“Thank you?” he called out over his shoulder.
Thabiso headed back to the kitchen, to Naledi. He’d been training to run an entire country for most of his life. How hard could serving dinner be?
Chapter 6
Serving was hell.
Thabiso had thought he was fit and had stamina, but he was drenched in sweat, he’d pulled something in his back while attempting to lift a heavy tray, and he was ready to throw in the towel on this little scheme.
Perhaps I didn’t think this through.
The initial setting up had gone well. He knew what a proper place setting looked like—the fastest way to expose one’s gaucheness was to pick up the wrong utensil, and all fine dining setting configurations had been drilled into him. He’d basked in Naledi’s praise as he’d swiftly laid down silverware as she put out the glassware. They’d worked smoothly, in tandem. Her arm had kept brushing against his as she reached past him to place a wineglass here or a bread plate there—he’d never realized how much grace there was in such work—and it had felt like some kind of choreographed dance.
She hadn’t said much about herself as they’d worked, and had politely rebuffed any attempt at chitchat related to her personal life. He didn’t know where she lived, where she’d grown up, what school she went to, or whether she was dating anyone, but he learned all about the history of the Institute and the scientific advances that had taken place there.
“The people who eat here can be kind of strange, but some of them have made incredible discoveries in their research,” she’d said, something like awe in her voice. “Years of study and focus—obsession—on one crazy specific thing, all for the nearly impossible goal of changing the world.”
“Is that what you want to do?” he’d asked. “Change the world?”
She’d lost a bit of her enthusiasm then. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be in a position to do that, with my work. Besides, in this work, you’re usually reliant on someone else with money or power, and I’ve seen how they operate—cutting the funding of important research, or trying to make money instead of helping people. It’s like they forget that out of everyone in the world, they’ve been trusted to do what’s right.”
She’d gazed at him with clear emotion in her eyes, then a few blinks and it was gone. Not gone—hidden.
“Do you think it’s easy, having such power?” he’d asked. He was truly curious, and it was perhaps the first time he could get an honest answer without having his royal title taken into account.
Ledi had laughed. “Easy? That depends. If you want to use your power to exploit people and gain personal wealth, then yes it’s pretty easy. But if you want to change the world for the better . . .”
“Not so easy,” he’d said. He knew that to be true. He’d thought of the countless meetings where his initiatives were shot down, called wastes of money. He had the same education, more, than his ministers, but he was the Playboy PanAfrique, after all. Sometimes he still pushed for things. But more often than not, he gave in. Giving in was easier, and he wondered if it wasn’t worse than exploiting. That was at least taking action; he’d grown complacent.