Her Rightful Place

68: The Banquet

"I am glad you approve, Your Highness, and I hope that the rest of the festivities are also to your liking," Xavier replies courteously, though he has absolutely no desire to speak to this particular Princess.

"Your Highness, Princess Seraphina of Claiamean, are you not?" Jerôme intervenes.

"Yes, and you are?" Seraphina answers slowly, making it clear that the Duke of Pelanshire is not the man she came into this part of the room to speak with.

"Forgive my boldness, Princess. My father is Mordalce's ambassador to Claiamean, and he has always written such high praise of your charms and graces in his correspondence to me. It is an honor to meet you in person." Actually, Jerôme's father had written no compliments in regard to Princess Seraphina, whom he characterized as "a silly, simple creature with no greater aim than acquiring a wealthy husband," but there is no need for the Princess to know the truth; all Jerôme is trying to do is provide an opportunity for Xavier to escape her attentions and find more pleasant company for himself.

"Oh, really? I never thought that distinguished old gentleman ever took any notice of me! I hardly spend any time with the ambassadors and courtiers and such, except at functions like these." Princess Seraphina has warmed somewhat to the Duke's compliments, and Xavier gratefully takes the opportunity to sneak away. "You must be—"

"The Duke of Pelanshire, Your Highness. One of the more prominent Royal Advisors, if I may be so bold as to say so."

Meanwhile, Xavier managed to escape from Princess Seraphina just as the Vyrunian royals and their attendants arrive in the Great Hall. The Prince of Mordalce had not thought that Princess Mireille could possibly look better than she did in the dark blue travelling dress in which she arrived to Cloiche Fuar, but he was sorely mistaken. Her emerald green evening gown flawlessly shows off all her best attributes, and her hair is even more elaborately styled than before, this time with greenery and emeralds woven into her raven tresses. Christelle and Monique flank her, similarly elegant in cerulean blue and slate grey, respectively, but Xavier's eyes are only for Mireille.

"Quite a beauty, isn't she?" Queen Bêtel remarks, making Xavier jump. He had not realized that she had come up beside him, and she chuckles malevolently at his expense. "Looks so much like her mother, I can hardly believe she wasn't found sooner. I wonder where she was hiding all these years..."

"I could not say, Your Majesty. But she is...exceptional among women," the Prince responds.

"None of the other Princesses have caught your fancy? I saw you speaking with that one Princess from Claiamean, and the elder Princess of Syazonia is also quite a catch." Queen Bêtel gestures across the Great Hall to the Syazonians, and indeed, one of their Princesses is extremely pretty, with fiery hair, pale skin, and smoldering dark eyes.

"Would you prefer an alliance with Syazonia to one with Vyrunia, Your Majesty?"

"Of course not. We have worked far too hard for too long to cement this alliance with Vyrunia for me to throw it away on a whim. But if you're going to make things more difficult with whimsical romantic fantasies, I'd like to know about it ahead of time."

"You need not worry about such things, Your Majesty. I have been enamored with the Vyrunian Princess since first I saw her."

"Good. Go talk to her, then. Win her over. These things don't arrange themselves, you know." Queen Bêtel moves to shove Xavier towards the Vyrunians, but he is already walking towards them, concealing his dread of speaking with Mireille again.

"Princess, ladies," he greets them as he approaches, "a pleasure to see you, as always. Your accommodations are satisfactory, I hope?"

"Most satisfactory, Your Highness," Mireille replies smoothly, her smile revealing no hint of what transpired between the two of them earlier. "You have been most gracious to us, and we thank you. It cannot be easy, arranging for the comfort of so many guests." She gestures around the Great Hall, which is by now quite full of various royals and nobles, all mingling and conversing in a cacophony of different languages.