Jenkin's fingers, usually so sure and deft, trembled as they traced the fine wool fabric of the frock coat. A lattice of moth-eaten holes marred the emerald green, each a tiny testament to neglect. Viktor's frock coat. He'd gone searching for it at the back of the closet the day after Leander insisted on wearing it, knowing it would be best to make sure all was in order long before the night in question—and all most certainly had not been in order, despite the musty smell of mothballs that lingered in the air. He had been so careful to keep it hidden away, out of sight and out of mind. But now...had he not tended the back of the closet enough? No, of course not—the evidence of that was right there in his hands. He swallowed dryly, heart as heavy as the ornate gilded mirror that reflected his stricken expression. The worst part was he could hear the prince's voice as it carried down the hall, even as he stood with the shameful evidence of his neglect.
"Shoddy light fixtures," Leander's voice echoed as he strode into the bedchamber, Shang following closely behind. "Honestly, you'd think this castle would have sturdier illumination. It's positively medieval." Although Leander's voice sounded jovial to the untrained ear, Jenkin detected the same note of melancholy he'd woken up to that morning, and inwardly shivered.
"Your Highness, rest assured, I shall look into the matter," Shang replied, deep voice rumbling.
"Jenkin?" Leander's voice cut through. "What have you got there?" Jenkin forced himself to turn around. The crown prince stood at the entrance of his bedchambers, looking every bit the image of royalty in his elegant court uniform, but like this morning, he seemed tired and...smaller, somehow. Jenkin knew he hadn't had a good night's sleep, having heard him call out the names of what he could only assume were fellow soldiers from his adjoining room. When he'd helped dress him that morning, Leander had barely even smiled, just stared at his own reflection with dark under eye circles. Jenkin knew it was already a terrible day for the prince, and it was about to get a lot worse.
"Is that Viktor's frock coat?" Frowning, Leander crossed the room and held out a hand almost imperiously for the evidence of Jenkin's folly. Mutely, Jenkin handed it to him, feeling ill. Leander held it out in front of him, light shining through the moth-eaten holes as though to taunt Jenkin. After an agonizingly long moment, he lowered it and stared at Jenkin, his eyes unreadable. "How could you let this happen?" he asked lowly, and Jenkin's heart sank even further.
"Is there a problem, your highness?" Shang asked, his hands clasped behind him.
Leander ignored the butler. "I'm waiting for an answer," he said, louder this time, the coldness of his face twisting into something so utterly full of malice that Jenkin wondered if this was what his Blienau kinsmen saw on the prince's face during battle, right before he cut them down. It was something he'd never seen before, and it chilled him to the bone.
Jenkin's heart hammered against his rib cage, a silent drumbeat of panic as he finally answered, "I-I put it away for the season...I didn't think—"
"Think!" Leander's furious voice interrupted. "Don't you dare think! I didn't hire you for your brains, and you've just proved it by ruining Viktor's coat." His face twisted into a mask of utter disgust as he spat out the last words. "You're unworthy of breathing the same air as the rest of us, you...you filthy gutterblight!"
Time froze at the slur for Jenkin, his fear of disappointing the person he cared most about turning into cold shock.
Leander was a lot of things. He was impetuous, prideful, spoiled, and occasionally selfish, but he was never cruel. He was never cruel...and yet, he had just been cruel to Jenkin. Jenkin could not have been more shocked if Leander had rushed in and dumped a bucket of ice water on him, and he would have been considerably less hurt.
Gutterblight was an old slur meant specifically for people from Blienau. Jenkin had heard it before, of course, but only from the lowest and meanest of the servants whom he worked with.
Leander whirled around and stormed out of his own bedchambers, the sound of his footsteps echoing furiously toward the gym. Jenkin remained staring forward at the space Leander had vacated as Shang watched him expressionlessly before quietly, and almost gently, closing the door.
***
Jenkin had taken a few hours off, something he'd never done in his entire life except for the time he'd sprained an ankle carrying a rather large painting of a foxhound into Leander's quarters. In his own bedroom, he paced back and forth, his mind a whirlwind after the initial daze of what just happened had worn off. Although those who didn't know him well often felt Jenkin was almost as unflappable as Shang, this couldn't be further from the truth. The truth was that he simply took longer than most to process what he was feeling, and what he was feeling was anger: anger and an ugly, burning desire for revenge that he'd never in his life felt before, not even when he was so horribly bullied. He didn't understand what was happening, this sudden flood of emotion, but he understood he needed to act. Already a plan, a wicked kernel, was starting to form in his mind.
Leander might have been a prince, but he was also a man with a voracious appetite—and Jenkin knew just how to use that to his advantage. Jenkin had always loved watching Leander eat past his limits, and he'd always loved the moaning wreck it made him, despite the fact that he had never had any desire to see the prince hurt, and certainly never by his own hand. Today was different, however. As the word "gutterblight" circled in his head, Jenkin realized with a little surprise and a small undercurrent of shame that he did want to hurt Leander.
Oh, not permanently; nothing so horrible as maiming His Royal Highness, but something...something karmic; something that Leander brought on himself. His thoughts churned like a tempest, a maelstrom of duty, resentment, and an unexamined twinge that gnawed at him and tried to get him to listen to his emotions and parse out why he was feeling this way, but he deftly ignored that last bit.
After dinner, he'd returned to his duties, moving through his tasks with mechanical precision, polishing silver buttons and brushing off Leander's dinner jacket, each movement a study in restrained efficiency, his darker emotions entirely hidden. This was something he'd gotten good at due to the bullying in his childhood.
There had been a day when Leander had been at his studies and wasn't around to protect him. He'd been set upon by several young footmen-in-training, who pushed him to the ground, swore, and spat on him. He'd long recognized that crying had only ever made things worse for him during those moments, and this time, he tried something new—imagining his emotions as a great machine cranking to a stop, its rusty gears clunking to a halt. To his surprise, it had worked wonders. It was a lot less fun to bully a machine than a pantywaist, after all, and these days, he made sure the gears were well-oiled.
"Is there anything else you require, Your Highness?" Jenkin asked as he finished, his tone devoid of emotion as Leander prepared for sleep.
"Nothing," Leander muttered, avoiding Jenkin's gaze in the ornate dressing mirror. "Good night, Jenkin."
"Good night, Your Highness." Jenkin bowed, the gesture immaculate yet devoid of any warmth. As he left the room, the door closing with a hush behind him, he could not help but feel both the sting and satisfaction of an invisible barrier erected.
That night, Jenkin perched on the edge of his bed, turning the plan forming in his mind over and over. Ever since Leander had returned from the front, he'd been different. Quicker to frustration, harsher in his judgments. The war had hardened him, and Jenkin understood that. But understanding did not remove the hurt. "Perhaps Your Highness might enjoy a special treat," he mused lowly aloud, a dangerous glint in his eye. "A few rare delicacies to tempt the palate." His heart hammered against his rib cage with the thrill of his scheme, even as guilt gnawed at its edges. He could do it. He could turn Leander's voracious appetite against him, exacting his own form of justice while potentially humiliating the prince before the entire court. It was petty, of course, but hadn't Leander's cruelty warranted some sort of retribution?
"It appears that revenge is most satisfying when it is served in large quantities and with great extravagance," he whispered, locking away his desires within the confines of his plan. The prince would get his fill, and Jenkin would savor the taste of justice, no matter how bitter it turned on his own tongue. And so, with each heartbeat echoing the caustic taste of that hateful slur, Jenkin resolved to see his plan through to fruition.
***
Throughout the next few days before the fated banquet, Jenkin turned his plan for revenge over and over in his mind. He knew what he was about to do was at the very least, shabby, and at the very worst, disgraceful; but Leander had wronged him terribly, and Leander himself knew it.
Jenkin knew he knew it, too, from the way Leander kept looking at him askance through long, mournful lashes, silent pleas for a forgiveness that the valet would not grant him unless the prince set aside his considerable ego and gave him a proper apology. Jenkin assuaged his own distressed conscience by telling himself this little plan of revenge would be good for the both of them—Leander would get the punishment he so clearly desired and deserved while Jenkin himself would get vindication and a little eye candy, to boot.
It wasn't only sad glances Leander tried. Jenkin bore witness to a marked change in Prince Leander's behavior. There was a distinct air of contrition surrounding him, opting for subtler ways of repentance than an outright "I'm sorry." He allowed Jenkin to select his outfits without complaint and complimented him on minor details, but Jenkin remained coolly professional. When Leander attempted conversation, Jenkin answered in a formal, clipped tone. He continued to serve as the ideal valet, seeing to the prince's every need, while keeping him at a distance emotionally.
"Jenkin, how about this waistcoat with the embroidered crest?" Leander asked one morning as he perused the garments laid out before him. His tone was gentle, almost pleading, but Jenkin remained unmoved by the prince's newfound deference.
"Your Highness may wear whatever pleases him," Jenkin replied indifferently, unwilling to engage in more conversation than strictly necessary. He busied himself with prepping the prince's boots, each brushstroke a silent rebuke.
"Very well," Leander sighed.
"Superb selection, Jenkin. The bow tie knot is impeccable," Leander complimented later that same day as they finished dressing for afternoon tea.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Jenkin responded curtly, sweeping away the praise like so many stray lint particles from the prince's jacket. At this point, he was annoyed; annoyed at the prince's pathetic attempts and annoyed that they were getting to him. He'd maintained the height of professionalism in all matters related to his duties, but it seemed he could not help the frostiness that had seeped into his voice.
As had become usual these days, Leander trailed behind the valet as he went about his work, peppering him with meaningless compliments.
"No one shines a boot quite like you, Jenkin." "Your skill with a clothes brush is unparalleled!" "One can only wonder at the expertise you exhibit while folding a pocket square."
Jenkin remained taciturn, keeping his responses to the bare minimum required. Inside, he seethed at the prince's transparent attempts to win back his favor. It would take more than flattery to earn his forgiveness. Still, Leander persisted, following Jenkin from room to room. "The creases on those trousers—stunning! I've never seen such attention to detail."
With a deft tug, Jenkin straightened the aforementioned trousers. His voice was cool and professional. "Thank you, Your Highness. I live to serve."
Leander opened his mouth to continue his sycophantic praise, but Jenkin cut him off. "Will there be anything else, sir?" He kept his gaze focused just past the prince's shoulder, not meeting his eye.
"Jenkin, do you...do you have any plans for the evening?" Leander ventured hesitantly, his eyes holding a quiet desperation.
"Your Highness, I have my usual duties to attend to," Jenkin replied in clipped tones, not allowing himself to be drawn into a more personal conversation. He neatly folded a handkerchief and placed it in Leander's pocket, keeping his gaze fixed on the task at hand.
"Of course," Leander murmured, disappointment evident in his voice. "Stupid of me to ask. Really, really stupid." He did not press the issue further, finally respecting the unspoken boundaries that separated them. Jenkin gave a curt nod and briskly walked away.
As he strode down the corridor, Jenkin reflected on the interaction with an odd mix of satisfaction and self-loathing. He knew that Leander was genuinely sorry for the vile slur he had uttered, but Jenkin's own stubbornness refused to let him accept anything less than a proper apology. Leander's feeble attempts would only strengthen his resolve. The prince would learn humility, even if it took an entire feast's worth of rich food to teach him.
Jenkin ignored the unease he felt at exploiting Leander's weakness—after all, he deserved to be taken down a peg. His jaw clenched with resolve as he pictured the scene that would unfold at the upcoming banquet, his petty satisfaction overshadowing any lingering guilt. Thoughts a whirlwind, Jenkin continued his preparations, and though he knew that his actions were born from a place of hurt and anger, he couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation as the day of reckoning drew near.
***
Three days before the fated banquet, Jenkin found himself pacing nervously in the castle kitchens. Despite his best efforts to remain professional, he still couldn't shake his own self-accusation. Hadn't he promised long ago, both formally and in his own heart, to be unwaveringly loyal to the prince? He was about to cross a line, he knew that; one he wasn't sure he could come back from, despite the seeming smallness of the whole affair. The worst part was he could feel Shang watching him from the corner of his eye whenever he passed by in his duties, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the disquieting butler was thinking.
Jenkin's fingers drummed against the polished mahogany desk inside the kitchen quarters, a soft accompaniment to the flickering dull electric lamp that illuminated his painstakingly crafted birthday dinner plan, a fifteen-course feast of everything Leander loved. As he stared at the list before him, his heart swelled with a mixture of vindication and trepidation, a devilish swirl of emotions. Would this truly teach Leander a lesson? Or would it only deepen the divide between them? Would Leander find out he did this? Did Jenkin care if he did?
"Indeed," Jenkin mused silently, "this shall be an education for us both." With a decisive nod, he finished signing off on the dinner plan with a flourish and stood, looking around for the head chef. To his dismay, but not his surprise, Shang materialized in front of him instead.
I trust the fare will be to His Highness's liking?" Shang inquired mildly.
Jenkin straightened his spine. "But of course. I aim to please."
Shang raised an eyebrow. "Do you? I wonder." He held out his hand.
Reluctantly, Jenkin passed over the menu. Shang perused it, his eyes lingering on each item. Jenkin did his best not to squirm in the ensuing silence, successfully resisting the urge to fidget with his cufflinks. But even with all his training as a dedicated and stoic royal valet, however, something he had always excelled at, he could not help but shift uneasily from foot-to-foot when Shang finally raised searching, soul-piercing eyes toward his face, something he was sure the maddeningly perceptive butler could not miss. Still, he stared defiantly back at Shang, ready to soldier through whatever dressing-down Shang was about to deliver.
Instead, Shang continued to slowly comb over Jenkin's face for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
That had more of an effect on Jenkin than any verbal lashing ever could have, and he struggled to swallow the thick ropes of saliva building up in his throat before straightening his posture, defying this relentless mute rebuke. He gripped his hands behind his back and channeled his own anger and pettiness, determined that they carry him through his small plan of revenge.
"Of course," Jenkin smiled coldly at Shang. "Why would I not wish to reward His Highness with all his favorite dishes on his birthday?"
His smile faltered slightly as Shang continued to examine him with his penetrating stare, but he managed to maintain it until Shang slowly folded the page and tucked it neatly into his upper jacket pocket to deliver to the kitchen staff, turning to go on his way.
Jenkin let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and walked off, forcing himself to whistle a jaunty tune.
***
Three days later, in the quiet serenity of his bedchamber, Leander, feeling nervous for reasons he could not parse, brushed his teeth again and again, giving himself gleaming smiles in the mirror that were slightly bloody around the edges.
"Your Highness," Jenkin announced with a slight bow, his voice warmer than it had been in days, "I have prepared your attire for this evening's festivities."
"Ah, Jenkin, I must say you've outdone yourself once again," Leander replied before even looking at the outfit Jenkin had laid out for him.
"If you're so convinced, why not come have a look for yourself, Your Highness?" A hint of amusement colored his voice, and Leander felt a leap of hope in his chest.
It was an intriguingly avant-garde court uniform, and Leander wondered if it weren't some strange way of replacing Viktor's old, admittedly odd, frock coat, especially with its more understated green color. The ensemble consisted of an exquisitely tailored dark velvet military-style coat with gold embroidery adorning its lapels and cuffs, along with the customary epaulets. The single-breasted bronze buttons were intricately emblazoned with the royal family's coat of arms, and beneath it was a pristine white silk waistcoat and dress shirt, also with modish snap buttons. A matching cravat added an air of sophistication. Contrasting with the dark tone of the jacket, sleek cream buttoned breeches and highly polished black riding boots completed the outfit.
"I love it, Jenkin. Truly, I do."
"Then stand straight so I can put it on you." Obediently, Leander held out his arms and watched Jenkin work, his movements practiced and fluid from years of attending to such formal affairs. For not the first time, Leander wondered—If their positions had been reversed, could he have been such an adroit and capable valet? Somehow, he doubted it.
The dress shirt and waistcoat were more form-fitting than most modern court uniforms, but not at all snug, and he smiled at the fine figure he cut in the mirror, realizing the unusual choice was indeed quite flattering. As he fastened the buttons on his waistcoat, Leander once again noticed that Jenkin seemed less cold than before. Encouraged, he gave Jenkin a hopeful smile in the mirror as Jenkin adjusted the waistcoat. Jenkin returned it with a small smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. Still, that was more than he'd gotten for days.
"Thank you, Jenkin," Leander said sincerely, hesitantly meeting his valet's gaze. "You truly are a master of your craft."
"Of course, Your Highness. It is my pleasure to serve," Jenkin replied, his tone still professional, though without the iciness that had defined it the past few days.
"Perhaps we could enjoy some time together after the banquet, like last New Year's? Go out on the town, patronize The Green Griffin—"
"It's more than likely we'll both be rather occupied after the banquet today, Your Highness," Jenkin cut in tersely, the barrier once again falling in place. Leander's face fell noticeably with no attempt to hide his pained expression, and they continued in silence as Jenkin polished up some finishing touches.
Finally, Leander could take it no more. "Jenkin," Leander began, his voice laden with hesitation, "About earlier this week—"
"Is the cravat to your liking, Your Highness?" Jenkin interjected, deflecting. He did not meet Leander's eyes, focusing instead on the intricate knot he was tying. His fingers moved with practiced precision, but the silk felt like thorns against Leander's skin.
"It's fine. About what I said—"
"We can always try another color, or try it with a barrel knot."
"Damn the cravat," Leander snapped, tearing it off his throat and slamming it on the desk. Jenkin stepped back and eyed him expressionlessly. Leander sighed then, his frustration deflating. "I...it was out of line, what I said." The words hung between them, stilted and incomplete. A real apology teetered on the edge of Leander's tongue, yet once again, pride held it back, turning it into a festering regret that tainted the air.
Instead of acknowledging his words, Jenkin simply picked the cravat back up off the desk and carefully retied it. "You look quite dashing, Your Highness," Jenkin said with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker. Leander groaned inwardly and stood, ready for the beautiful single-breasted green coat that now seemed to be a mockery to him rather than any attempt at reconciliation.
Jenkin carefully fastened each jacket button, and unlike the waistcoat, the jacket felt just a little snug across his chest, but looking in the mirror, Leander saw that nothing looked amiss. It was probably just how these latest fashions fit.
Once more, Leander tried to mend the bridge between them, his mind racing for the right words to say. He knew he was unable to apologize directly—the words stuck to his tongue and coated the back of his throat—but he could always offer a small gesture of gratitude. "Jenkin," Leander began softly, his eyes fixed on the valet's hands as they smoothed out imaginary creases in his jacket before finally attaching Leander's war medals to his breast. "I know I've not always been...the ideal prince, and especially not to you. But I want you to know that despite...despite whatever words might have been said, I don't view you—I could never view you—as my enemy, as the people I fought in the war. Just because I—just because name-calling happened..." he swallowed thickly, examining Jenkin's impassively iron countenance in the mirror, "doesn't mean I don't know that you have never been anything but unwaveringly loyal to me. And I do truly admire you. You have always been there for me, through thick and thin, and I cannot imagine navigating the treacherous waters of court life without you by my side, always making sure I'm at my best and shielding me from the worst those nobles have to offer."
He looked at Jenkin with shining eyes as the half-apology turned into true sentiment, realizing that at this moment, it didn't matter if Jenkin forgave him or not—he just wanted him to know what a true friend he'd always been to him. Whatever he expected from Jenkin's reaction, however—anger or a slight softening—was not what he received. Jenkin's hands had frozen at the last half of the speech, then began to shake, and then as Leander watched him, he turned away sharply, as though he'd been slapped. "Don't," Jenkin said through gritted teeth, then clapped a hand over his mouth, as though to keep more unwanted words from spilling out. Leander had never seen his normally unflappable valet in such a state.
"Don't? Don't what? Jenkin, what's wrong? You seem—" he reached out to touch Jenkin, who jerked away like he'd been stung. Concerned, Leander watched him wrap his arms around his torso in a self-hug, wishing he could see his face, but when Jenkin turned back around, his face was as placid as ever.
"I apologize for my brief outburst, Your Highness," Jenkin said mildly.
"No need," Leander said uncertainly. "Are—"
"Shall we attend the banquet?"
"Of course."
***
As they entered the grand banquet hall, reserved only for these very special occasions, both took in the opulence of their surroundings. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting scenes from Osring's storied past. Gilded chandeliers cast a warm glow over the assembly below, where guests milled about in elegant attire, their laughter and conversation blending into a symphony of celebration. Usually, Leander's heart would swell with pride at such a scene, acutely aware of the role he played in this display of wealth and power. This time, however, a pang of longing tugged at his chest as he glanced at Jenkin.
"Your Highness, if you would kindly take your seat," Jenkin murmured, gesturing towards the slightly more private area that Shang had indicated near the end of the banquet hall. Leander was used to being the center of attention at these events, but today, he was thankful for it.
"Ah, yes, thank you, Jenkin," Leander replied, offering a grateful smile before taking his place among the assembled nobility.
Although Queen Irida was not present for the banquet, her influence was unmistakable. Many noble young ladies graced the hall, each one a potential suitress for Leander, whose attention they sought to capture with coy smiles and fluttering eyelashes.
"Quite the gathering," Leander mused aloud, his gaze flickering over the sea of beautiful faces. He smiled charmingly at a few of the women, who blushed and hid their faces behind ostrich-feathered fans.
"Indeed," Jenkin agreed curtly, ever the professional, as he stood resolutely behind Leander, ready to serve at a moment's notice. Behind the facade, however, Jenkin's eyes scanned the room, taking in the glittering chandeliers, the richly upholstered chairs, and the lavish flower arrangements. It was all so familiar to him, yet he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. He knew what was coming, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake, a feeling probably brought on by Leander's earlier words. He bucked himself up by remembering Leander's half-attempted apology. Besides, even a real one could hardly stop what was about to happen, he thought grimly.
Leander, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. He greeted guests with warmth and enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling with excitement. It was quite annoying, yet Jenkin remained watchful, his thoughts a whirlwind of conflict as he witnessed the joy of the prince he admired so deeply—and whom he sought to humiliate.
It took all of Jenkin's training as valet not to jump when he glanced over and saw Shang beside him, staring at him intensely. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Shang said lowly, no humor in his words. "Is there something bothering you?"
Jenkin bit back a retort about 'Creepy, interfering butlers' and instead answered calmly, "Nothing other than the usual worry of things not going to plan."
Shang's piercing gaze bore into Jenkin, unyielding and intense. His voice remained steady, laced with a hint of concern. "You forget, Jenkin, that a valet's role extends beyond just planning. It is your duty to ensure the well-being of the one you serve."
This put Jenkin on the defensive, and he smiled icily in response. "I assure you, Shang, I have no idea what you're implying. My loyalty—no, my very honor—belongs solely to the prince."
"Indeed," Shang said, his eyes never leaving Jenkin's face as he continued to comb over it with unnerving intensity. "But we must always consider the consequences of our actions, even when our intentions are...honorable." Shang observed impassively as Jenkin's mouth twitched in response.
Glancing away, Jenkin realized he had misplaced Leander, and his eyes searched desperately over the crowd, anything to extricate himself from the butler's shrewd stare. His eyes finally settled on the prince who was currently engaged in conversation with a group of young ladies. They tittered and giggled, hanging on his every word. Jenkin fought back a sneer; he knew all too well how easily Leander could charm those around him, and there would be no polite way of commanding his attention.
As the chatter and laughter continued to fill the air, Jenkin's anxiety grew. Leander was completely engrossed in conversation, his infectious laughter mingling with the melodious strains of live music drifting from a nearby quartet. It seemed as though he had forgotten about the impending feast altogether.
He caught snippets of Leander's conversation, words like "jovial," "splendid," and "exquisite" floating through the air like delicate melodies. Each compliment elicited a radiant smile from Leander and sent flutters of excitement through the hearts of his admirers. Jenkin's gaze darted once more to Shang, who stood tall and immovable beside him, his stoic expression giving away nothing. The weight of Shang's words still hung heavy in the air as Jenkin pondered their meaning. A valet's duty extended beyond planning and organization—it encompassed the well-being of the one they served. The reminder tugged uselessly at Jenkin's conscience.
Just as Jenkin was about to summon up the courage to extricate himself from Shang's watchful presence and attempt to divert Leander's attention, a servant glided onto the stage and rang a tinkling bell, announcing the first course was about to be served. Leander's head turned abruptly at the sound, his eyes widening with childlike glee. The ladies around him faltered mid-sentence, their attention momentarily stolen by the sight of the prince's sudden excitement. Jenkin couldn't help but feel a swell of satisfaction wash over him as he watched Leander gracefully extricate himself from the sea of adoring fans, his charming smile never fading.
With swift and purposeful steps, Leander made his way back towards his seat, and Shang, thankfully, had stepped off to perform his own duties.
"A glass of wine, Your Highness?" Jenkin offered, his voice steady in spite of it all.
"Thank you," Leander replied, accepting the goblet with a gracious nod.
As the news had gone out beforehand, the words "fifteen-course dinner" were on the lips of many a guest, always impressed by the decadence of the royal family, although in truth, these occasions came only one or two times a year for a reason—Osring was a small country, and the royal family had certain measures in place to keep from bankrupting the realm as a few predecessors had. Indeed, on occasion, they had gone without royal banquets at all several times in the past—it all depended on the state of the coffers—but thankfully, this was not such a lean year.
"Ah, the wonders of a multi-course meal," Leander mused, imagining the gastronomic delights to come. "Such a delight for the senses, don't you agree?"
"Indeed, Your Highness," Jenkin replied, his voice carefully neutral as he inwardly smoldered with anticipation. He knew well how these banquets were designed to work—guests were not expected to partake of every course, but rather to sample here and there, mingling and enjoying the entertainment on offer between bites. Yet unbeknownst to Leander, Jenkin's plan would keep the prince firmly rooted to his seat all night.
"Your seating arrangement is quite unique this evening, Your Highness," Jenkin remarked, observing how Shang had positioned Leander in a more private area toward the end of the banquet hall. It was an unusual placement for the man of honor, yet the nobles around them seemed to approve, whispering that it would allow Leander to better acquaint himself with the bevy of young ladies in attendance.
"Shang must have thought it best for whatever reason," Leander said, attempting nonchalance, though his eyes betrayed a hint of nervous excitement. "Who am I to question such wisdom?"
Jenkin managed a tight-lipped smile, his mind warring between the desire for revenge and the knowledge that he held the power to potentially ruin a rare moment of happiness for the prince. As Leander engaged in animated conversation with a particularly charming young lady, he observed the prince's hopeful expression with a mixture of amusement and grim resolve, determined to carry out his revenge despite the lingering guilt.
"Perhaps some ice water with your wine, Your Highness?" he offered with a practiced air of professionalism, his heart twisting in his chest as Leander gratefully accepted the glass.
"Thank you, Jenkin," Leander said, smiling down at his glass of water. "I don't know what I would do without you."
He looked sidelong at Jenkin, who gave him an inscrutable look before stepping back with a short bow.
"Enjoy the banquet, Your Highness," Jenkin said tonelessly.