16

Trevelyan bows with a wicked smile, then sweeps onward. "In any case," they say, "I hope that at this dinner, we can impress those who consider themselves our superiors with our intellect rather than groveling at their feet. Thank you."

The speech is finished. Mr. Griffith's expression is thunderous. But he hesitates, evidently weighing up whether to remove Trevelyan from the stage altogether.

You stare coolly at the stage as though Trevelyan had not spoken, and an uncertain murmur ripples around the hall. On the stage, Trevelyan hesitates.

Mr. Griffith rises, looking entirely unamused. "Indeed," he says. "Thank you, everyone. We will adjourn to the banquet hall for a short while before dinner."

The teachers rise; you file into the hall.

Next

A series of chandeliers hang high above you, laden with candles. As the candles flicker, the crystals gently sparkle. Portraits line the walls, along with a bronze plaque stretching nearly the height of the room listing the prefects of years gone by. The earliest date is several hundred years ago.

Long tables have been laid with silverware and delicately folded napkins, but the students do not sit yet; instead, they mingle in the open space, shoes lightly tapping on the parquet floor. In the gallery above, a chamber quartet plays smooth, sedate music.

While you orient yourself, Trevelyan approaches you. "Good evening, Your Highness!" they say with a short bow. "It didn't seem like you liked my speech, but it wasn't anything personal, truly. Anyway, I'm Estell Trevelyan, and I hope you'll take my comments in the spirit they were meant."

The only Estell you've ever met is Estell III, your mother. Trevelyan gives you a mulish look as though daring you to make a comment.

Trevelyan lets out a nervous laugh. "My mother's a fervent royalist," they say with the tone of someone who explains this a lot when meeting someone. "My father's more sensible. At least I didn't get saddled with Josiane, or Hugoz. No offense."

They glance over their glasses at Asher, who smiles and shakes their hand.

"Ah! You must be His Highness's guard," they say. "One of the Garnett family, if I'm not mistaken. So are you eligible to vote under the current laws? You're not titled aristocracy, are you, so I'd assume not? But you do hold hereditary positions."

Asher, who was nodding and looking pleased with Trevelyan knowing about their family, pauses. "I'm not sure?" they say. "I don't think so. But I trust Parliament to do the right thing. I'm sure they wouldn't do anything I wouldn't vote for."

Trevelyan looks entirely horrified.

Trevelyan looks unimpressed. "It's a shame you didn't think of that before."

One of the Gallatin teachers calls over to them. "Mx. Trevelyan! I'd like a word. Briefly."

Trevelyan glances over. "Mr. Griffith will want to tell me off for being too blunt, I suppose," they say. "It's a hard life. Perhaps I'll speak with you again another time."

Trevelyan arches an eyebrow. "All right, Your Highness, if you insist," they say.

The teacher coughs meaningfully, and Trevelyan melts into the crowd at her side.

Next

While you wait for dinner and Asher occupies themself speaking with one of the servants, Vere beckons you over to where she and Clemence are talking with Mr. Griffith; Mr. Griffith bows low to you.

"I apologize for Mx. Trevelyan's behavior," he says. "They'll be sanctioned appropriately."

Mr. Griffith nods. "Of course, Your Highness," he says. "I hope the rest of your evening is more enjoyable."

He half-turns, including Vere and Clemence in the conversation.

"I hope His Highness is enjoying Archambault," he says. "What are his favorite activities at the Academy?"

Vere smiles. "I think His Highness is best-placed to answer that."

"Oh! That's very gratifying," Clemence says, though Vere looks disgruntled.

"Please feel free to join the rest of the students," Mr. Griffith says. "We wouldn't want to keep you."

The teachers start discussing the implications of a new syllabus, and shortly after, a gong rings for dinner. You settle with the rest of the final-years, while Gallatin and Archambault students alike keep looking over at you and making excuses to come near.

Next

You tuck in. The first course consists of tiny plates of amuse-bouches: bitesize appetizers delicately put together. One is a cucumber mousse wrapped in paper-thin pastry, deliciously refreshing; another is a miniature samosa with a sudden burst of spice. You're tucking into the second course, a skewer of lightly charred vegetables, when you hear Javi's voice rising stridently over the buzz of conversation.

"…no, but," she's saying. When you look over, she's sitting opposite Trevelyan, leaning forward on her elbows. "The royals of Zaledo are different."

"Oh?" Trevelyan says, spearing a pepper on their fork. "As far as I'm concerned, none of you can stand the thought of losing the power that you were born to."

Javi's eyes blaze. "That's not what we do at all," she snaps. "In Zaledo, not everyone has a vote, but everyone has a day off even if they don't vote—my great-grandmother made it that way. I don't see why the Queen doesn't make that happen here, too!"

The voices around her dip, and everyone looks at you.

"How can you say that?" you snap, and Trevelyan sighs heavily. As the gong rings once more, a pair of Gallatin students in prefect uniforms sidle over to drag Trevelyan off for an intense conversation.

Next

Four tasting courses in, Asher returns to sit beside you. They sip their water, their gaze cautious and watchful.

"I'd gotten too used to Archambault," they murmur to you. "The acoustics are so different here."

Still, their eyes light up when dessert arrives. It's strawberry sorbet dusted with very fine salt and pepper, along with elderflower powder. While you tuck in, Mr. Griffith ascends the stage once more, and the music comes to a halt.

"While we finish," he says, "our finest dancer, Hyacinthe Van Clare, will entertain you."

He retreats, and the curtain smoothly rises. Silhouetted against the light is a short, muscled student in a close-fitting deep red vest and leggings. Hyacinthe Van Clare. Her steps across the stage are feather-light; as the stately music quickens, each of her movements is effortless. Between amber lights and dramatic makeup accentuating the warmth of her brown skin, she practically glows.

Some of the Gallatin students carry on eating and talking, while others stop to watch. Beside you, Asher's face is rapt as they watch.