kitchen_maid | Tea with Caspian

The day has passed in a steady stream of meetings and appointments and "just a minute of your time, please, Your Majesty." (It's never just "a minute." And if someone asks for "a few minutes," it's going to be at least half an hour.)

But when you move the whole Royal Family, with bag and baggage and a dozen guests, into a palace they've not visited formally in years, there are a lot of people who are going to want to meet with the Queen about things. Even if it's just to hear that, yes, Her Majesty is very pleased with the way things have been done or maintained or improved since last she saw them.

Sir Gareth, the Master of the Household of Silverhall Palace, takes up most of the afternoon. Amy likes him, he's a kind and genial but remarkably orderly and efficient man, but he does like to talk, and he is exceedingly fond of detail.

Amy sinks back in her chair with a bit of a sigh when he finally leaves. That's done, then. It should all be done.

There's a knock at the door. Amy automatically straightens back up in her chair before she announces, "Enter."

"Your Majesty." Her secretary, Duncan, appears in the doorway. "Your next appointment is here."

"I thought Gareth was the last, Duncan."

"No, Your Majesty."

Amy looks at the clock on the far side of the parlor. It's half four. She probably shan't get any time at all to herself today.

"Very well," Amy says, with a bit of a sigh that draws no reaction from Duncan (who is, after all, quite accustomed to working with Her Majesty. "Show him in."

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"I wouldn't dream of it," he promises. "Not even to suggest that she might use the time to have a nice cup of tea and take a day for herself."

Marta is far too like his good old Nurse for him to even suggest hurting her feelings in such a way.

"I must say, though, that I'm very much looking forward to the tour of the ship."

Just a bit.

He may have been poring over the plans with Perry whenever the chance arises.

In the grand total of seven minutes that chance has arisen?

"I thought you might be," Amy says.

"I'm rather looking forward to it myself.

"Even if it is going to call for a crown."

Probably one of the heavy ones.

Not, honestly, that Amy owns any light ones.

It was quick poring.

"Perhaps it won't take long," he suggests, without much optimism.

"Or you could take it off mid-way through. You might be a bit hard to see with all those people there. We could run some sort of interference."

Amy laughs.

"I'll be standing on a specially built platform, smashing a bottle of champagne across the hull," she says. "If people can't see me, we'll have planned it very badly indeed.

"I suppose there's a chance people will keep their remarks short . . ." she adds, without any more optimism than he expressed on the subject.

"I meant after that," he points out, grinning over his tea, "but I suppose you're simply stuck with it."

There isn't anything he can say about the comments being short that wouldn't be a flat-out lie, so he only shakes his head, smile rueful, and sips at his tea.

"It's all good and well for you," Amy says. "You're retired royalty."

Amy is still very much active duty.

And it's not really a nine to five job.

"Ah, well. At least it'll be a chance to be outdoors and not stuck in a drawing room or a carriage."

Silver linings.

"Come now," he coaxes. "You don't dislike it all that much."

It's true, of course, that there are a lot of frustrations that go along with the pomp and glitter and the appearance of it all, but those things are trappings for a reason.

"We'll hope for nice weather, at the very least."

"I don't dislike it at all, really," Amy says.

She's very good at being a Queen. It's ever so much more interesting and useful than being a seventh (Ordinary) princess.

Her smile wrinkles up her nose.

"It still doesn't make crowns comfortable."

"Nothing does, I'm afraid," he says, with an answering smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes.

"Though padding might help. They're just so deucedly heavy."

"If only we could bring Royal Straw Hats into fashion somehow," Amy says.

She's not loving her chances on that.

"Speaking of which, the Royal Hatter and Milliner should be along to see you and Marian at some point. Hats are always worn for ship christenings."

And wait till Caspian sees the current fashion in hats in Ambergeldar . . .

There's a certain tone Amy gets, when she knows something he doesn't, and though in general it is rarely bad, it is often something he wished he'd known about, too.

"All right," he says, a little warily. "What sort of hats?"

Occasions requiring hats, in his experience, tend to be Occasions requiring Hats, after all.

In retrospect, the crown, at least, was fairly tasteful.

Amy's grey-brown eyes are very innocent over the rim of her teacup.

"Fashionable ones, of course."

Caspian doesn't think the Royal Hatter would have anything less than the Height of Ambergeldan Fashion, does he?

Yes. That particular look, that often goes with the particular tone.

And the very tiny smile that keeps appearing.

"Oh, naturally," he says, dry. "One would hope they'd be the height of fashion."

Hats, though...well, they are sometimes useful. Shading one's eyes, and whatnot, but he's never really been one to wear them.

"All right. There's plenty of time tomorrow to see them. Perhaps in the morning."

"I'm sure he'll have something to suit you perfectly," Amy says, with an almost completely straight face.

(She could make it a completely straight face -- she's the Queen of Ambergeldar, and she can be completely unreadable when she needs to be . . . but wherever is the fun in that?)

"This has been the loveliest break, Caspian. Thank you. I quite needed it."

Besides, it wouldn't make Caspian nearly as nervous.

"No doubt," he agrees, in a tone which could very well mean quite the opposite, but his gray eyes are laughing.

"You're quite welcome. I'm simply glad they were able to squeeze me in."

He'd never have done it if her schedule was absolutely immovable, but, well...even a Queen ought to be able to have a quiet teatime once in a while.

Tea with Caspian

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