The Society of the Eleventh Hour

This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

            I've never liked tea parties. Tea, itself, is fine— but I prefer interacting with other nobles over entertainment. It means I have to spend less time talking to people I don't particularly like, and it gives even the nastiest of us less opportunity to be cruel as they're not allowed to make themselves the sole centers of attention.

...I suppose a tea party is a better setting for a low-key investigation, however. Lucky me!

Morgan and I have been trying our best to stay out of the way of the staff as they set up the tables on the front lawn of our estate. It's a beautiful day, and we'd be foolish to not relish the last few crisp fall days before the season changes. (Up in the higher regions of the mountains, it snows practically all winter, but the town in the valley is much more temperate.)

I fuss with the hem of my dress, which is entirely proper for the occasion but suddenly feels overly formal. It's been so long since I've worn any of my nicer clothes, I feel a bit like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not.

"Do you need me to hold your parasol, madame?" Morgan teases me, as if she can somehow sense my growing discomfort.

I close the aforementioned parasol and hit her with it. She laughs at me, and attempts to snatch it away... presumably to hold it over my head like this is the dark ages and she's my lady-in-waiting.

"Do I actually look like a snob?" I ask, genuinely, after regaining my parasol through a bout of roughhousing that has made my mother glare at both us from across the courtyard. "I wouldn't want to give off that impression. This is what my mother would have chosen for this sort of event, and I trust her to know the proper thing to do, but, well... she is a bit of a snob."

Morgan smiles.

"Well..." She raises her eyebrows, pretending to cringe. " Nah, I'm kidding! You look great, Lucy— very fancy, but they're gonna love it. Anyways, why do you feel the need to impress a bunch of people who are suspected murderers?"

I frown.

"Not all of them are suspects."

"Well, I don't think you have to worry about impressing Javier either, if that's what you're worried about." Morgan rolls her eyes. "It'll be fine."

Easy for her to say. The difference between her "casual" and "formal" wear is whether or not she's wearing the black collared shirt that's got a weird spot of discoloration on it or the one that doesn't. (I'm fairly certain that the stain is blood, likely hers, that's been washed out about ten times but still remains.)

Just saying... a lot less pressure, there. And time. And money. Morgan's pretty enough that she doesn't even have to try.

    Javier and his bodyguard are among the first of the guests to arrive, and he immediately flounces over to my mother to greet her in Pieromalian, which she has to fumble to return. I know for a fact that she's not a very fluent speaker, and Javier is just enough of a jerk to use this against her. (And anyone else who shows weakness in his presence.)

    I take a seat at the head of one of the circular tables and offer Javier the place to my right. His bodyguard declines a seat entirely, opting to stand several feet away, back resting against one of my mother's immaculate weeping willow trees.

    "He does know he's welcome to stay, right? I'm sure it'd be much more pleasant..." I trail off, trying to figure out a polite way to explain to Javier that I am already aware that the guy's more than a mere bodyguard.

    To become a generation's military consultant in Pieromal, you have to be a seriously accredited scholar and individual within the armed forces. Neglecting to make Consultant Santiago welcome would be like failing to include my own general or first captain in the events. Catastrophic! Diplomatic! Failure!