Page 194 of Nine-Tenths
"He's really not," Dav chuckles, sniffling wetly.
"Hey, hey, babe." I hold out my arms so he can bury his face against my neck, and squeeze my ribs. "It's okay, don’t cry."
"I'm so happy," Dav says, and I can't help the tears that spring into my own eyes.
It's fine though, because everyone else is already crying, and like, shit.
Yeah.
This is awesome.
It's even awesomer when a courier arrives a few hours later with a gift from Onatah—an entire boxful of baby-sized novelty socks.
The summons to court comes four days later.
Carys is laying on a play mat in the nursery, and I am totally laying beside her to get the perfect Tummy Time Selfies to send home to Mum, Gem, and Stu. Her face has started to look less squashed and more baby-plump. She's got her wings popped and it's the cutest damn thing. I can appreciate when my sister-in-law is being fucking adorable, okay? And I'm allowed to touch a dragon this young, which is nice because it means I get to play with her as much as everyone else.
"Two days from now," Dav says, coming into the nursery from where he'd gone downstairs to accept a letter addressed to him. It's old fashioned, hand-written and sealed with wax, and must have been hand-delivered. I give it a read over, then hand it to Owain, who has followed him up.
"They're giving you an audience?" Owain says.
"The throne is willing to hear us out. We'll speak to the queen first, and if she approves, we'll present to the Court of Peers."
Having little-to-no experience with royalanything,I ask, "So this is like a really fancy thesis presentation?"
Owain snorts so loud, Carys jolts and stares up at him with wide, scared eyes.
"Oh, no, cariad," Dav says, scooping her up before she can begin to wail, cuddling her close. "No monsters here."
"Me, a monster," Owain repeats, sarcastically. "Honestly."
I take the letter back, and read it again. "So, okay, an hour with the queen and if things go well, two hours with the peers. That's… not a lot. But I'm the champion of distilling a couple hundred pages of science gobbledygook into a compelling powerpoint. I just gotta… call Pedra. And finish that powerpoint. And, um, write a couple of abstracts. Like. Right now."
"Make sure you leave time for a fitting or two," Dav says as I pull myself up.
"Fitting?"
"It says court attire," Dav says. "My court suit is quite out of date, and we haven't had yours made up yet."
"Court attire," I repeat. "Like… ermine cloaks, and crap?"
Owain grimaces ruefully. "Afraid so."
"Right, okay, fittings," I mutter to myself. "Fittings, and power points, and physical copies in case there's no smartboard..." I pop up to my feet, and ruffle Carys' bright orange hair before doing the same to Dav. "I have work to do."
I’m so into my head about the whole thing that I nearly trip down the stairs.
Colin the disaster academic is back.
As a reader of historical romance, I know all about symbolism and the rigidity of Attire Laws as laid down by Elizabeth Regina. But as I prefer the historicals, it means I don't have much of an idea of what to expect in a twenty-first century Court Suit. My brain had flashed to ostrich plumes, wide panniers, capes with massive trains, and skin-tight buff-coloured breeches.
What I get is, I gotta be honest, ten times better.
And thank fuck, alotmore modern.
The morning of the audience, I'm in the foyer double checking the files, hand-outs, data sticks, and other assorted accouterments that I've stashed in the obscenely tasteful emerald-coloured leather briefcase that had appeared in our rooms. It matches my equally obscenely tasteful emerald velvet suit jacket—the cut resembles a modern blazer, though it still has the posture-improving old-fashioned back-set shoulders of Regency fashion. I talked the tailor out of going all-green, and opted instead for black trousers with a subtle pattern of Tudor roses, and a matching waistcoat. There's an emerald neck-cloth to go with it, but I've got it tucked into my pocket. In part because I have no clue how to tie it. But also because I'm currently drinking coffee and the last thing I want to do is drip.
Dragon-roastedcoffee.
