A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  He was being selfish, and for a very simple reason. He’d never had someone ask him to do something simple like deliver a dish of food; no one would ask such a thing of a prince—not unless they wanted to be shamed. The demands usually made of him were much more strenuous and always came with a price, no matter how deferential the person was when they asked. Naledi had ordered him to do something without blinking, without a hint of brownnosing, and he found that he wanted her to do it again.

  Likotsi drew herself back in horror. “You wish to engage in deception! By Ingoka, goddess of truth and virtue, I cannot allow it.”

  Thabiso dropped his gaze to the ground, not because he was ashamed but because he had long ago learned how to bypass his assistant’s innate sense of honor. He caught her eye and grinned at her, then glanced around the room conspiratorially.

  “Why Likotsi . . . don’t you wish to solve the mystery of the missing matrimonial match? To discover why her parents abandoned their lives, friends, and family? Why they fled from their duties and her birthright?”

  “Well . . . yes.” Some of the stiffness went out of Likotsi’s shoulders.

  “And do you think if I tell her who I am, she’ll just reveal that secret? Especially in light of her response to your email campaign?”

  Likotsi paused, pursed her lips. “Perhaps not.”

  “Then it is settled. I can get close to her through this job and find out her secrets. It will be an undercover adventure, like in the Suncatcher novels of our youth!”

  Just then, a lanky young man walked into the dining room, his hoodie and faded jeans indicating he was a student. He hesitated and, seeing no one else around, turned to Thabiso and Likotsi.

  “Hey. I’m Jamal. I’m supposed to start working here this afternoon? Sorry I’m late. My train was stuck in a tunnel for like forty-five minutes. You know how it is.”

  Ah. The source of their misunderstanding—and the man who had allowed him to gain closer access to his betrothed. The priestesses often said that Ingoka took many forms to shepherd believers onto their true path. Thabiso took such sayings with a grain of salt, but perhaps Jamal was one of these shepherds.

  “The position has already been filled, Jamal,” Thabiso declared. “But you will be reimbursed for making your way here. Likotsi, please pay him for his troubles.” He glanced at the kitchen doors, through which Naledi could emerge at any moment. “Outside.”

  “Wait. Hold up!” Jamal said, taking a step forward in protest. “You can’t just go back on your word. I need this job, man.”

  The pleading in the man’s voice took Thabiso by surprise—who would be so upset over the loss of such trivial work? But then Thabiso remembered the charts about joblessness in American youth that he had studied; jobs were not plentiful in this country, and colleges were not free or affordable as they were in civilized nations like Thesolo.

  “Give him fifteen thousand dollars,” Thabiso said, his gaze still on the kitchen. “Twenty. Just do it away from here.”

  Jamal stood still, mouth wide-open. The hands he’d thrown up in annoyance dropped to his sides and smacked against his jeans. “That isn’t funny.” His brow creased. “You serious?”

  “You question my honor?” Thabiso asked, slitting his gaze toward Jamal.

  “People don’t go around slinging cash like this. Is this a joke or . . .”

  “If you want the money, follow Likotsi and she will give it to you.”

  Thabiso could tell Likotsi didn’t approve of this expenditure. “Your Hi—”

  “I’ve spent more on shoes and you’ve said nothing. Get the young man his money and I will see you at the hotel tonight.”

  She gave a brusque nod and made for the exit with Jamal quick on her heels.

  “Thank you?” he called out over his shoulder.

  Thabiso headed back to the kitchen, to Naledi. He’d been training to run an entire country for most of his life. How hard could serving dinner be?

  Chapter 6

  Serving was hell.

  Thabiso had thought he was fit and had stamina, but he was drenched in sweat, he’d pulled something in his back while attempting to lift a heavy tray, and he was ready to throw in the towel on this little scheme.

  Perhaps I didn’t think this through.

  The initial setting up had gone well. He knew what a proper place setting looked like—the fastest way to expose one’s gaucheness was to pick up the wrong utensil, and all fine dining setting configurations had been drilled into him. He’d basked in Naledi’s praise as he’d swiftly laid down silverware as she put out the glassware. They’d worked smoothly, in tandem. Her arm had kept brushing against his as she reached past him to place a wineglass here or a bread plate there—he’d never realized how much grace there was in such work—and it had felt like some kind of choreographed dance.

  She hadn’t said much about herself as they’d worked, and had politely rebuffed any attempt at chitchat related to her personal life. He didn’t know where she lived, where she’d grown up, what school she went to, or whether she was dating anyone, but he learned all about the history of the Institute and the scientific advances that had taken place there.

  “The people who eat here can be kind of strange, but some of them have made incredible discoveries in their research,” she’d said, something like awe in her voice. “Years of study and focus—obsession—on one crazy specific thing, all for the nearly impossible goal of changing the world.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” he’d asked. “Change the world?”

  She’d lost a bit of her enthusiasm then. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be in a position to do that, with my work. Besides, in this work, you’re usually reliant on someone else with money or power, and I’ve seen how they operate—cutting the funding of important research, or trying to make money instead of helping people. It’s like they forget that out of everyone in the world, they’ve been trusted to do what’s right.”

  She’d gazed at him with clear emotion in her eyes, then a few blinks and it was gone. Not gone—hidden.

  “Do you think it’s easy, having such power?” he’d asked. He was truly curious, and it was perhaps the first time he could get an honest answer without having his royal title taken into account.

  Ledi had laughed. “Easy? That depends. If you want to use your power to exploit people and gain personal wealth, then yes it’s pretty easy. But if you want to change the world for the better . . .”

  “Not so easy,” he’d said. He knew that to be true. He’d thought of the countless meetings where his initiatives were shot down, called wastes of money. He had the same education, more, than his ministers, but he was the Playboy PanAfrique, after all. Sometimes he still pushed for things. But more often than not, he gave in. Giving in was easier, and he wondered if it wasn’t worse than exploiting. That was at least taking action; he’d grown complacent.

  She’d shrugged, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m going to go fill the water pitchers while you finish up here.”

  It was when the guests had arrived that everything went downhill. There had been no further getting to know his betrothed—from that point on Thabiso was simply trying to survive.

  He had been to countless catered events; they made up a good portion of his meals when he was away from Thesolo, and at home when they had functions for visiting dignitaries. He knew the drill from the guest side: mingle, have a drink or two, then everyone is seated, and the food is brought out course by course. Thabiso had never thought about the logistics of this, though. It had just worked, in the same way that his watch ticked along without him thinking of the gears. The gears were quite important, it turned out.

  Plating up food correctly and serving it to the right person without error was not quite as simple as he’d imagined. Ledi and her chef, a grumpy Swiss guy who reminded Thabiso of his former headmaster, had already prepared the salads, so it had just been a matter of carrying out large, oval trays of them and handing out the plates. After the
first tray Thabiso tried to heft onto his shoulder went crashing to the ground, Ledi had flashed him an understanding smile and handed him two plates; one for each hand.

  “I’ll carry the trays tonight,” she said. “Just grab plates from mine and things will go smoother.”

  Things did not go smoother.

  Thabiso managed to elbow one attendee in the ear and learned that “get it yourself” was not an acceptable answer when a guest asked for something, even if you were clearly busy.

  Next, they’d had to help the chef do up the dinner plates, which had been another exercise in humiliation. He’d thought he had an eye for design but while Naledi’s plates had looked like dishes from a trendy restaurant, Thabiso couldn’t get his vegetables to cooperate and his plates were smudged and splattered with sauces and jus.

  Is this what happens in the kitchen at every function I’ve attended? he’d asked himself. He’d never given much thought to how dish after dish came from the kitchen, perfectly presented. It had just always been so, no matter where he traveled. It seemed impossible that so much work went into making a plate of food that was about to be masticated look like a piece of artwork.

  He’d also failed on the serving front. Naledi whirled through the crowd of people who planted themselves in her path like stubborn donkeys, tray balanced on hands that seemed too small and wrists too thin to support its weight. His own hands shook as he lowered plates to tables, and he’d slid a portion of salmon in a butter thyme reduction right into a guest’s lap.

  Naledi refilled water from a pitcher with one hand and poured wine with another, without spilling a drop. The front of Thabiso’s shirt was splashed with a middling pinot noir.

  Worst of all, the interest and respect that had flashed in her eyes earlier in the night had all but disappeared, replaced with disappointment and fatigue.

  “Oh my!” A woman shouted as an ice cube bounced off the rim of her glass and into her cleavage as he refilled her cup.

  Thabiso debated what to do. He’d removed the salmon from the man’s lap earlier. Was he supposed to retrieve the ice? Naledi slid in front of him before he could act, smoothly grabbing the pitcher and filling the woman’s glass without incident.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Here’s a fresh napkin for you to dry off with.” She turned to him with a grimace distorting those lovely lips. He knew he was making her job harder, but it galled to see her look at him like he was a worm that had slithered to the surface during a heavy rain.

  “Jamal, can you come with me for a minute?” she said, placing a hand on his arm and guiding him back into the kitchen. Her touch felt good, even though he knew what was coming. If anyone in his employ had made even one of the errors he’d made, they would have been out of a job and likely banned from working anywhere else in the kingdom once word of their ineptitude spread.

  Ineptitude? If that was the word springing to his mind, what must she think of him?

  The back of his neck tingled with warmth. What was this sensation that made him want to hide his deficiencies away where Naledi couldn’t see them? He passed a stainless steel fridge and his hunched shoulders and deferential expression shocked him. He recognized what he was feeling then; he’d seen it in so many people he’d dismissed from his presence over the years. It was shame.

  He was a Moshoeshoe. Shame was not supposed to be in his range of emotions. Would she dare to point out his weaknesses, this woman who had abandoned her duties and denied him the path laid down for him by the goddess? Everything in him bristled, ready to lash out at her in a preemptive strike. Let her try to belittle him. He’d tell her how she demeaned herself like a common peasant. He’d tell her exactly what orifice she could place any of her critiques of him. He was a prince, damn it.

  Her hand lingered on his arm, warm through the material of the cheap tuxedo shirt, then slipped away. She looked up at him, brow wrinkled, but instead of a reprimand, Naledi gave a fatigued laugh, the sound almost drowned out by the noise of an oven vent. It wasn’t fake or forced or condescending. In fact, it was comforting.

  She grabbed a cupcake from a picked-over dessert tray and handed it to him.

  “Are we allowed to eat this?” he asked. “Is this not stealing?”

  “It’ll go in the garbage if we don’t eat it. I try to take leftovers and give them to the homeless when I can. It’s technically illegal, but I hate seeing good food thrown away.”

  “Oh.” Thabiso never gave much thought to waste. He was used to having too much to eat, to taking a few bites and waiting for the plate to be taken away and the next dish to arrive. He took a bite of the cupcake.

  “So, I’m starting to think maybe you lied on your résumé,” she said as she chewed.

  Actually, I only lied about my identity. I’m sure Jamal’s résumé is correct.

  “It seems I am not fit to complete the tasks you have given me,” he said. His body was suddenly tense—his response had unwittingly echoed the one he’d given his mother just the week before.

  “Whether you believe you are capable or not does not matter my son. You are the heir to the throne. The sole heir.”

  That had been a less encouraging response than Thabiso would have liked.

  “It’s okay. Shit happens,” Naledi said.

  “No,” he said. His fist closed around the cupcake and a few crumbs dropped to the floor. “You do not understand. Failure is not an option for me. I should be able to do this easily, and yet I have done nothing but make a mess. You have lost your confidence in me.”

  My people will lose their confidence in me.

  “Look, stop stressing yourself out, okay? It’s not that deep.” She took a bite of her cupcake. “I’m in grad school right now. For epidemiology.”

  “You wish to help people with skin problems?” he asked, glad that she was finally opening up to him. “Yours is quite beautiful, so—”

  She sighed. “No, that’s dermatology. Epidemiology is a public health field. I study infectious diseases.”

  “Why?” he asked quickly. This was the first thing she was purposefully revealing and he didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

  “When disease strikes, it’s always the most vulnerable populations that are hit hardest. I want to do research that helps make the world safer for them.”

  She said it like it was a simple thing. Thabiso’s grandest wishes were to be left to his own devices for just a few hours and to have a good glass of scotch, in that specific order. He had been born with the task of saving his people; Ledi had too, according to the priestesses, but she didn’t know that.

  “So you do want to save the world,” he said. “That is quite honorable.”

  “It’s a job,” she said, smoothly dodging his praise. “But that’s not my point. So I’m a research assistant in a lab, too, when I’m not working here. I’ve been doing this since undergrad, and the first lab I ever worked at was studying the spread of venereal diseases. One day, after pulling three all-nighters in a row to study, I was asked by one of my postdocs to transfer some samples of gonorrhea. I was totally out of it and dropped the samples all over myself while not wearing protective gear.”

  “Oh,” Thabiso said. Americans were known for oversharing, but he didn’t know why she chose this particular moment to disclose such personal information to him. It was odd, but admirable he supposed.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I know these diseases carry a stigma, but it is nothing to be ashamed of.” He’d been giving that speech to teenagers since he was a teenager himself and the face of Thesolo’s youth sexual health education campaign. It had been his first initiative, back when he hadn’t been completely weighed down by his role.

  Naledi gave him a strange look. “It wasn’t contagious, Jamal, though I appreciate your support. I didn’t know that, though. I freaked out and activated the emergency shower, getting water everywhere in the process. I shorted out the centrifuge and ruined experiments that had been weeks and months in the making.”

  Thabiso
suppressed a smirk, imagining the woman before him, who seemed so in control of her surroundings, flailing about and wreaking havoc. “Perhaps you’ve chosen the wrong profession? You’re quite good at serving. It might be a better path for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “If you have a choice, why choose to do something you aren’t good at?” he asked, and that didn’t seem to improve her mood.

  “Who said I wasn’t good at it?”

  Sweat began to form on Thabiso’s temples. “No. Just. I mean . . . why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know,” Ledi said, tone short, then shook her head. “I guess the point was that people mess up sometimes? I’m an amazing lab assistant now. So amazing that my postdoc wants me to do all his work for him.” Her brow creased in consternation for a moment, then she met his gaze. “It’s not your fault that we’re understaffed and you don’t have a chance to get trained in an easier situation. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

  He had not been expecting this. He’d been a thorn in her side the entire night and she had given him cupcakes and a gonorrhea anecdote and support. She was looking at him, Thabiso, at his very worst, and telling him that she believed in him.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice low and rough. The cupcake must have been dry.

  She smiled and patted him on the arm. “Look, just hang back for now. Maybe you can help with something that doesn’t require touching the food or interacting with customers, like . . . changing the burner under the chocolate fondue? It was pretty low last time I checked. Ask Chef Yves to give you a new burner and a lighter. Can you do that?”

  It was somewhat comforting for someone to ask if he could do something in such a tone. She was doubtful, but throwing her support behind him anyway. At home, no one was allowed to doubt whether a prince was capable of something—not even the prince himself. Her lack of surety made him all the more eager to please her.

  “Of course I can do that,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll go do a round and make sure the guests are okay.”