Special Deceptions (The Coursodon Dimension Book 5)

by M. L. Ryan

  Pixie crossed his arms and scowled at the spot where my shoes touched the low, glass-topped table.

  For fuck’s sake, no one else is here to see the horror that was my shoes on the furniture. I flipped them off—the shoes, not Pixie, although I considered it—and rested my now-bare feet in the same spot. “Better?”

  “Of course not,” he sputtered. “I’m not sure which is less sanitary, the shoes in which you traipsed around the village, or the feet that were encased by them.” He shuddered as he said the last part, pulled what looked like a tiny pack of diaper wipes from his pocket, and handed a sheet to me.

  I’d move my feet, but there was no way in hell I was about to sanitize. “It’s not like I’m asking you to eat off it,” I griped, balling up the moist towelette and lobbing it toward him.

  Pixie threw his arms over his head and began muttering in Courso. I definitely heard, “unladylike” and “rather live on the streets.” I assumed he referred to my less-than-cultured ways, but I wondered if he needed this job more than for a simple feather in his cap.

  This is so not working, I thought, closing my eyes and counting to ten. I didn’t want to make a social faux pas and embarrass Alex or his family, which meant I had to rely on Pixie to guide me along, at least for now. While I didn’t particularly like Pixie, I didn’t want him to lose his position if it meant he might be homeless.

  “Look,” I said, resigned to what I was about to suggest. “We’re stuck with each other. You think I’m an insolent commoner with no style or class, and I think you’re an OCD stuffed shirt who gets off on bossing people around.”

  “Don’t forget pig-headed,” he interrupted.

  “Huh?”

  “You are also stubborn to a fault.”

  Could he be more OCD? “Fine. We’ll add stubborn to my list, but I get to include pompous to yours.”

  He nodded his agreement, and I continued my speech.

  “Now that we have our personality quirks carefully spelled out, I’ll make you an offer. I’ll try to act more like a proper gryndin lypsemma, if you’ll make an attempt to be less of a jerk.” I almost used, “douche bag,” but I thought jerk sounded classier.

  Pixie inclined his head as he considered the terms. “You have an agreement,” he affirmed after a minute.

  I reached out to shake on our deal, but he balked at touching my outstretched hand.

  “It’s okay. I washed it this week,” I teased.

  Reluctantly, he grasped my palm. Well, grasped might have been a bit of an overstatement, but I was pretty sure our skin touched, if only for a second.

  “Great,” I continued. “So what do I need to know about tonight?”

  Pixie grinned, and I hoped I hadn’t just made a pact with the devil.

  7

  By the time the manicurists, hair stylists, and makeup artists had left and I’d been zipped into my gown, Pixie went over everything I needed to know to not make an ass of myself at the night’s festivities. I didn’t absorb each detail; I’d never been much of a crammer when it came to studying, particularly esoteric minutia I couldn’t imagine actually needing to know. While some of the PA’s advice was helpful and easily followed—how and when to address the king and his wife, how to keep proper posture by imagining an invisible string pulling up and out of my chest, and who to ask where the bathroom was located—the majority of the tips were more problematic.

  Apparently, at a formal ball, introductions between a man of lesser rank and a crown prince’s main squeeze included a chaste kiss on the knuckles. As every male except the king was considered to be of inferior position, that meant a lot of strangers were about to touch their lips to my hand. I was no clean freak, but after earning a degree in microbiology, I knew what sorts of beasties were likely to transfer from their mouths to my flesh by night’s end. According to Pixie, wiping my hand against the folds of my skirt, no matter how surreptitiously performed, was expressly forbidden. Damn it.

  If the prospect of pathogens wasn’t bad enough, the other big message from the lecture was equally troublesome. No matter how annoying a conversation, or reprehensible the speaker, I must adopt an image of pleasant indifference, a bland facial expression, polite and amiable, but not too friendly or attentive, which might convey actual interest. I wasn’t convinced I could pull that off. Faking nonchalance over the knuckle bussing alone was going to be tough enough, but no eye rolls, smirks, or even a momentary air of amused skepticism? Might as well tell me not to breathe.

  “These rules are ridiculous,” I whined as Pixie reminded me of them for a third time. “I wanted to say they are bullshit, but I substituted a pleasantly indifferent word to practice not offending anyone.”

  “Whilst I do appreciate your word choice, let me point out complaining about the social customs has no bearing on whether you will be successful at adhering to them.” He plucked a miniscule bit of lint from the bodice of my dress, and then took a step back to size me up. “You were correct; this gown looks lovely on you.”

  I was surprised he admitted it. His original pick was pink and poufy, and I steadfastly refused to even try on the monstrosity, arguing if we added a crown and a wand, I’d be a dead ringer for Glenda, the Good Witch of the North. He offered three other equally awful options before I pulled out a cobalt blue, strapless number. Before leaving Alenquai, Myrjix scouted the formal wear he assembled and added a couple of selections from Tannis’ closet that she thought were more to my taste.

  “Your suggestion for my hair was perfect,” I replied, keeping with the spirit of détente. Swept into a loose up-do, my curls were elegantly contained, while retaining an undertone of not-quite tameness. In other words, completely me. “Between the efforts of the two of us, I came out looking pretty good.”

  Pixie nodded. “Well, the two of us, plus the team of stylists provided by the palace, but why quibble over details?” He gave me yet another quick once-over, adjusted the “simple” diamond wreath necklace that probably cost more than most people paid for a house, checked that my engagement ring was clean and sparkly, and announced, “Perfection.”

  His eyes seemed unnaturally dewy, but Tannis arrived and distracted me from Pixie’s Dr. Frankenstein-like, emotional reaction to his creation.

  “Wow,” she said, sizing me up much like the PA had done moments before. “The dress looks fantastic on you. I never wore it because I thought it made me look washed out, but that color is amazing with your dark hair.”

  I was fairly certain there wasn’t a pigment in existence that could make Tannis appear to be anything but goddess-like, but I appreciated the fib. “Let’s go before I wimp out.” I sighed, grabbing a tiny, fan-shaped clutch from Myrjix. It was just large enough to hold a lipstick and the matchbook-sized “phone” Alex gave me before I left. He’d kept its twin. The devices were linked magically and could be used only to speak to each other. I liked having the private means to contact him, and I promised to call after the shindig.

  I glanced back at Pixie as we departed; he mimed pulling an imaginary string from his chest as a final reminder of good carriage. Frankly, standing up straight was the least of my worries.

  Tannis and I made our way through the private family section of the palace to the more public area where the Grand Ballroom was situated. A line of invitees had already formed, reminding me of an airport security queue. Not that anyone was being patted down or searched in any obvious way, but there was a grim-faced, uniformed guy, solemnly gesturing each group through an expansive, flower-draped arch set at the entrance to the chamber.

  I could hear music ahead, over the low rumble of many voices. Apprehension flooded over me as I realized the place must be packed. Why I hadn’t previously made the connection between formal, royal gathering and shit loads of people was unclear, but it was way too late to cut and run. Besides, Tannis, undoubtedly sensing my sudden unease, practically shoved me forward.

  Another ghrilyx-wearing official belted out our names as we stepped out of the floral passage
, repeating the announcement in both English and Courso. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Tanifynkixalla of Alenquai and the Lady Hailey Parrish, betrothed to Aldegrexynthor, Crown Prince of Alenquai.”

  I leaned over and whispered, “Your real name is Tanifynkixalla?” I knew “Tannis” was an acronym created from the first letters of famous women she admired, but I’d never heard anyone refer to her any other way.

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “Quite a mouthful. Now you can see why I made up my own name. When I was a child, my parents called me Fynkee. Couldn’t get rid of that wretched nickname fast enough,” she added with a small shudder.

  “Fynkee” didn’t sound all that horrible to me, until I recalled an oversized, colorful, round squash was called a fyn and the Courso word for “butt” was kee. After the age of two, no one wanted to be known essentially as “pumpkin ass.”

  We’d moved forward enough to be in full view of the crowded ballroom. While Pixie described the public announcement of our arrival, he hadn’t prepared me for hundreds of heads snapping around to get a better look at us. Maybe the same rapt attention greeted every new arrival, but I found it unnerving.

  There was one piece of advice the protocol aid emphasized ad nauseam: No matter what, pleasant indifference hid a multitude of social blunders. And so, I smiled, mentally yanked the invisible chest string skyward, and marched straight-backed into the crowded hall.

  Across the room, Uncle Fry stood on a raised platform, receiving the newest arrivals. As we approached, he threw open his arms and proclaimed, “Ah, the guests of honor!”

  Tannis practically bounded up the stairs and into his embrace, but Pixie gave me precise instructions for the proper way to greet the king. Stop, curtsy, wait to be addressed, and then rise. Repeating the simple list to myself like a mantra, I halted, bent, but couldn’t quite get my gown to cooperate for the requisite outward skirt-hold portion of the gesture; the skirt was flowing enough to allow movement, but not conducive to deferential reverence. I thought I pulled it off, all things considered. Despite the slight wardrobe glitch, I didn’t face-plant into Uncle Fry or hear any derisive snickers behind me. Well, maybe one or two.

  “You look lovely, Hailey,” the king declared, which I took as my signal to stand up. He bent down to take my hand, guiding me toward the striking, raven-haired woman to his left. “Let me present you to my wife, Sylzinia.”

  The queen looked about thirty, which I knew meant she was significantly older, anywhere from one hundred to a hundred and fifty, I guessed. Still, considering her husband had to be well past the three-century mark, theirs was a marriage with a significant age difference. The union may have fulfilled some strategic political agenda, but Uncle Fry lucked out; Sylzinia was a knockout. The willowy body and dazzling face aside, she exuded the aristocratic bearing one associated with royalty. Alex’s mother had that, and Tannis could summon it up when necessary. Me? I’d be lucky if I could reach the point where people didn’t mistake me for the hired help.

  Sylzinia clasped my hands in hers, a genial smile lighting her entire face. “Fry has told me so many good things about you, Hailey. I am thrilled Aldegrexynthor found a life companion.” Her expression darkened, and she reached for Tannis. “I cannot fully express my great sadness at the passing of your brother. I am sorry I was unable to travel for the services.”

  Tannis’ eyes grew misty at the mention of Kyzal, but with true stately grit, she reverted to pleasant indifference, thanking the queen for her words of sympathy.

  We spent the next hour standing beside the king and queen as they introduced us to the other guests. Surprisingly, any squeamishness over stranger’s lips and knuckle smooching faded after the first twenty or so men made my acquaintance. By that time, I decided any lingering oral secretions were more of a hygiene issue for the next in line rather than for me. Still, the second the reception line ended, I excused myself to wash my hands.

  The powder room resembled those found in ultra-expensive, five-star hotels: opulent, huge, and staffed. Upon entering, I was ushered to an empty stall by an agreeable woman—wearing a white, button-down blouse and black pants, I noted with amusement—who then shut the door behind me. The cubicle was big enough to fit a hot tub, space much appreciated as I maneuvered to get my clingy skirt hiked up. When I finally turned to sit, I noticed the attendant’s feet visible via the space under the door. That she stood, back against the door like a sentinel, was awkward to say the least, and I was grateful for the extra distance between us. This is taking service to disturbing levels.

  When I finished, the lavatory lookout guided me toward a bank of sinks, handing me off to someone else, who turned on the faucet and squirted soap into my palms. Glancing at the other patron’s reflections in the mirror, I realized everyone was getting similar treatment. I felt somewhat better knowing the staff didn’t think only I was incapable of navigating through a bathroom.

  Hands clean, the basin police handed me a cloth and shut off the water. When I finished drying, she reached for the towel. Instead of just taking it, however, she simultaneously slipped a small piece of paper into my hand.

  “Read it later, when you are alone,” she urged, and then turned to help the next overdressed lady without the means or sense to figure out how to use running water.

  The exchange caught me off guard, but, still clutching the note, I took the opportunity to get a good look at her. “You’re the waitress from the café, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, smiled, and then returned to her work.

  What the hell?

  Not knowing what else to do, I stuffed the tiny message into my handbag. I supposed for a big event like tonight’s ball, extra help from outside the palace might be needed, but it seemed odd that she’d waited on Tannis and me earlier, and then just happened to work the party. I glanced up, intending to ask her how she ended up in the restroom with a note for me.

  Except she wasn’t there.

  I searched inside the bathroom and in the hallway nearby, but I couldn’t locate the waitress/lavatory attendant/stalker/invisible woman. Finding an out-of-the-way spot, I grabbed the note and unfolded it.

  The handwritten message—Come to the bistro tomorrow night at eight—was definitely not the thank you for the generous tip I expected. I turned the paper over, but there was nothing more than the cryptic sentence.

  My mind went into overdrive with questions. Why does she want to meet with me? How did she manage to sneak into the palace, and, really, how did she vanish into thin air?

  I folded the note, stuffed it into my purse, and spent the next few minutes trying to make sense out of what just happened. No matter how I tried to spin it, the weird encounter had no reasonable explanation.

  When I returned to the ballroom, Tannis looked relieved to see me. “I was about to send out a search party,” she teased, handing me a glass of champagne. “Get lost going to the loo?”

  I took a sip of bubbly before I answered. “No, but remember the girl who waited on us at lunch? She was an attendant in the bathroom.”

  Tannis nodded. “Back home, when there’s a big event like this, the staff hires extra workers from the outside. She probably needed the extra money; she can’t make much waiting tables.”

  “She wants me to go to the restaurant tomorrow night,” I said, showing Tannis the note.

  “I get stuff like this all the time from people hoping I’ll show up so they can say they know me.” She handed the invitation back. “You’re not thinking of going, are you?”

  “No, Alex would tan my hide if he knew I accepted some random invitation from a stranger.” Tannis didn’t appear overly concerned, but if I’d learned one thing from hanging around with Alex and Sebastian, coincidences were few and far between.

  Any harbored suspicions were pushed to the back of my mind when a bell sounded, and a herald directed everyone to the banquet hall for dinner. I’d paced myself as best I could, but even after leaving half the food on my plates, the five-course, gastronomical homa
ge to overindulgence left me stuffed. After sitting down for two hours, the walk back to the ballroom felt heavenly.

  The platform in the center was gone, and a mini orchestra with violins, cellos, and a piano replaced the harpist who played during the reception and dinner. Instead of milling throughout the space, the guests now clustered around the periphery, leaving a large, open area. The king and queen stepped into the center, and the musicians began to play.

  They glided effortlessly across the dance floor, alone for a minute or so before others joined them. I’d only seen that sort of formal dancing in movies, and the effect was mesmerizing.

  As Tannis and I watched the guests twirling about, she nudged me with her shoulder. “See that woman in the blue lace dress?” she remarked, gesturing with her chin at a tall redhead across the room.

  She would caught my attention even if Tannis hadn’t pointed her out, exquisite in every possible way from her striking good looks to her dignified manner. Wavy, copper hair flowed over her shoulders, accenting the ample cleavage rising from the neckline of her low-cut gown. Even with a padded push-up bra, my boobs would never achieve such rounded glory, I lamented. She wasn’t young, but she exuded the sultry aura of a woman who’d lived long enough to know exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.

  “That’s Ziqua, Uncle Fry’s mistress.”

  “Really? In the same room as the queen?”

  Tannis glanced at me and grinned. “Yes, indeed. She is invited to all the important functions.”

  I knew Uncle Fry’s concept of marriage was slightly different from mine, but I had no idea he’d flaunt his paramour in his wife’s face. “Doesn’t Sylzinia mind?”

  “Probably not,” Tannis answered, shrugging. “The hot, young guy standing a few people to the left of Ziqua is Sylzinia’s current lover.”

  Okay then. The arrangement seemed to take the concept of an open relationship to the extreme. I wrinkled my nose. “Yikes.”