I’ve just rejoined the crowd in the mezzanine when a t****l bearing the sigil of the king on his jacket approaches.
“From his majesty, King Nathaniel,” the t****l says, and hands me a small black envelope.
Inside, a crisp card with strong, slanted script reads:
Ms. Dixon—
It has come to my attention that I’ve put you in an unfavorable situation. I would like to make it up to you. Come to dinner at the royal residence. Friday, eight o’clock.
Nathan
I swallow and read it a second time before stuffing it guiltily into my clutch. Scanning the crowd, I search for any sign that my sisters or Ashton or worst of all, my Mother, has seen the t****l passing notes to me like the king and I are in middle school. To my relief, the subtle flickering of the lights overheard, like a signal to a thea
