Enjoying such bowing and scraping towards his majestic person, and just as impervious (and oblivious) to the suffering of Mr. Persimmons’ dance partner as Mr. Persimmons was, himself, Ambrose smiled what he believed to be a smile of magnanimous benefaction but was really more of a self-satisfied smirk accompanied by an arrogant jut of the chin.
“Egad, but my dear sir, my taste is the stuff of legend!” he purred, glancing towards the painted ceilings, as if to indicate that his sense in such matters was, indeed, heaven-sent. “Why, I do declare that indeed, I was born with an innate sensitivity to all things beautiful and extraordinary so rare and so precious that, after all, not even His Most Supreme Majesty our gracious King, my munificent brother, may compete.”
Leaning towards Mr. Persimmons in a conspiratorially manner, he arched a brow. “Indeed, sir, little as I relish the rehearsal of any event which might bring embarrassment upon the royal person of my own magnificent brother, I must confess that there was an occasion upon which I saw perhaps the most sublime silk ever to grace this room...and His Majesty my brother took no note of it, whatsoever. His radiant Majesty my brother seemed only note the person inside the dress -- who I believe was a princess? I do not rightly recall, the matter being completely trivial in my eyes -- and not the gown, itself! A travesty, I confess,” he added with a most mournful countenance. “For our entire country.”
Dear reader, if you are wondering: did the Prince of Arith insert that fact that the person of the royal majesty was his own brother each and every time that he mentioned him, then I am afraid I must answer that he did, always. Further, despite his claim to detest admitting to any fault in the King, he narrated the entire event with a kind of arrogant relish, hoping that the listener would draw the inescapable conclusion he had, himself: that Ambrose was, in truth, the more impressive sibling.
"How feeble some people are, my dear sir,” he said, half-glowing with the triumph of the moment. It seemed to him, after all, that having failed to be overawed like the rest of the tittering masses, he had once again proven himself a man of most resplendant taste and high courage -- and had, at the very last, found a companion worthy of someone so sublime as himself in this respect. Naturally, not born to the purple as he, himself, was, this Mr. Persimmons could not hope to compete with Ambrose’s own naturally exquisite taste -- which suited him perfectly well as he had no wish for a rival -- but, as he reasoned, that was only as it ought to be. It was a lonely place at the top, he thought with a rather dramatic sigh, but someone had to shephard the ignorant masses. Fortunately, there were other men, such as this one, to help shoulder what little of the massive burden they could.
Ambrose Ardenne was now filled with the wish to impress the man in the austrere clothing and flamboyant shoes who stood before him.
“I shall, then, congratulate myself upon the honor of being the first to break so astonishing a silence. But,” he added, smiling with certainty. “You will permit me.” Raising his hands before him, he suddenly clapped twice. Out of the crowd, like two trained parrots, there emerged a set of footmen. One extended an arm, holding it out before the prince, while the other took the monocle from the prince’s waistcoat pocket and held it up to his royal eye. Placing his princely hand upon the extended arm of the other footman to steady himself, Ambrose bent over to more carefully inspect Mr. Persimmons’ footwear, while the second footman bent with him, holding the monocle to the prince’s eye.
This display of raw power and majesty would, Ambrose was sure, sufficiently awe the man before him.
The footmen stared straight ahead, doing their best to keep their faces straight. The dancers came to a confused halt, watching with some astonishment as the prince seemingly bowed low before Mr. Persimmons, all while requiring the aid of servants as though he were a decrepit old man -- raw power, indeed. This scene was quite inescapable, as little as any wished to view it, as well, for they still stood directly in the way of the dance they were even now performing. No one said anything. At last, the prince straightened. He clapped. The footmen sprang back a pace.
“My dear sir, you must show me the place that crafted such extraordinary footwear. I would see such a temple of fashion, myself. You will, of course,” he added, inclining his head. “Guide me. I should not like to venture from these hallowed halls without the surety of some civilized company to dull the exquisite agonies one of so sensitive an eye for style as myself is sure to endure in such a gruelling venture outside the palace. But, when true beauty is on the line, one must make bold in the face of horrors, mustn’t one?”
Dear reader, I should like to take this moment to remind us all that these were the immortal words of the man who, even in that moment, had charge of Aclea’s entire faith system and the promise, should his brother fail to produce another heir, of someday becoming, himself, the King. Aclea was doomed.
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