It’s a caviar and crème fraîche tartlet.

“I’ll be honest, I can never tell the difference. Is this a canapé or an hors d'oeuvre?” someone asks down the table.

“Is there a difference?” another replies.

I can hear my grandmother’s throat clear from a mile away.

“Appetizers eaten with the fingers are canapés,” she answers with an air of reproach. “Appetizers eaten at the table with a knife and fork are hors d'oeuvres.”

As if on cue, half the table grabs for their salad fork.

“However, this is a canapé,” she continues. “The tartlet acts as the utensil, and it’s best to leave your salad fork where it lies, to be used during a future course.”

The choreography continues as dinner guests immediately scramble to return their forks to their correct position on the table. The spectacle is almost enough to make me smile, but then my grandmother’s cold gaze pins me and I recenter my attention down onto my plate.

Everyone begins eating, and there’s a hush in the air until Emmett speaks up.

“As you must realize, hors d'oeuvres is French,” he tells my grandmother, though the whole table is listening in. “It translates literally to ‘outside the work’ or ‘outside of the masterpiece’.”

“That’s lovely,” a woman near him says.

I hadn’t noticed her until that moment, and I have to lean forward to get a better look at her. She’s a vivacious brunette with cropped hair and a wide, red-lipped smile. Her eyes are set flirtatiously on Emmett as he continues, “I’ve heard the practice originated in Russia, where small snacks of fish, caviar, and meats were common on long travels.”

Everyone at the table finds this interesting except for my grandmother, who seems insistent on holding on to her tight-lipped expression.

The conversation slowly grows, voices filtering in and out. I’m wholly apart from it all. A waiter comes around to fill our wine glasses, and I greedily accept, wishing it were possible to ask for the entire bottle. While the waiter pours, I let my gaze slip to Emmett. I’m not the only one paying attention to him. He draws us all in, eclipsing even the most illustrious guests. Crown prince who?

Though it’s a break from proper etiquette, I thank the waiter for the wine just as our second course is brought out, a classic French mushroom soup plated beautifully.

Down the way, across the table, Royce talks to the man at his side. He hasn’t looked up at me once.

It’s interesting to pick apart the seating arrangement. Victor’s done nothing by accident. He’s placed himself at the helm, acting as our dinner party’s fearless leader, and made sure to keep the most important guests close at hand. My grandmother and Emmett are at his side, and beside Emmett is the crown prince of Malaysia. He’s a diminutive man closer to my grandmother’s age than to mine.

I carefully tip my spoon away from me as I ladle small bites of soup and continue my assessment. My seat in the middle of the table seems slightly out of order. I’m truly no one, but my grandmother’s presence looms like an umbrella over me, and I suppose that’s why I’m deemed more worthy than I am.