“Your smile is strained,” he says to me, linking our arms together as we walk. He’s wearing a tailored navy suit over a shirt of the softest lavender and a tie in a purple so deep it borders on burgundy. I wonder if he has to work as hard as I do to be so polished.

“Everyone is digging at me. It’s just dig, dig, dig.”

“They’re loving it,” he says. “The chance to feel morally superior to royalty doesn’t come around every day. Let them have their smug little moment and don’t let them see they’re bothering you. Right now it’s all over your face.” He pinches my cheek, and I wave his hand away, the corners of my mouth lifting reluctantly.

Alfie’s mood is always chipper at events like these. He has the very disposition I imagine Father bitterly wishes I possessed—charming, a lover of the spotlight, and a natural ease with strangers. I would do anything to sit with Alfie during the meal. Alas, he’s joining his family down at the far end of the country’s longest table, and I mine. I’m to spend the entire four-course meal speaking to the prime ministers, and I had better get my heart rate down while I can, because an hour and a half of small talk tests my patience at the best of times.

I haven’t even prepared conversation topics lest there’s a lull, what with the busyness of our return to school. The best I can come up with right now is “Do you know this cutlery has been in our family since the 1800s?” which is bound to fill fifteen seconds at most. And that’s only if one of the prime ministers happens to be particularly enthusiastic about knives and forks.

If Alfie were allowed by my side, this wouldn’t be a problem, as he always seems to know which personalized-yet-appropriate question to ask to nudge a conversation along. In more ways than one, he would be far more suited to this position than me. If royalty were elected, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell against him. Or in general, to be quite honest.

“How’s Molly?” Alfie asks as we weave through the crowd.

“She’s furious with me about Amsterdam,” I say, and Alfie’s eyes flicker down, his lips thinning at the mention of that night. “I’ve barely spoken to her since school went back. She’s spending most of her time with Danni Blythe.”

Alfie clears his throat and focuses back in on the discussion. “Who?”

“You met her at Molly’s party. She had the—” I pull at the sleeves of my dress, and his eyes widen in recognition.

“Oh! The girl with the ugly puffer jacket?”

“And the blond hair,” I say. Caramel blond, I would say. With the odd strand of burnt honey.