Dinner was set for twelve thirty, and as it came to five past twelve, Jon got to the end of his long list of tasks and could hardly believe he was finally done. One might have thought that everything being ready twenty-five minutes ahead of time was actually too much of a victory – so much so that everything would be ruined by serving time, but Jon had factored in that he would have to transport everything halfway across the castle to assemble it in the smaller kitchen near the dining room. He had once envisioned trying to do everything in that kitchen, so this very journey would not have been necessary, but the kitchen upstairs was woefully inadequate for grandeur such as this. It was entirely intended for day-to-day use with only two small ovens (barely big enough to cook a quail let alone a gorged turkey!), limited counter space, and (although not strictly relevant) a rather depressing lookout into a forgotten courtyard. There was only one thing that made that kitchen better than this, and it was the two large steam tables that Jon himself had fought to acquire. These tables would be key in keeping the dinner warm.
So it was that Jon commenced his pilgrimage of the food trolley with the entirety of the Christmas dinner packed onto it and left his valiant kitchen for pastures new. The thing was incredibly heavy and by the time he got to the old service elevator at the end of the servants’ quarters, he wondered if he had factored in enough time. He often forgot what an old specimen he was nowadays, with bones starting to creak, the pain in his gut throbbing at him to remember his deadly secret, and an altogether slower mind. What a curse getting old was. The trolley creaked in agreement.
He pushed the trolley into the lift and as the doors closed, making the exact same sound as his joints after a hard day, he spied Thomas Crockley at the other end of the corridor returning from his walk and hanging up a snow-covered red coat on the hooks next to the entrance door. This was an action that Jon thought to be of no importance, and indeed, at that moment, it was not.
As the elevator ascended, the creaking stopped. Jon found that even the staff were like this – rickety and common and crass belowstairs but transformed above. Today he would have to transform a little more than usual – he willed that he had the strength to finish this day and live to tell the tale. He had noticed himself declining and thought it incredible that no one else had. Of course, it helped that no one was ever looking at him. He used the elevator ride to take a breather, leaning on the trolley. The deep ball inside his gut was pulsing, shooting pain throughout the rest of his body. The doctor said that was mostly psychosomatic, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.
He wondered where on earth Tony Speck was – their jobs never intersected on a usual day, but today was not that. He had expected something in the form of assistance, but maybe Speck was correct. The family’s safety was of the utmost importance and, although it belittled Jon, that mattered more than a potentially spoiled bread sauce.
Upstairs, Jon took the trolley down the grand corridors, with the lush maroon carpet fighting him at every step. He checked his watch to see that he had fallen slightly behind and resolved to quicken his pace. As he looked back up, however, he was horrified to see someone race out of the door directly ahead of him, and stray into the path of the oncoming trolley. Wilson, another of the Windsors’ cats, was being chased and dashed off to parts unknown. Rather than following, the figure seemed frozen in the trolley’s wake.
Jon had to halt immediately and pull against the forward momentum he had amassed. His breath caught in his throat as everything on the trolley shifted forward. Luckily, however, it seemed that all the food kept in its proper place, if a few millimetres to the north.
Jon tried not to gasp in relief at everything staying in its place as his eyes fell on the roadblock in front of him. The young boy seemed nonplussed at the culinary genocide he had almost caused and seemed more intent on plunging his hands deep into his pockets and employing a faux-genial facial expression.
Prince Martin was Princess Maud and Thomas Crockley’s youngest son. At thirteen years old, he was a slim and wide-eyed child, who always had the air of constant confusion at the state of the life he was thrust into. Outwardly, his confusion translated to his manner. He always seemed mightily uncomfortable in the suits he was placed in, the hairstyles he was forced to adopt – now a simple short cut with a slightly longer fringe brushed to the right side – and the halls he was supposed to inhabit. Whenever Jon encountered him, he often wondered how the child would be if he were allowed to choose. It was perhaps the saddest fact that no one would ever know.
At this moment, Martin considered Jon much like an animal would before being hit by a car – contemplating life and the sudden fact that it would not last for very much longer. The young boy fiddled with his crest awkwardly, pinned to his lapel in much the same place as his father’s. Jon would have seen the guilt on his face more clearly if he wasn’t still worried about the meal.
‘I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness,’ Jon remarked, referencing the near collision – not that Martin seemed as fazed by it as he was by being seen.
‘Martin,’ the young Prince said, almost inaudibly. He had that quality that many young people tend to possess. He hadn’t fully understood that one had to constantly justify their place in the world, and that included speaking up.
‘Martin, I mean. I’m sorry.’
‘It smells good.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Martin did not move, as one might when faced with such a sight. Jon held his hand to the cart trying to suppress the compulsion to check his watch.
‘I was just . . . Sometimes I like to look around, you know. And Wilson wanted to play, so . . . ’ Martin continued, his eyes growing ever wider. It was very clear that he assumed he was in trouble, and was trying to mitigate it. Unfortunately, it had the exact opposite effect. ‘Mummy calls me a snooper sometimes. She told me to stop. You won’t tell anyone you saw me, will you? Please.’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Jon’s eyes rose to the plaque on the still-open door. He was exactly where he thought he was, of course. The upstairs pantry.
‘Martin.’ Matthew, Martin’s brother, strode out from the turn in the corridor. Matthew was eighteen, and looked very much like Martin and his parents, except for his sandy blond hair. He was a well-put-together young gent, beloved by the public and often touted to one day wear the crown. However, there was a more complex side to him that those outside of the castle didn’t see – a boy constantly wrestling with the order of the family, together with the chaos one of his age should be engaging in. ‘There you are. What’re you doing in there? The dinner is starting soon.’ Matthew’s eyes fell on the pantry door, on Jon and, lastly, on the cart packed with the aforementioned dinner. ‘Oh, Jon. Should I take Martin to the drawing room or bring everyone else out here?’ He laughed, but there was an undeniable cold edge to the cackle. Something was troubling him.
Jon really had to get moving, decorum be damned. ‘It is lovely to see you, Your Royal Highness, as well as yourself, young sir. And Happy Christmas to you both. But I really must be going.’
Matthew interpreted this. ‘Get out of the way, Martin. Bloody hell. Can’t you see you’re blocking the man?’
Martin stepped aside.
As Jon continued his journey, he heard Matthew and Martin talking. Matthew had just come back from his private audience with the King, and Martin wished to know what was said. Matthew denied him, however, saying, ‘I guess you’ll just have to wait and see. You’ll all know soon enough.’
Jon did not have the sufficient brainpower to even wonder what that meant. As he left earshot of them, Martin was reprimanding Matthew for not wearing his family crest. Matthew let out a very uncharacteristic expletive before finding it in his pocket.
Jon got to the kitchen at 12:20, relieved to see that the steam tables had indeed clicked on when he had set them to. After loading in the main course dishes and Christmas pudding, he left again, rolling the starters to the grand dining room, adjacent to the drawing room. He set down the soups upon each available mat and gently plopped three Camembert croutons into each. He poured wine for each place, and with a final look of confirmation, he saw that it was good. He went over to the door that joined the rooms and knocked.
It was exactly 12:29 as Jon entered the drawing room. The young Royals gave nothing away as they crossed the room to join their peers. King Eric had joined Princess Marjorie and Prince David. The King seemed to be quietly contemplating something by the fire as his brother and wife laughed together. David and Marjorie were in high spirits, in more ways than one it seemed, as the empty glasses by their sides illustrated.
Princess Maud had assembled her family, with Matthew and Martin having obviously just arrived at her side and Thomas Crockley still red-faced from the whipping winds of the outdoors. Princess Emeline stood with them, as she had no one of her own at the castle. Both twins had changed into very similar light pink dresses, with gold sashes fashioned around their waists. They both wore their crests around their necks as fashionable necklaces.
At Jon’s entrance, the family din quickly died. The Royal Family were now the Royal Stomachs to be filled, and Jon was honoured to be the one to do it. ‘Your Majesty. Your Royal Highnesses. Happy Christmas to you all. I am proud to announce that dinner is served.’