Chapter Sixteen
“You look terrible.”
Finn glanced up from the summit paperwork spread across his small office desk to find Jericho leaning against the doorframe.
His brother wore court attire - perfectly tailored, perfectly appropriate - and the contrast between them suddenly felt stark.
Finn had been at the castle for weeks now, and somehow Jericho still looked more at home here than Finn did.
“Good morning to you, too,” Finn said, trying for humor and missing.
Jericho pushed off the doorframe and closed the door behind him. “I’m serious. Marriage isn’t supposed to make you miserable.” He gestured at the papers covering every surface. “What is all this?”
“Summit preparations. Helena thought I should familiarize myself with the attending delegations.” Finn rubbed his eyes.
The words on the page had stopped making sense an hour ago.
“Do you know how many kingdoms are sending representatives? Seventeen. Each with their own customs, political alliances, historic grievances, and expectations for protocol.”
“And you’re trying to memorize all of it?”
“Someone has to.” Finn heard the bitterness in his own voice. “Can’t have the king consort embarrassing Safe Harbor by serving the wrong wine or seating someone below their station.”
Jericho pulled up a chair and sat down, studying Finn’s face. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Finn.”
The gentle patience in his brother’s voice cracked something inside Finn’s chest. He set down the paper he’d been holding - something about the Kingdom of Westmarch’s stance on fishing rights - and let his head fall into his hands.
“I’m failing,” he said quietly. “At everything.”
“Tell me.”
So Finn did. He told Jericho about the council meeting where he’d confused import and export taxes, about Aldric’s thinly veiled suggestion that he review basic economics.
About reorganizing the laundry schedule and creating chaos throughout the household.
About fixing the window latch and the maid’s shock that he’d do manual labor instead of summoning proper tradesmen.
“And then there was Count Villiers.” Finn’s stomach still turned remembering that dinner.
“I seated him wrong. Made a joke he took as an insult. Served wine from a region his family’s feuding with.
Thomas had gone over the protocol with me beforehand, but I got it all confused, and…
” He stopped, swallowing hard. “The count thought I was deliberately disrespecting him. Darragh had to smooth it over afterward.”
Jericho listened without interrupting, his expression carefully neutral.
“I thought I could just be myself,” Finn continued.
“That’s what Darragh kept saying he wanted.
But myself doesn’t work here. Everyone can see I don’t know what I’m doing.
The advisers think I’m incompetent. The staff think I’m inappropriate.
And Darragh has to keep defending me like I’m some project he took on, some charity case who needs protecting. ”
“Does Darragh say that?”
“No.” Finn looked up. “He says he loves me for who I am. That I don’t need to change.
That I just need time to adjust.” He laughed without humor.
“But time doesn’t teach you which regional wine feuds to avoid or how to calculate tax revenue or where to seat a count at dinner.
Time doesn’t make me less of an embarrassment. ”
Jericho was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You need actual training.”
“Thomas tried…”
“Not a single conversation before a dinner. That was ridiculous - giving you information without any context. You need real training, systematic instruction in protocol, etiquette, and court politics.” Jericho’s expression was serious.
“I’ve been at court for years, Finn. I know this world. Let me teach you.”
Finn wanted to refuse. The thought of more lessons, more rules to memorize, exhausted him just thinking about it. But the memory of Count Villiers’s cold politeness, of Aldric’s suggestion to review basic economics, of the tension in Darragh’s shoulders as he’d apologized…
“Okay,” Finn said. “Teach me.”
/~/~/~/~/
They started the next morning in Finn’s sitting room. Jericho arrived with a stack of papers and a determined expression.
“We’ll begin with forms of address,” he said, setting down his materials. “Every rank has specific protocols. Get it wrong, and you’re either giving offense or looking ignorant.”
For the next two hours, Jericho drilled him relentlessly. How to address a duke versus an earl. The difference between “Your Grace” and “Your Excellency.” When to nod and when to air kiss. The proper way to introduce people of different ranks to each other.
Finn’s head spun. “There are too many rules.”
“There are exactly as many rules as there are, and you need to know them.” Jericho wasn’t unkind, but he wasn’t gentle either. “Again. How do you address the Marquess of Thornbury?”
“Lord Thornbury?”
“No. He’s a marquess. ‘Lord Thornbury’ is what you’d call his younger son. The marquess himself is ‘My Lord Marquess’ on first address, then ‘My Lord’ after that. His wife is ‘My Lady Marchioness.’”
Finn repeated it back, committing it to memory alongside the dozens of other variations he’d learned that morning.
They moved on to seating arrangements. Jericho explained the complex hierarchy that determined who sat where at formal dinners, how proximity to the king indicated favor, how certain people could never be seated next to each other due to political tensions or family feuds.
“Count Villiers should have been seated here.” Jericho pointed to a diagram he’d drawn. “Third from Darragh on the right side. You put him fifth on the left.”
“I didn’t know…”
“That’s why we’re doing this.” Jericho’s tone was patient but firm. “So next time you will know.”
The afternoon session covered safe conversation topics such as the weather, recent appointments to prestigious positions, and the arts.
There was also a list of dangerous topics to avoid: Politics was a big one, unless a person was absolutely certain of everyone’s stance, religion, family scandals, and territorial disputes.
“What about jokes?” Finn asked, thinking of his comment about stuffy nobility that had offended Count Villiers.
“Never make jokes at court functions unless you’re absolutely certain everyone will take them the right way.” Jericho met his eyes. “Self-deprecating humor is usually safe. Jokes about nobility, customs, or regional differences are not. Even if you think they’re harmless.”
Finn absorbed this, another rule added to the growing list in his mind. He felt as though his mind was going to split open with all he had to retain.
They worked through dinner, then into the evening. Gift-giving customs - what was appropriate to give to whom, how to accept gifts gracefully. How to deflect uncomfortable questions without giving offense. The proper way to exit a conversation with someone of a lower rank.
By the time Jericho finally left, Finn’s head felt stuffed - so much of what he considered useless information all jostling for space. He fell into bed beside Darragh and barely managed to kiss him goodnight before exhaustion pulled him under.
/~/~/~/~/
The pattern continued for days. Every morning, Jericho arrived with new material.
Political alliances between kingdoms - who supported whom, which royal families had marriage connections, and where the historic tensions lay.
The proper protocol for receiving foreign dignitaries.
How to read the subtle signals that indicate someone was offended, pleased, or being a nuisance for the sake of it.
Finn studied like he’d never studied for anything in his life. He made flashcards with nobles’ names, their titles, and their family connections. He memorized the seating hierarchy until he could recite it in his sleep. He practiced safe conversation openers until they felt almost natural.
“You’re getting it,” Jericho said approvingly after Finn correctly identified the proper way to address a visiting bishop. “You’re a quick study.”
Finn didn’t feel quick. He felt slow and stupid, like he was learning a language everyone else already spoke fluently. But he kept at it because the alternative - more incidents like Count Villiers, more tension with Darragh, more proof that he didn’t belong - was worse.
A week after they’d started, there was a small court function.
It wasn’t much, just a reception for a visiting duchess who was passing through Safe Harbor on her way to a wedding in another kingdom.
Finn dressed carefully in the formal attire his valet laid out, checked his appearance three times, and went downstairs with his stomach in knots.
Jericho had briefed him thoroughly that morning.
Duchess Carolyn of Millbrook, who was traveling with her youngest son.
Safe topics - her son’s recent appointment as magistrate in the western territories, the unseasonably pleasant weather, the upcoming royal wedding she was attending.
Topics to avoid - her older son’s gambling debts, the duchy’s trade disputes with Safe Harbor, her deceased husband.
Finn stood beside Darragh in the receiving line, greeting guests with the exact phrases Jericho had taught him. When the duchess approached, he nodded to precisely the correct depth.
“Your Grace,” he said. “Welcome to Safe Harbor. We’re honored to have you.”
“King Consort.” She curtseyed. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“I understand congratulations are in order,” Finn continued, his heart pounding. “Your son’s appointment as magistrate is a prestigious position.”
The duchess’s expression warmed. “How kind of you to mention it. Yes, Edmund has worked very hard. I’m quite proud.”
“The western territories are fortunate to have him. I’ve heard his reputation for fairness and diligence precedes him.” Finn had no idea if Edmund had such a reputation - Jericho had simply told him to compliment the son’s appointment.
“You’re very gracious.” The duchess smiled. “Safe Harbor is lucky to have a king consort who pays such close attention to the accomplishments of his neighbors.”
They spoke for another minute about innocuous topics - the weather, the duchess’s upcoming journey - before she moved on. Finn maintained his pleasant expression until she was out of earshot, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Well done,” Darragh murmured beside him.
Finn just nodded, already preparing for the next guest in line.
/~/~/~/~/
Later, after the reception had ended and the last guests had departed, Jericho found Finn in the hall outside the reception room.
“Perfect,” Jericho said, grinning. “Absolutely perfect. You hit every mark - proper address, appropriate topics, and graceful conversation. The duchess was charmed.”
“Was she?” Finn felt numb.
“Absolutely. I heard her telling Lady Pemberton how delightful you were, how well-spoken and thoughtful.” Jericho clapped him on the shoulder. “See? You can do this.”
“I did it right,” Finn said slowly. “But I felt like I was acting the whole time.”
Jericho’s grin faded slightly. “That’s because you were. That’s what court is. Everyone performs here, you just have to learn the script.”
“Darragh doesn’t perform.” The words came out more defensively than Finn intended. “He’s himself.”
“Darragh’s the king.” Jericho’s response was gentle but firm.
“He has ultimate authority. He can afford to be himself because no one can challenge his right to be here. You’re still proving you belong.
” He met Finn’s eyes. “Once you’ve established yourself, once people accept that you’re competent and worthy of your position, then you can relax.
You can show more of your real self. But right now, you need to play the game. ”
Finn wanted to argue. Darragh had married him precisely because he didn’t play games, because he was authentic and honest. But the memory of Count Villiers’s cold politeness stopped him.
The memory of sitting in council meetings feeling stupid because he didn’t understand basic economics.
Worse, the memory of tension in Darragh’s voice as he’d apologized for failing to prepare Finn properly, still haunted him.
“How long?” Finn asked quietly. “How long do I have to perform before I can be myself?”
Jericho considered the question seriously.
“Honestly, that depends. Six months? A year? Until after the summit, certainly. You need to prove you can handle yourself at major events without making mistakes.” He squeezed Finn’s shoulder.
“I know it’s hard. But it’s worth it. Once people respect you, once they see you as competent, the pressure will ease up, and you can breathe again. ”
“And if I can’t keep it up that long? If I make another mistake?”
“Then you apologize, learn from it, and do better next time.” Jericho’s expression was sympathetic. “But you won’t make the mistakes you were making before. You know too much now.”
Finn nodded slowly. The logic was sound. If performing was what it took to not embarrass Darragh, to not prove the advisers right about his unsuitability, to not be the weak link that damaged Safe Harbor’s reputation at the summit - then he’d perform.
Even if it meant feeling like a fraud every time he opened his mouth.
Even if it meant losing the authenticity Darragh claimed to value.
Even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.
“Okay,” Finn said. “Keep teaching me.”
Jericho smiled, pleased. “We’ll do another session tomorrow. I want to go over the delegation from Westmarch. Their politics are ridiculously complicated, and you need to understand the dynamics before the summit.”
“Tomorrow,” Finn agreed.
He watched Jericho walk away, then turned toward his own chambers.
Darragh would be waiting, probably wanting to celebrate Finn’s success at the reception.
Finn would smile and accept the praise and not mention how hollow the whole thing had felt.
How much he’d hated every carefully calculated word that had come out of his mouth.
This is what being king consort means, he told himself firmly. This is the job. Learn it. Do it well. Stop complaining.
But as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that with every protocol he mastered, every conversation he successfully performed, he was losing a little more of the person Darragh had fallen in love with. And he had no idea how to stop it.