Chapter 12 The Splash Zone
The guy tripped. Three steps away from Lysandra.?
But it was the fakest trip I'd ever seen.
Back in my old life, I spent years watching bad actors fail during product launches.
I knew the difference between a foot actually catching a root and a foot being dragged on purpose for dramatic effect.
The servant's body leaned forward at a ridiculous, staged angle, and his hands intentionally threw the silver tray upward.
The pitcher flew. That thick, dark red liquid sloshed out in a perfect, ugly arc, aiming straight for the back of Lysandra's spotless white dress.
If that wine hit her, I was done for. The original plot would trigger.
Lysandra would shriek. The knights would panic.
Didier would march in, play the white knight, and wrap his royal cloak around her.
And then every eye would turn to Gisella, who was currently standing there looking like a giant, red-faced murderer.
No time to think. Crisis plan B: execute. Even if it meant sacrificing myself.
I let go of Gisella's arm, yanked the blonde backward out of the splash zone, and took two massive strides forward, cutting right into the path of the flying wine.
SPLASH.
Freezing, sticky slime hit the side of my head.
The heavy rose wine drenched my hair, ruining the neat pins, and ran down my temple and cheek before soaking the front of my pigeon-grey dress.
The glass pitcher hit the grass with a dull, heavy thud.
It didn't break, but it dumped the rest of the booze straight onto my shoes.
The smell hit me next. Sour, fermented grapes and heavy sugar. My wet hair immediately glued itself to my neck. The grey fabric—which sucked at absorbing liquid but excelled at clinging—turned a nasty, bruised purple and stuck straight to my skin. Cold. Sticky. Gross.
"A-Ah?!"
The servant actually panicked this time. No acting required. He hit the grass, staring up at me, his face draining of whatever color it had left. He definitely hadn't planned on soaking Viscountess Ilse de Varannes.
Lysandra spun around at the noise. Her clear eyes went wide, looking at me drenched from head to toe in dark red liquid, standing literally an inch away from her face.
"Lady... Lady Ilse?" she squeaked.
Behind me, Gisella's red feather fan hit the dirt. She looked at me like I'd just volunteered to stand in front of a firing squad.
I didn't move. I stood straight, even though the cold was making my shoulders twitch. Wine dripped from my bangs, plop, plop, onto the green grass. I pulled out a dry handkerchief with my left hand and wiped the gunk out of my left eye.
It stung like hell. But I wasn't going to make a face or wince. Not in public. This was my stage now. The plot had just shifted a degree.
Around the fountain, the knights shut up. The noble ladies froze, teacups stuck halfway to their mouths. The silk fans stopped waving.
The Empress's rose garden went dead silent. Not even the wind dared to make a sound. Every single pair of eyes in that elite party was glued to the grey curtain covered in red wine, standing right in the middle of high society.