She’d shrugged, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m going to go fill the water pitchers while you finish up here.”

It was when the guests had arrived that everything went downhill. There had been no further getting to know his betrothed—from that point on Thabiso was simply trying to survive.

He had been to countless catered events; they made up a good portion of his meals when he was away from Thesolo, and at home when they had functions for visiting dignitaries. He knew the drill from the guest side: mingle, have a drink or two, then everyone is seated, and the food is brought out course by course. Thabiso had never thought about the logistics of this, though. It had just worked, in the same way that his watch ticked along without him thinking of the gears. The gears were quite important, it turned out.

Plating up food correctly and serving it to the right person without error was not quite as simple as he’d imagined. Ledi and her chef, a grumpy Swiss guy who reminded Thabiso of his former headmaster, had already prepared the salads, so it had just been a matter of carrying out large, oval trays of them and handing out the plates. After the first tray Thabiso tried to heft onto his shoulder went crashing to the ground, Ledi had flashed him an understanding smile and handed him two plates; one for each hand.

“I’ll carry the trays tonight,” she said. “Just grab plates from mine and things will go smoother.”

Things did not go smoother.

Thabiso managed to elbow one attendee in the ear and learned that “get it yourself” was not an acceptable answer when a guest asked for something, even if you were clearly busy.

Next, they’d had to help the chef do up the dinner plates, which had been another exercise in humiliation. He’d thought he had an eye for design but while Naledi’s plates had looked like dishes from a trendy restaurant, Thabiso couldn’t get his vegetables to cooperate and his plates were smudged and splattered with sauces and jus.

Is this what happens in the kitchen at every function I’ve attended? he’d asked himself. He’d never given much thought to how dish after dish came from the kitchen, perfectly presented. It had just always been so, no matter where he traveled. It seemed impossible that so much work went into making a plate of food that was about to be masticated look like a piece of artwork.

He’d also failed on the serving front. Naledi whirled through the crowd of people who planted themselves in her path like stubborn donkeys, tray balanced on hands that seemed too small and wrists too thin to support its weight. His own hands shook as he lowered plates to tables, and he’d slid a portion of salmon in a butter thyme reduction right into a guest’s lap.

Naledi refilled water from a pitcher with one hand and poured wine with another, without spilling a drop. The front of Thabiso’s shirt was splashed with a middling pinot noir.

Worst of all, the interest and respect that had flashed in her eyes earlier in the night had all but disappeared, replaced with disappointment and fatigue.

“Oh my!” A woman shouted as an ice cube bounced off the rim of her glass and into her cleavage as he refilled her cup.

Thabiso debated what to do. He’d removed the salmon from the man’s lap earlier. Was he supposed to retrieve the ice? Naledi slid in front of him before he could act, smoothly grabbing the pitcher and filling the woman’s glass without incident.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Here’s a fresh napkin for you to dry off with.” She turned to him with a grimace distorting those lovely lips. He knew he was making her job harder, but it galled to see her look at him like he was a worm that had slithered to the surface during a heavy rain.

“Jamal, can you come with me for a minute?” she said, placing a hand on his arm and guiding him back into the kitchen. Her touch felt good, even though he knew what was coming. If anyone in his employ had made even one of the errors he’d made, they would have been out of a job and likely banned from working anywhere else in the kingdom once word of their ineptitude spread.

Ineptitude? If that was the word springing to his mind, what must she think of him?

The back of his neck tingled with warmth. What was this sensation that made him want to hide his deficiencies away where Naledi couldn’t see them? He passed a stainless steel fridge and his hunched shoulders and deferential expression shocked him. He recognized what he was feeling then; he’d seen it in so many people he’d dismissed from his presence over the years. It was shame.

He was a Moshoeshoe. Shame was not supposed to be in his range of emotions. Would she dare to point out his weaknesses, this woman who had abandoned her duties and denied him the path laid down for him by the goddess? Everything in him bristled, ready to lash out at her in a preemptive strike. Let her try to belittle him. He’d tell her how she demeaned herself like a common peasant. He’d tell her exactly what orifice she could place any of her critiques of him. He was a prince, damn it.

Her hand lingered on his arm, warm through the material of the cheap tuxedo shirt, then slipped away. She looked up at him, brow wrinkled, but instead of a reprimand, Naledi gave a fatigued laugh, the sound almost drowned out by the noise of an oven vent. It wasn’t fake or forced or condescending. In fact, it was comforting.

She grabbed a cupcake from a picked-over dessert tray and handed it to him.

“Are we allowed to eat this?” he asked. “Is this not stealing?”

“It’ll go in the garbage if we don’t eat it. I try to take leftovers and give them to the homeless when I can. It’s technically illegal, but I hate seeing good food thrown away.”