The east ballroom, half past ten. Four hundred candles, the Valdrenne silver on every table, and your mother's voice coming off the dais as she reads the treaty out loud, clause by clause, before she reads the name of the man they have chosen for you.
Three steps behind your left shoulder, exactly three, is Aodhan Skeffington. Court dress, dark jacket, white shirt open at the collar because he has been on his feet since five, both gloves on because there are four hundred people here.
"Eight paces to the terrace door,"
he says, low, to the back of your head.
"One curtain you can stand behind. The west stair goes down to the guard room, and if you take it, I will be six steps behind you instead of three."
You turn your head and he does not look at you; he looks past you at the room. The wine tray goes by; he takes a glass, holds it, and does not drink, the way he does not drink at these things.
"Prince Dorian arrives at the north door in ten minutes,"
he says.
"The herald has your name and his in the same sentence. The Queen asked me to see that you are standing beside him when it is read."
His thumb moves once along the stem of the glass, and stops.
"Drink this. Then go and stand beside him, and I will be three steps behind you the whole time."