Thompson once hosted me for a very interesting dinner at his condominium in Washington, DC.”
Julia was walking away from Adelina now. Likely leaving, she was young to attend a diplomatic ball of this nature. Adelina turned around and her eyes locked on his. The shock was obvious. Her eyes widened and watered, and a hand involuntarily covered her mouth. Almost instantly, however, a mask descended on her face, her hand dropped to her side, and she looked away.
“Perhaps, then, you can settle a friendly wager for us,” Easton said. He stank of whiskey. “Richard here maintains that it was the advances of John Hawkins on ship building that allowed for English settlement of the Americas. But I have the correct answer—that it was the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. What do you say?”
Easton was a boor. But he was the Ambassador. “Both answers are equally true, Ambassador—the defeat of the Armada would not have taken place had it not been for the improvement in ship building.”
“Spoken like a true diplomat, Your Highness,” Thompson said. His eyes were cold and his voice low. “You used a lot of words and avoided the question entirely. Bravo.”
Thompson was decidedly unfriendly. Did he suspect George-Phillip’s affair with his wife? Or was it something else entirely? Had he somehow guessed George-Phillip’s involvement in the investigation of the massacre at Wakhan? Whatever it was, even Easton noticed, his face sobering as he heard Thompson’s tone.
The three men engaged in small talk, maddening small talk, as George-Phillip kept his eyes everywhere except on Richard Thompson’s wife, who moved from group to group like a good hostess: entertaining, friendly but not too friendly, a smile always on her face.
Finally, George-Phillip managed to offer his excuses and step away from the two Ambassadors. Unable to face any more meaningless conversations, he stepped into the hallway, needing to have a few moments of solitude. His eyes scanned the hallway looking for the water closet.
He was almost at the end of the hallway when he heard her voice behind him.
“George-Phillip.”
He froze, his spine rigid. He couldn’t show his face. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Adelina.”
He heard her footsteps, heels clicking on the marble floor, as she approached. He slowly turned around.
“I … I…” her voice trailed off.
“You miss me?” he asked. “You’re sorry for breaking it off with no explanation? You’re sorry you broke my heart? What is it?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His shoulders sagged. “What am I to say?”
“Just … tell me you’re well.”
George-Phillip felt his eyebrows twitch, and he narrowed one eye, trying to hold in the wave of emotion that flooded him. He looked up at the ceiling, unable to control his grief. “I must go, Adelina. Please … just…”
“I didn’t have any choice.” The pain in her voice was palpable.
George-Phillip gritted his teeth with an anger he didn’t know he contained. “You didn’t have a choice? I would have protected you, Adelina. I would have protected your daughter.”
He turned and nearly staggered down the hall. She ran after him, calling his name. There. A door labeled Men. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and leaned against the wall.
Carrie. May 5.
Looking back, Carrie vaguely remembered the night George-Phillip referred to. She’d only attended two or three diplomatic functions in her eleventh year. But she had been a poised eleven-year-old, and her mother had given her permission to accompany Julia for the first hour of the reception. She must have missed him by minutes.
Did she remember seeing George-Phillip? She couldn’t recall. The room had mostly been filled with adults, almost all of them shorter than she’d been, and she had stayed close to the wall at the side of the room, Julia at her side, until their mother sent her away. They’d been in
Julia was walking away from Adelina now. Likely leaving, she was young to attend a diplomatic ball of this nature. Adelina turned around and her eyes locked on his. The shock was obvious. Her eyes widened and watered, and a hand involuntarily covered her mouth. Almost instantly, however, a mask descended on her face, her hand dropped to her side, and she looked away.
“Perhaps, then, you can settle a friendly wager for us,” Easton said. He stank of whiskey. “Richard here maintains that it was the advances of John Hawkins on ship building that allowed for English settlement of the Americas. But I have the correct answer—that it was the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. What do you say?”
Easton was a boor. But he was the Ambassador. “Both answers are equally true, Ambassador—the defeat of the Armada would not have taken place had it not been for the improvement in ship building.”
“Spoken like a true diplomat, Your Highness,” Thompson said. His eyes were cold and his voice low. “You used a lot of words and avoided the question entirely. Bravo.”
Thompson was decidedly unfriendly. Did he suspect George-Phillip’s affair with his wife? Or was it something else entirely? Had he somehow guessed George-Phillip’s involvement in the investigation of the massacre at Wakhan? Whatever it was, even Easton noticed, his face sobering as he heard Thompson’s tone.
The three men engaged in small talk, maddening small talk, as George-Phillip kept his eyes everywhere except on Richard Thompson’s wife, who moved from group to group like a good hostess: entertaining, friendly but not too friendly, a smile always on her face.
Finally, George-Phillip managed to offer his excuses and step away from the two Ambassadors. Unable to face any more meaningless conversations, he stepped into the hallway, needing to have a few moments of solitude. His eyes scanned the hallway looking for the water closet.
He was almost at the end of the hallway when he heard her voice behind him.
“George-Phillip.”
He froze, his spine rigid. He couldn’t show his face. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Adelina.”
He heard her footsteps, heels clicking on the marble floor, as she approached. He slowly turned around.
“I … I…” her voice trailed off.
“You miss me?” he asked. “You’re sorry for breaking it off with no explanation? You’re sorry you broke my heart? What is it?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His shoulders sagged. “What am I to say?”
“Just … tell me you’re well.”
George-Phillip felt his eyebrows twitch, and he narrowed one eye, trying to hold in the wave of emotion that flooded him. He looked up at the ceiling, unable to control his grief. “I must go, Adelina. Please … just…”
“I didn’t have any choice.” The pain in her voice was palpable.
George-Phillip gritted his teeth with an anger he didn’t know he contained. “You didn’t have a choice? I would have protected you, Adelina. I would have protected your daughter.”
He turned and nearly staggered down the hall. She ran after him, calling his name. There. A door labeled Men. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and leaned against the wall.
Carrie. May 5.
Looking back, Carrie vaguely remembered the night George-Phillip referred to. She’d only attended two or three diplomatic functions in her eleventh year. But she had been a poised eleven-year-old, and her mother had given her permission to accompany Julia for the first hour of the reception. She must have missed him by minutes.
Did she remember seeing George-Phillip? She couldn’t recall. The room had mostly been filled with adults, almost all of them shorter than she’d been, and she had stayed close to the wall at the side of the room, Julia at her side, until their mother sent her away. They’d been in
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