"I'm sorry, and this is a sincere apology," Ithacles held his hand up to show just how clear he wanted to make his error. "I can't remember your na-"
"Gerhart. Honna Gerhart," the girl insisted. The third time that evening.
"It's just that you speak so quietly, Honor, and this is a loud room."
Ithacles was right. He was winding her up (and doing a good job, judging by the set of her jaw and the clack of one shoe against the stone) but he was right. The room around them had flung away the polite hum of dinner and burst into the sort of liveliness the country was known for.
He'd managed to make it through the meal with only one spilled drink and seven inappropriate comments about Ursula Fraute's bust.
The Prince turned around, swirling the glass of water in his hand beneath his nose.
"Captain Uthral," he said to the blonde beside him. "What shall we do? There's dancing, there's listening to George over there--"
"--I meant nine. It was nine feet long--"
"And I'm sure we could strike up some arm wrestling, if you're so inclined."