The Meeting

So, while maître d’hôtel escorted me through the lower floors to Kings of Gran lobby, I thought about what really brings me to the club. A chance at the proper food made by Felix could be probably one argument, one should not have questioned, except for the fact that, if that were so, I would have eaten here at least five days a week, and well, I have not visited this fine establishment for a fortnight at least. To tell truth, a bigger part of me, would have like nothing more than to brood some more, but Robert's proposal stung my pride a bit. There was also the fact that one should be interested in the fate of one family's investment, although Queen of Gran would probably do equally as fine, if not better, without interference of the ruling quartet. Still, Albert Nolan was soldiering on somewhere far to the north, Casimir de Ruyter was a captain of ship in Imperial Navy, and Franz Albrecht was prospecting form some new mines in the Eisen country. So, for the better part of the last ten years, the restaurant was left largely to its own devices or not so stringent Glanville overlords.

I had to admit to myself that meeting Baronet Watson and his lovely fiancée, Anne Schmidtke, was a welcome diversion from the night of drunken (or sober) brooding at the local tavern or at the family mansion. So, going through the doors to the club, being welcomed with reverence by the servants, I thought that it might cheer me up.

I went into a dining room, a large hexagonal room, with about twenty tables set for the patrons, who would have wanted to eat in more private environment than those publicly accessible downstairs. I had a quick a look around, noticed a large gathering of young men and women occupying about half the spaces, and then found the pair of lovebirds already sitting down, sipping on an aperitif. Wonderful, I thought and looked at the pocket watch, somehow wondering if my days could get worse. My punctuality has never been questioned, so that must have been a new low for me. Except for the fact that in fact, I was a bit early, at least according to a beautiful piece of machinery.

'Oh hullo, Meert.' The brunette with shoulder-length hair and peach skin acknowledged my entry with a polite smile. 'You look wretched.'

If we haven't had known each other for close to eternity, that would have sounded condescending. Ms. Schmidtke, however, was known as well for being one of the best junior editors at Queen's Dispatch, as for her disdain for social pretences. I shouldn't be really surprised that she of all people acknowledged the truth and put it out loud. This time around, Robin's  fiancée had me actively wincing, probably, because she struck a well-placed blow.

'And you do look lovely as always.' I bowed before her and kissed properly the extended and well-gloved hand. Some convenances had to observed, it seems, no matter how rebelliously minded a woman thought she was. 'And touché.' Admitting defeat was a best way to escape more pure-bread embarrassment from a witty representative of a fair sex.

I took my leave to sit down, but both Robin and Anne were still standing, so I've taken my queue and put forward a question.

'Should I assume that we are going somewhere?' I did not feel like putting myself out to the city tonight. 'You could have warned me.'

'Ah, I know you, and you wouldn't have come, if you were not dangled with good dinner.' Robin smiled and urged me towards the next room. 'Especially if you knew what we had planned for you.'

Liar, the thought breezed through my mind. You bloody well know that you could have talked me into something, the state I was in. You just didn't want to have to fight to put the idea into my self-absorbed and self-pitying head, didn't you? Of course, that was not a proper thing to say, not in the club.

They both escorted me through into a side corridor leading into the business part of the club - the lounges, library and a ballroom.

'So what is this all about?' Suddenly I felt a little bit suspicious. 'You are not doing this from the good of your heart, are you?'

Anne shot her man a smile that was depressingly knowing 'I told you so', but the acknowledgement was not forthcoming. Or rather, as with all too sharply-pointed rhetorical questions, the following silence was rather refreshing in its confirmatory status. We stopped at the ballroom door and Robin knocked twice. That was all rather stranger, the rooms in the club were open after lunch, bar the library, for the members and the stuff alike were not keen on being interrupted or interrupt someone by their presence.

A small, grim looking attendant in his fifties opened the door and seemingly inquired for our credentials.

'The Right Honourable Robert Watson, Miss Anne Schmidtke of Queen's View and Honourable Meert de Glanville.' Robin's voice was probably barely heard beyond a few feet. This meeting seemed to be turning increasingly eerie.

The man must have had a good hearing, because he moved right away, whispered something to someone beyond the door. With a sharp turn of a knob and quick movement of arm by unseen person, who made physical labour seem like a work of magic, the door has opened.

'The Right Honourable Robert Watson, Miss Anne Schmidtke of Queen's View and Honourable Meert de Glanville to see you, Your Royal Highness.' The attendant said in a most calm and serene voice I ever heard.

Somehow, I knew right then that this wasn't the worst day of my life. There were still much, much worse days to come.