At her cue, the four of us bowed together.
A warm round of applause rose from the guests, and thus, the tea party began.
No sooner had the tea party begun than Princess Lysonna and Crown Prince Aleis made their way toward the empress dowager, while Bertia and I approached the queen consort.
We were there, of course, to personally thank them for their help in making this event possible.
Officially, the tea party had come about because Princess Lysonna had graciously agreed to fulfill my wife’s wish to “use this opportunity to connect with guests from other nations.” With the support of both the empress dowager and the queen, the idea had become reality—or at least, that was the formal narrative everyone was following.
Naturally, now that the event had successfully commenced, we needed to express our gratitude to the royal ladies who had lent their assistance.
To avoid any appearance of favoritism, we had decided in advance to split up. Bertia and I would approach one of them first, then switch to thank the other afterward.
Fortunately, both the empress dowager and queen consort understood that this tea party was meant for mingling, not for endless formalities. They accepted our thanks with grace and brevity, ending the exchanges swiftly so that the two hosts could move freely among the guests.
In fact, they had even arranged beforehand to invite all of us to join them later in the afternoon for a relaxed conversation, once the greetings and introductions had died down.
Apparently, the idea had been coordinated between the two women, as both extended the same invitation, in nearly identical phrasing: “Let us all speak together later.”
That “all,” of course, referred to the empress dowager, the queen consort, Princess Lysonna, and her fiancé, as well as Bertia and me.
It was a reasonable plan. The tea party’s duration was limited, after all. Meeting as a group would save time and allow everyone to spend more of it mingling with other guests. A practical, mutually beneficial solution for all involved.
“Lord Cecil, I made sure to have plenty of sweets prepared!” Bertia said, her eyes sparkling as we stepped back into the hall. “There are even some savory snacks and lighter, less sweet options, just how you like them.”
Now that the formal greetings were done, her enthusiasm was impossible to resist. I had to fight the sudden urge to reach out and ruffle her hair. Instead, I smiled at her fondly.
“Then why don’t we start with the buffet tables?” I suggested.
The tea party hall was divided between seated tables and a standing buffet area, and guests were free to move between them as they pleased.
Because the event was meant for social exchange, the seating was deliberately kept loose. Only the hosts, the Seahealby royal family, and we, their Alphasta guests, had assigned seats. Everyone else was free to sit wherever they liked and even move between tables midway through.
After all, it would defeat the purpose if someone wished to have a meaningful conversation but found themself stuck on the opposite side of the hall.
The reasoning behind this open format had been clearly stated in the invitations, along with the explanation given at the start of the event. That was important. At gatherings attended by nobility, failing to provide such details could easily lead to trouble. Rather surprisingly, these individuals of high birth would often stand up in outrage, demanding, “Why don’t I have a designated seat?”
I smiled wryly at the thought, then turned to the woman beside me. “Which would you recommend, Tia?”
Before us stretched a table piled high with confections; cakes, cookies, and colorful jellies glimmered like gemstones under the chandeliers, Bertia’s eyes sparkling as brightly as the sweets themselves. When faced with a dessert spread, she was as adorable as a child in a candy shop.
“Let’s see… That fruit-topped cake is delicious, and those cookies over there, and— Oh! The jelly in that glass dish is lovely too!”
While listening to her enthusiastic rundown, I signaled to a nearby maid to serve a selection of what Bertia had pointed out.
“Ah! Wait, no, that’s not right!” she said, flustered, waving her hands. “Those are my favorites! For you, Lord Cecil, I recommend these cocoa cookies and those potato chips!”
“Potato chips?” I echoed, brow arching slightly. I’d never heard of them before.
And yet, something deep inside me is screaming at me. This must be one of those sweets from her previous life.
She beamed proudly. “Yes! They’re very simple to make, so even I remembered how to prepare them perfectly! Since there are gentlemen attending this tea party as well, I thought it would be nice to have some snacks that aren’t sweet, so I suggested them!”
“I see,” I murmured, unable to suppress a small laugh at her triumphant pose.
In a typical ladies’ tea party, the sweets of choice would be sugary and lavish confections meant more to charm the eye than to satisfy hunger.
Savory items like sandwiches were sometimes served at tea gatherings, but they were usually few in number, more of an afterthought than the main attraction.
Interestingly, this particular tea party had been designed for both men and women to enjoy. Naturally, there were plenty of gentlemen who liked sweets, but just as many who either didn’t care for them or felt too self-conscious to indulge in dainty frosted snacks in public.
Realizing this, Bertia had arranged for a broader selection of light foods, even going so far as to introduce these “potato chips,” her curious, unsweetened snack, to the menu.
That much, I understand. But still, could you please stop casually revealing your knowledge of your past life?
If her “unique insights” continued to stand out like this, she could end up attracting attention we didn’t want, especially from foreign nobility with sharp eyes for anything unusual.
This wasn’t Alphasta. We were on foreign soil.
The ladies-in-waiting who normally shadowed her every step and the loyal aides I relied on to handle security matters discreetly were both limited in number here. I couldn’t afford to let her draw unnecessary curiosity in a situation where my protection net was thinner than usual.
I should probably bring it up later. Gently, of course.
“Lord Cecil, these are the potato chips!” Bertia announced cheerfully, holding out a plate that a maid had just finished arranging. The golden, paper-thin slices gleamed under the light. They were simple and unadorned, and yet oddly inviting. “They’re made from potatoes! They’re very tasty, so please try one.”
I sighed inwardly. Well, that’s Bertia for you. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on things myself.
“All right then, let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
Bertia took one between her fingers and placed it in my mouth.
Crunch.
A crisp, satisfying sound broke the air as the delicate chip shattered between my teeth, spreading a gentle, savory flavor over my tongue—a clean saltiness that lingered just long enough to make me reach for another.
Yes, this is undeniably good.