The waitress arrived with the tea a few moments later.
She moved carefully through the narrow space between the tables, both hands gripping the small tray so tightly that her knuckles had turned pale.
Her eyes flickered toward me once.
Then quickly away.
The tray rattled faintly.
[Observation: the girl appears convinced you might curse her.]
I remained silent.
The maid reached our table and lowered the tray with trembling hands.
"Y-Your tea, Your Highness… Your Grace."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
She placed the cups down with the care of someone setting fragile glass on a cliff's edge.
The teapot followed.
Then she stepped back immediately, as though distance itself might protect her.
Her eyes darted toward my face.
Then toward the door.
Then toward the floor again.
The poor girl looked ready to flee at any moment.
[If you hiss at her, she may faint.]
I picked up my cup calmly.
The warmth of the porcelain seeped into my fingers.
