A Royal Fumble

The invitation, embossed with a crest Arthur swore he’d only ever seen on the kingdom’s most notoriously flamboyant postage stamps, lay on his worn wooden table like a gaudy, unwelcome guest. "The Duke and Duchess of Silverstream request the honour of your presence at a Grand Ball," it proclaimed in elegant, swirling script. Arthur, who’d spent the morning trying to coax a stubborn knot out of his only decent shoelace, felt a familiar knot tightening in his stomach. A grand ball. For *him*.

Seraphina, bless her ever-optimistic heart, had been ecstatic when she’d presented him with the missive. She’d clutched his hand, her eyes sparkling like the finest enchanted jewels. "It's a gesture, Arthur! A sign that they’re… well, trying."

Trying? Arthur privately thought they were trying to see if he’d spontaneously combust from sheer social inadequacy. He’d already endured a week of excruciatingly polite, yet pointed, dinners at their manor. Each meal was a culinary tightrope walk, where the slightest misstep – like asking for a second helping of the shimmering, self-stirring consommé – resulted in a chorus of horrified gasps from the Duchess and a barely perceptible twitch of the Duke’s impeccably groomed eyebrow.