Bound By The Crown

Chapter Eleven

Lisanna Moore's P. O. V

I glance to and fro from the extended hand that's being waved about in my face and over to the body where the arm is attached to. The man in question gives me an annoyed expression, one that I've become all too familiar with and hence building up a respectable tolerance towards. After all I can't be too nonchalant since he is the one who can cause my reputation to tatter in front of my superiors.

"Um, May I ask what you need?" The caution in my tone or maybe even my simple question earns me an exasperated look as he blows air through parted lips while staring down at me with furrowed brows.

"Your phone. You don't expect to greet the King and Queen with your phone in your hand do you?" His question has my eyes zeroing in on the object currently cradled in both hands while I find myself flushing at the rather obvious statement. My mind then wanders to the numerous times I've met Mr. Sinclair with the device in hand and it has me wondering if he's seen it as rude or improper because if so, Rose and I both have berating treatment coming our way. "I don't count. Not yet, anyway." He says in such a low whisper that if I weren't hanging on to every word which leaves his lips, I would have missed it completely.

Deftly obliging to his demand, I hand the man my phone, unsure what he plans to do with it and being pleasantly surprised for some reason, when Mr. Sinclair slips the device into the innermost pocket of his suit jacket right next to his own. I won't lie and say I'm not mesmerised repeatedly by the spacious pockets found in men's clothing compared to the always lacking of pockets in all of mine.

"Thank you." I say in the same almost silent whisper of his, not wondering if he's heard it or not since I'm not quite sure how to handle myself in such a situation. Considering the fact that Rose and I were to be debriefed and given a whole mini course on etiquettes before we were to meet the whole Royal family, I wasn't too stressed about messing up with my bowing when it came to Thaddeus Sinclair since it's quite apparent he wants to be as far away from such falsities and impractical niceties. I might judge him based on his no bullshit personality but I don't peg him one for impracticalities, which I guess I just might come to admire him for.

I eye the man inconspicuously, something feeling off about the way Mr. Sinclair is handling himself. I can't pinpoint anything yet which is why I remain silent, trying to get myself to stop fretting over something that is most likely nothing but my mind plaguing me with nonexistent issues.

We enter through a side door and not the main entrance which I presume is rarely used unless for auspicious occasions with leaders emerging from around the world or something of the sorts. The side entrance leads to a sight I'm getting quite used to which consists of passages seemingly coming out of magazines what with the immaculate paintings hanging proudly on the wall with gold mouldings, priceless ornaments of old with wild flowers taking up their space in the free flowing air of the long endless corridors.

Members of staff rushing to and fro in your typical outfits of maids and butlers. One certain act that doesn't escape my notice being the way they nearly fall over their own two feet with the tenacity in which they bow. Their acts being one of respect and submission but the murmurs and lingering stares full of intrigue and gossip desperately wanting to leak out to whoever lends a willing ear.

I'm not sure if my mind is playing tricks on me since I'm taking by surprise for two reasons. The first being that I can take heed of something as minute as such a thing, and the second being what I witness has a pinch of worry coursing through me. That being the slight tightness around Mr. Sinclair's bright green eyes and the tugging down at his lips, not a frown of bemusement but one which tells me it's more around the feelings of one akin to being upset.

I don't bring it up for obvious reasons and instead follow behind the counterpart of Mr. Thomas, marvelling discreetly at the building as Mr. Sinclair so simply likes to put it. We reach what appears to be a parlour that's decked out in vintage patterns and gaudy colours which somehow balance each other out. Maybe it's because I'm partial to older more Victorian styles but am too intimidated to implement them myself, which is why everything is so minimalistic in my own living quarters.