Fiona
The interior decorator was a slight woman with shiny, shoulder-length black hair pinned back on one side with a neat bronze hairclip that matched her stylish blazer. She greeted me with a gigantic smile. “I’m sorry,” she said instead of hello. “I am quite nervous about meeting you, Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Fiona.” I could see those nerves in the way the woman’s hands were slightly trembling. I hoped she was not about to try to shake my hand. I did not need to catch a dose of her energy, though it is difficult to be polite about declining an offered handshake.
Fortunately, the woman gave me a small bow instead. I still felt awkward when people did this, but in this moment I was grateful for the alternative to handshaking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fiona. I’m Isabel.”
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