FORTY-ONE
When George took his seat at the high table, he had to admit it was a heady experience. Never had he seen so many people crowded into one room before, and all of them so richly dressed. He glanced down at his own simple clothes, but Melitta had assured him they were good enough. The court wanted to see a fighter, a hero, the man who had slayed their dragon scourge. Still, it didn't help him to not feel self-conscious when everyone around him wore silks at bright as flowers while he wore wool.
Fine wool, for he could afford it, but wool nonetheless. And right now, it made him itch like the coarsest stuff imaginable with all those eyes on him. How did Melitta stand such scrutiny?
Only now did he understand why she didn't want to sit at the high table. So many people staring...
