She's glad for Alek's arm supporting her. Clings to it tightly.

His elegant jacket is getting wrinkled.

"You weren't this nervous about meeting me," he says, voice low.

"I wasn't wearing skirts a meter wide then, either."

He grins; her heart skips, and not from nerves.

The reception line moves forward. Names are called; dignitaries bow.

Deryn tries to remember her etiquette lessons, but panic squeezes it all out. She's about to meet the king. Of England. She took an oath to this man. 'Course, that was when she was a boy, but…

Alek leans close, whispers, "Just don't swear."