The fool is most generous with his words, a flood of nonsense and spittle spills from his lips.
I pull out a handkerchief, wipe my face, and try to maintain my smile.
Thankfully, he does not test my comprehension of his prattle, but merely asks if I understand.
“Yes,” I say. “Do go on.”
Sadly, he does, and I am subjected to more nonsense, more unwelcome moisture, and occasional stray bits of gristle.
“Try fainting,” whispers Duchess Morgan in my ear.
I roll my eyes and go limp.
Servants “revive” me as the fool moves on to his next victim.