Page 56 of Good As Hell

“Let Mistress Umar pass,” I say, ready for the nuisance to be over.

“High Consort,” she says sternly, looking down at me with disapproval. Presently I resemble an odalisque of old, but I will not let this schoolmarm think she can be disrespectful.

“Please have a seat, Mistress Umar, while I have refreshments sent in. Ladies, if you will excuse us.” I nod to Fi and Indigo, reminding the new arrival that her breach of protocol does not extend to airing my business in front of others any more than she has.

“How may I help you, Mistress Umar?” I ask as I pour her tea with practiced expertise.

Ignoring my hospitality, she clasps her hands leaning forward, eyes hard with anger.

“High Consort,” oh how she stresses that word, I muse, nodding for her to continue.

“As you well know, as presented by the schedule that was given to you upon your arrival at the palace, the prince’s primary studies should have already started. We allowed more time because of the unfortunate accident that befell you. However, we must now begin his lessons in deportment and Arabic.”

I let silence fall between us as I have in the many music industry meetings where I’ve had to advocate for myself.

I’m literally internally battling myself not to lash out at this woman who is clearly passionate about her job, which is to see my son educated properly as a prince so he can one day take the mantle from his father.

That is what I tell myself. Again and again, I remind myself that this lady is just doing her job. Don’t take it personal. Still.

“We won’t be doing that. At least right now.” I say after a small eon. One I use to talk myself out of cussing this heffa out. I am the High Consort, not some alley whore like my mom used to call the girls who fought in the street. I am not just the prince’s consort, but his wife and I will be respected at such.

I can see her tuning up to clap back.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m very new to all this.” Waving a negligent hand to the room at large I take the opportunity to grab my tea. “I don’t feel comfortable putting this much stress on my son. He’s barely had his first birthday. We will revisit this when he’s a little older.”

Pulling herself so rigid the resembles the Sphinx, Mistress Umar allows the disdain she feels for me flood her face. “His Royal Highness and his brother, Prince Sadiq were in class full time when they were only a little older.”

Her words snag my interests. “Well, if they were older, then I’m sure Ayaan can wait a little longer. My husband said the king took on the majority of their learning until they formally began school —”

“Yes,” Bristling she’s quick to add after another dismissive sweep of her gaze, “The princes’s did not have any other undue influence.”

A smug little smile tugs at my lips. “And what is the undue influence you’re referring to, Mistress?”

She harrumphs as if further aggrieved about having to spell it out. “You being a foreigner, an American, unable to speak our language. You must admit that your culture, or rather lack ofit, is a hindrance to the young prince. The sooner he’s removed from that influence, the better.”

When I say it takes everything not to jump up and molly whop her ass…

“I’m surprised as an educator you’d be so ignorant, Mistress. Black American culture is rich. Many North Africans come to live in America, assimilate with Black Americans and are the better for it. When His Highness and his brother came to the US, they met and befriended my friend, FADE. That relationship proved to be the best thing they ever could have done. Many times they came to Sunday dinner with FADE’s family. Black Americans have given not only much to my country but to the world. We have strong families despite the challenges of the past. We thrive.” I’m proud I managed to keep my tone level. “Now, I will have some reading material sent to you and I encourage you and the rest of your staff to do an immersive study on Black American History and culture before you come to me again about educating my son.” Standing I wait for her to rise.

Face flushed with anger, she rises, our height difference clear. “High Consort, I mean no offense?—”

“None was taken. Your concern is noted and I’ll pass it on to my husband.” Waving her away, and ignoring the look of horror etched across her face, I move to the entrance giving her no choice but to follow.

I barely acknowledge her bow before turning back to friends reemerging from the garden I banished them to for this bullshit.

“These stuck-up bitches, I swear,” Fifi grouses as she takes the couch opposite me.

“You were magnificent.” Indigo grabs the tablet she’s left.“You were so classy and never raised your voice while you told her off.”

“Regal even,” Fi agrees with a wink. Not adding much to my relief that I wasn’t given that honor. I guess we are both acclimating to our new environment. Though I’m not so sure that is for the best.

As much as the last few weeks have brought peace, none of it seems real. It is as if I’m playing a part I wasn’t the first choice for. I’m the last minute replacement for the act that got stuck in a storm and I don’t like that. I’ve been the star too long to be made to feel like I don’t have star billing.

The fact remains. This is Khadijah’s spot. This room is the palette she designed. When the staff came to me asking if I wanted to change it soon after we arrived, I said no because at the time I doubted we’d be here long. Now, I can’t help but see how she imagined welcoming Hassan home after he’d had meetings all day concerning the kingdom.

Would he find it soothing when she welcomed him home? Or would he be removed and surly like he is sometimes with me?

It’s silly to compare. No one is Lyric, the Empress. Still, would he rather a butterfly than the sparrow he calls me?

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