“The king requests your presence at dinner,” he says, giving me a sullen look. The feeling’s mutual. “Request denied,” I say, closing the door. Marco’s foot shoots out and catches the door before it can latch shut. “You can’t deny the king’s request.” “Well, I am.” I give Marco’s foot a good kick. He yelps and pulls it back, and I slam the door shut. “What was that about?” my dad asks when I return to the room. “The king requested my presence at dinner.” “And?” my father asks. There’s loud knocking on the other side of the suite door. “I politely declined.”
