The Prince at Table Thirteen

How it begins

The new dishwasher had never seen a commercial sink.

Ivo Solano knew this because the man was looking at it with the solemn concentration of someone approaching a dangerous animal.

"Hot water on the left," Ivo said.

"Of course."

"Plates go in the rack."

"Naturally."

"And you can stop saying naturally. Nothing about your expression suggests nature has prepared you for this."

The man smiled. It transformed a face that had looked, until then, mostly expensive.

He'd introduced himself as Owen. He had no references, very good shoes, and a willingness to start immediately, which put him ahead of the three applicants who had asked whether the restaurant was open yet before declining to help open it.

Ivo handed him an apron.

"Trial shift. Paid. If you break something, tell me. If you burn yourself, tell me first."

Owen tied the apron with a knot so elaborate it seemed likely to require a ceremony to undo.

The lunch delivery arrived early. The electrician arrived late. The ice machine produced a noise like a disappointed horse. By four, Ivo had forgotten the stranger's shoes and begun noticing the way he listened when corrected.

At five, a woman stopped outside the front window.

She looked at Owen. Looked at her phone. Looked back.

"Please tell me that's not who I think it is," she said through the glass.

Owen's hands went still in the sink.

Ivo followed her gaze to the screen. A photograph showed the same face beneath a headline about a missing prince and a postponed engagement.

Behind him, the ice machine gave one final, tragic groan.

"Right," Ivo said. "Before we discuss whatever this is, did you put the spoons through twice?"

Owen looked at him with something startlingly close to relief.

"Yes."

"Good. We can begin with one thing that makes sense."