Most of the people were crowded around the two-story wing of the castle. Guests gradually made their way inside, though moving quickly was difficult: footmen in red livery stood at the entrance, checking invitation tickets.
"Dad, are we going there?" Richard asked, nodding toward the crowd.
"Yes, Richie," the duke replied. "In that wing, at Aunt Lisa's, are the ballroom and the reception hall."
Aunt Lisa, huh? the transmigrator thought. Hmm… I'm not mistaken in assuming that Gerald called Queen Elizabeth II that… Holy cow! This blows my mind.
Soon, Richie and Gerald were inside. The boy gasped, unable to tear his eyes away from the beauty before him.
The ballroom was thirty-six meters long and eighteen meters wide, finished in Carrara marble. Its exquisite Gothic interior was adorned with paintings by famous artists.
Curious, Richie climbed the wide staircase to the second floor and found himself in a vast dining hall. From the outside, it hadn't been apparent that the ceilings here were so high. Moreover, the ceiling was made of glass mosaic, through which the sky itself could be seen.
The walls were shaped into arches, some protruding forward, others forming niches. On the protruding sections, at a height of about four meters, marble pedestals seemed to grow directly from the walls. Upon them stood gleaming suits of plate armor, two-handed swords clasped in their hands. Notably, there was a considerable gap between the helmets and the ceiling. This space not only concealed electric lamps that illuminated the ceiling and bathed the hall in light, but also allowed room for delicate gilded metal structures supporting the glass above. In the niches stood gilded pedestals bearing marble busts of ancient rulers.
In the center of the reception hall, stretching from one end to the other, stood a broad table lined with hundreds of chairs upholstered in burgundy. The chairs were arranged so that guests could leave without disturbing their neighbors, and during meals they would not jostle each other with their elbows. Behind the chairs there was ample space for several waiters and guests to pass one another with ease. In fact, it was so spacious that one could even drive a car through. The dining table itself was no less than a meter and a half wide—perhaps even two. Along its center, at regular intervals, electric lamps disguised as candles were installed.
Luxur! Splendor! Gold and chic! That was what came to mind for anyone who found themselves in this room of the castle.
Richie held his breath as he continued to examine the reception hall, discovering new details each time—such as portraits of kings and queens he hadn't noticed before. Although it was strange, really, not to have seen paintings two to three meters tall and more than a meter wide, depicting rulers standing at full height. And the red carpet runners? No wonder he had missed them, dazzled as he was by the glare of gold on every side. Even the giant fireplace at the far end of the room—at least five by five meters in size—was lost against the backdrop of such splendor. Besides, it was quite far away.
At last, the spell faded, and Richard decided to return to the ballroom. The crowd had grown there, and Richie could no longer find his father.
Turning his head, he searched for familiar faces. He noticed an elderly man in a blue suit exactly like the Duke of Westminster's. Assuming it was his father, the boy headed in that direction.
When Richie reached him, the man had his back turned, speaking with an elderly lady dressed in blue, wearing a matching hat adorned with a small bouquet of wildflowers.
Richie tugged lightly at the man's jacket and said,
"Dad, I lost you."
The man turned around, and Richie immediately realized his mistake. From behind, he had looked similar, but face to face the differences were obvious: no glasses, slightly fewer wrinkles, and blue eyes. There was a small bald spot at the front of his head, and his face was less round than Gerald's. A warm smile spread across his lips.
"Richie!" the man exclaimed jiyfully, clearly recognized the boy. "Hello, kid. You've grown since we last saw each other."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Richard said, embarrassed. "I made a mistake."
The old lady looked at Richard fondly and handed him a piece of candy.
"You're Gerald's son, aren't you?" she asked.
Richard accepted the candy from the elderly lady's hand, put on a charming smile, and replied,
"Thank you, ma'am. Yes, I'm Gerald Grosvenor's son. Richie."
"Oh, what a charming young man," the elderly lady said warmly. "Call me Grandma Lizzie."
"Grandma Lizzie?!" Richie echoed, his voice full of questioning surprise.
At that moment, it dawned on the transmigrator exactly who he was speaking to, and the realization sent a wave of cognitive dissonance through him. Could he ever have imagined that one day the Queen of Great Britain herself would give him candy? Richard turned to the elderly man and asked,
"Uncle Charlie, is that you? I'm sorry—I didn't recognize you at first."
"Ho-ho-ho! Uncle Charlie!" Prince Charles laughed heartily. "You used to call me godfather. Well, I like it—keep calling me that, Richie. I suddenly feel young again, as if I've shed thirty years."
"Charlie, take the boy to the children's hall," the Queen said to her son.
"Yes, yes," Prince Charles replied. "Richie, come with me."