19

Delightful!" Mx. Caruso says. You hear the sound of scribbling in the background. "And we need something that will befit royalty, of course! Would your Highness be willing to provide guidance on the subject?"

You ask for:

."Hmm, yes," Mx. Caruso says. "Absolutely! This is going to be wonderful, I can promise you that!"

With a few more questions, they're done. The last time you spoke with them was for your eighteenth birthday party, when they were as enthusiastic and efficient as today, with every other sentence an exclamation. You wonder whether they're like that with everyone, or just with you.

When you emerge, Pascal meets you at the door, beaming. "What a time to be young," he says. "The Winter Ball is the highlight of the season! And I think you've got a few admirers waiting for you."

A little cluster of younger students wait, whispering and blushing, in the corridor. They scatter as you approach, but you hear something about "ask him! Ask him!"

There, of course, lies the question. At the Archambault Winter Ball, you'll need to ask someone to enter the ballroom with you. There's an assumption that it's a romantic overture, as with many such things, but you're sure you can ask someone in a way that does not imply romance. No one, yet, has been brave enough to ask you outright.

Then comes the fact that you need to pick your companion for the evening. You decide on:

Beaumont, of course, is easy to track down. You find them one evening in the Vercher House common room, reading. They do not see you at first, until you move closer; then they startle and close the book with a snap.

"Yes?" they say abruptly. "Can I help you?"

"It's about the Winter Ball," you say, and continue:

A pause, while Beaumont appears to be making calculations in their head. "Yes," they say eventually, and then open their book again.

Beaumont looks up, frowning. "I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't," they say. "Would I?"

You suppose not. Beaumont isn't someone who minces their words. You head for your rooms, to get ready for bed.

Finally, the day of the ball arrives. In your rooms, a pair of servants help you dress. Outside your darkened window, snow is falling thick and fast, illuminated by the soft light within.

The servants are efficient and deferential, murmuring over the beauty of the fabrics and the intricacy of the embroidery. Your suit is made of bright scarlet brocade, cut close to your hips and with a dramatically low-cut shirt. With your every movement the gold shimmers and dances; everyone will be watching you, whether they intend to or not.

You add a gold mask adorned with crimson feathers, a glittering coronet, and a pair of the finest velvet gloves to cap off the look.

It was a gift from Seneschal Fabien, from when he last went to Jezhan for a diplomatic trip. The jewels' deep color looks perfect against your skin. You meet your reflection's gaze in your full-length mirror and assess yourself. You look:

Whatever the rest of the students think of you, or Beaumont, you know how you feel. Soon, it's time to descend to the ceremonial hall.

Next.

Carriages line the drive leading up to the main Archambault building, and Gallatin students cluster around in the snow, breath steaming, eyes alight. Asher is close beside you, their arm almost brushing yours. They're wearing a pale blue suit and a plain blue mask. As soon as you see Beaumont, Asher steps away carefully, allowing you space.

Beaumont is dressed somberly, though expensively, in a dark green suit; their high-collared creamy shirt is buttoned right to their chin, and their green mask is unadorned. "I don't normally go to these things," they say. "Maybe tonight will be more interesting."

With a deep bow, they hold out a hand.

"Shall we, Prince Irad Motahhari?" they say.

You bend and brush your lips on Beaumont's gloved knuckles; as you do so, there's a hubbub of excitement around you as the other students realize what's happening, and that you are indeed going to walk in with Beaumont. The flurry of interest only stokes higher as you walk together to the banquet hall entrance.

You pause at the threshold, the warmth at your face contrasting oddly with the snowy chill at your back.

"Prince Irad Motahhari, son of Queen Estell of Westerlin, and Noble Laurie Beaumont!"

You Enter

Cheering and applause rise as you enter the ballroom. Hundreds of candles burn in sparkling chandeliers, while a huge fire roars at one end of the hall. Despite the lights, cutouts of elves and pixies placed at the windows cast strange jagged shadows across the ceiling, and the dinner tables are laden with dark linen. Excitement is in the air, of course, but also faint tension. It's exactly what you wanted when you picked this theme.

Everyone is watching you. The musicians strike up.

Next

You spot Trevelyan talking passionately with his partner, but he pauses as he sees you and flashes a smile at both you and Beaumont.

Nearby, you see Dominique and Javi amidst a large group of Archambault and Gallatin students at the buffet table. Dominique looks excited; Javi looks unimpressed.

"I heard," Beaumont says, "by which I mean Dominique blabbed it to everyone in the school, that there's going to be a hot air balloon or something happening."

They pause.

"I'm not fussed about what we do," they say.

You make a beeline for the vast glass doors, which have been thrown open for the occasion. Warm light spills onto the terrace outside, but as soon as you cross the threshold, the cold air hits you like a wave. Beaumont's jaw tightens, but they do not admit anything so undignified as feeling the cold.

You head for the trees at the end of the drive, and find a bench on which to rest. Not to mention conversing without being overheard. As Beaumont scuffs their shoe on the ground, dirt sprays up their pant leg.

"Damn it. Damn it!" Beaumont snaps, lips tight with annoyance.

They rub a hand over their eyes.

"Apologies," they mutter, not looking directly at you. "I'm not used to being around people outside the office after the summer. Poorly housetrained. Like my dog Patch."