Notes from the authoress: Big thanks to everyone for the positive feedback!
And I realize I use a lot of the French ballet-lingo, especially within the next chapter or two, even though I doubt Narnians would, because, honestly, you can't talk about dance without using French.
2
"Oh, Your Highness!" Peter forced a smile as the plump woman rushed to embrace him.
"Lady Oilell," he offered, forcing a slight, uncomfortable laugh as she grabbed his face to kiss his cheek. "It's good to see you again."
"Oh it's good to see you," she offered, looking up at him. Even with the added height of her wild, dark hair, she only reached the Narnian King's shoulders. "Look at you. A man already, and so handsome...I expect the ladies are coming to call by now." Peter nodded awkwardly.
"A few," he managed to force out. The Duchess of Galma scoffed good-naturedly.
"A few? Oh, posh," she teased, catching his understatement, sighing heavily. "Let me tell, you, if I were a few years younger—" Peter blushed with furious discomfort at the notion.
A boy-king of a different upbringing may not have stood for such embarrassment. But, Peter reasoned, even if he was the High King of Narnia, the Duchess was still quite a few years his senior, and so deserved his respect...or at least his disgruntled tolerance.
"You know I was just going to greet some of the other guests, Lady Oilell, perhaps you'd like to join me?" Peter sighed in relief as Susan came to his rescue.
"Why that would be lovely, yes, thank you," the older woman agreed. "Oh, I trust you remember the Baron, Lord Bearach." The Duchess motioned to the dark, rigid man to her right.
"Yes of course," Peter extended an arm to offer the man a stiff handshake meeting the Baron's paralyzing stare resiliently. (Young Queen Lucy had been the first to propose the handshake as the official greeting at Cair Paravel, although it did take Mr. Tumnus a good while to get the hang of it.)
Peter had admittedly never liked Lord Bearach, but Lady Oilell seemed rather fond of him and so, as affable as she (usually) was, Peter reasoned, how much trouble could he be?
The trumpets sounded to signal the start of dinner, and all the guests began to file into the grand dining hall. There were three long oaken tables arranged in a sort of inverted 'U' with chairs only on one side so that the serving and clearing of the various courses could be done more easily. The four kings and queens were seated at the shorter table that was perpendicular to the two others with seats placed between them, so that mingling with the foreign dignitaries would be easier.
The dinnertime entertainment was exquisite. There were jugglers and gymnasts from Archenland, performing comic and shocking feats, skilled swordsmen reenacting famous battles and duels of ages long past. Even the men from Calormen with painted faces breathing fire and swallowing swords were entertaining. All the while they were accompanied by the most skilled instrumentalists in all of Narnia.
The food had been exceptional. Every delightful food you could imagine was being served. Roasted duck and turkey, as well as glazed hams and rich beef stew. Every vegetable imaginable had mad and an appearance, whether mashed, creamed, or backed in a delicious casserole. And of course, there were always several trays of sardines circulating the table.
By the time the tasty desert of steamed pudding, baked apples, and cherry pie, and the preparations for the ball had begun, the Duchess of Galma had finally maneuvered her way into the seat beside Peter.
"My Lords, my Ladies, and Your Royal Highnesses," Lord Bearach announced, coming forward as a new group of musicians entered the hall. There was a young man with drums of polished wood and leather, a curvaceous young girl with bouncing curls of blond hair and a flute, as well as various other elements of string and brass.
"I would like to introduce," the shady Baron continued as the musicians began to play a melee of notes and chords behind him. "For your pleasure, the Galma corps de ballet would like to present a modern comedy."
"Oh a comedy!" Lucy began excitedly.
"It's positively delightful," the Duchess Oilell replied, leaning into Peter casually. The young king recoiled awkwardly as she continued, "One of the coryphée came up with the whole thing. It's really a delightful dance. Don't you think it's just delightful, Your Highness?"
"Well," Peter answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I haven't seen it yet."
OOOOO
"I feel naked as a jaybird," one of the young dancers waiting out in the hall declared.
"Yes, but as proud as a peacock as well," Zoya replied and laughed, watching one of her closest friends adjusted the scrap of leather secured over her front by thin strings crisscrossed on her back. The other girl laughed, Adele was a sweet girl, kind, with a good sense of humor, and well-liked by everyone.
"You look better in it than I do, Adele," Zoya offered, citing her generous curves.
All the female dancers wore the same brown leather tops and gauzy, multicolored skirts that were tattered at the bottom to give a flowing effect with every movement they made. The two male dancers wore lightweight, straight-leg black slacks and quarter-length-sleeved shirts.
"Well," Adele offered at length, "We both look like cows compared to..." Her voice trailed off, but Zoya followed her gaze to Isi, the slender beauty with raven hair and eyes darker than coal, she was also the troupe's primary soloist.
"If you mess up again I'll break your legs!" The high-pitched squeal pulled the girls from their jealous reverie, as Isi had targeted Ciaran for her latest outburst. He wrung his hands together nervously as she stomped away.
"Hey," Zoya offered him sweetly, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "Everything alright?" He nodded, swallowing awkwardly.
"Just have to remember how to breathe," he replied with a nervous smile. There was a pause between them before he asked, "Are we going to do the lift?"
"Of course," the young woman answered. He smiled down at her and she smiled back.
"You trust me?" He questioned, Zoya nodded.
"You're the strongest man I know," she reminded him. A lock of Ciaran's shoulder-length, light-brown hair had come loose from where it had been tied behind his neck and Zoya went to brush it out of his eyes.
"Do you want to practice it?" He asked, "Once more." That was when they heard their accompanists strike their opening chord.
"I suppose not then," Zoya replied, seeming nervous. "Well, let's have fun then." Ciaran rolled his eyes.
"And be safe," he reminded her.
