A/N: Thank you all for your continual support and kind words :)

Raising the Barre

Neelam Subramani was a strange creature.

She was her own brand of special, moods shifting from pensive to expressive to hyperactive in a second. To say she loved history was an understatement. She was way too excited about the tiniest things, from the books on the shelves to the portraits on the walls. Her sense of style was bizarre, a mix between traditional Indian one day to a pair of Versace pants and matching heels and blouse the next. There was no rhyme or reason to the jewels she wore, eastern jewels on her head and western ones on her wrists and fingers. She was a meeting of the worlds, a clash of cultures, and it worked for her.

All of that Gen could deal with. Gen could even deal with Neelam's constant barrage of questions and endless historical facts. What Gen could not deal with was the fact that Neelam had taken over the Hall of Mirrors for her afternoon ballet practices. A barre was set against the mirrored wall, a hundred Neelams stretching and twirling in unison. It made Gen's head hurt, and the music she played - covers of classical Mozart and Brahms - did nothing to help. It ruined Gen's routine, Neelam's presence ruining the sense of solitude while orchestral tracks drowned out the hum of the palace as the staff shuffled and bustled.

Despite this mild nuisance, Gen did her best to focus. She laid down on the wooden floors and stared up at the murals on the ceiling. Around her were files, the files she should have read about her Selected before they showed up at her house. Lucas Travert's was already set to the side, a green sticky note on top indicating that she had already gone through it. Not that she didn't believe his story, but one could never be too careful. It was all in there - the Russian father, traveling, photography, and his impressively athletic sisters.

One down, thirty-four to go.

She would have to date them all eventually, so, upon Heather's insistence, Gen needed to create a plan and she decided that this would be the best way to figure out who she wanted to date first. There were some files that promptly got sent to the bottom of the pile; in fact there were eight that she decided would be sent home at the soonest possible convenience (to the guards not to the boys) because it would be a cold day in hell before she went out with a man who had six cats or another who was a professional mime. Her mother's ban against mass-elimination be damned, Gen would have her way on this one. Did her parents even screen these guys? Perhaps she should have been more involved in the logistics instead of running off to Illéa.

Regrets aside, there were ten guys who stood out, the cream of the crop so to speak. Lucas Travert was one of them, but there were others like Anatole, Dante, and Ulysse whose profiles glittered. They would make fabulous additions to the palace, however short their stays. Besides, the ten prospects on top seemed the most likely not to bore her to death. It might have been clinical to divvy up her suitors this way, but she had always been good at prioritizing...it's just sometimes her priorities were body shots, not dating.

Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 ended and Tchaikovsky took over in a storm of violins, reminding Gen once more that she was not alone. Neelam held her leg above her head in an impossible position. Gen cringed just looking at her.

"Can I help you with something?" Neelam asked passively, body leaning over the barre.

Gen hadn't realized she'd been staring.

"I'm wondering how you don't snap your back."

Neelam laughed under her breath. "Years of practice and discipline."

"Sounds fucking terrible."

Neelam laughed some more. "Yeah, it really was. But it paid off."

As if to demonstrate, Neelam bent so far back it was as if she had folded her body in two and spun on the tips of her toes, pink satin slippers gliding effortlessly across the floor. It was mesmerizing to watch in a disturbing kind of way. And Gen thought the leg thing was painful...

"So what, you want to be a ballerina or something?" Gen asked, though she honestly did not care what Neelam wanted to do with her life. No doubt, whatever the girl chose she would be perfect, passionate, and drive everyone around her fucking nuts, just like her mother.

"I can't decide," Neelam mused, reaching down to pick up her towel, dabbing her forehead gently. "Ballet is more a hobby. History is my passion. Though lawmaking has its perks as well, and I have family ties in India that can help me with that."

"Don't you think you're kinda young to be involved in politics?"

"Isn't that hypocritical coming from a twenty-two year old soon-to-be queen?" Neelam countered, brow raised in challenge.

"True. You've got me there," Gen admitted.

"Besides, Mom was a counselor-in-training in Illéa by the time she was fifteen. I'm behind the curve."

"Don't compare yourself to her," Gen waved the ridiculous thought away as if it were a pesky fly. "When it comes to Heather Bloomsdale, everyone is behind the curve."

Neelam nodded, but said no more. Gen didn't know if the girl was considering her words or simply thinking about something else. Whatever it was, Neelam looked much less playful than before, her sharp eyes surveying the ring of manilla folders on the ground. She sat next to Gen and picked one up, rifling through the papers.

"What's all this?"

"Nothing, just your mother driving me up a wall," Gen sighed, flinging one of the reject files across the hall, not caring where it landed. "How do you deal with her?"

"She wasn't always this bad."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I'm serious," Neelam laughed, walking over and lying down to join Gen on the floor. "The divorce has been hard on her, not that she'd ever show anyone. She feels like she's losing control, so she's overcompensating."

"Just a bit," Gen teased, squinting through pinched fingers. Neelam rolled her eyes, but they still held their humor.

"My father used to tell me stories about when they were younger. About parties where they would dance all night and she couldn't stop laughing. How her smile would outshine a hundred summer suns," Neelam said dreamily, staring at the murals on the ceiling as if they contained memories. "When he first met her, he tried to woo her by saying that her eyes were like sapphires."

"That's so cheesy," Gen chuckled. "Did it work?"

"Almost..." Neelam replied, a smile on her face. "It was so bad that she said she had to find out what possessed him to say it in the first place, and the rest is history. She gave him hell for it for the first three months they were dating. Then, of course, they used that awful pick up line to name me."

"How?"

"Neelam literally means 'blue sapphire'. Kind of redundant but at least there's a funny story behind it," Neelam said. Then her voice got quieter, as if she were putting long-festering, traitorous thoughts to words. "Sometimes I think they didn't want to get divorced...If they did, they'd be happier. But they're just so sad..."

Comforting had never really been Gen's thing. She always thought herself too emotionally detached to be of much help. But this was Neelam, and so Gen felt compelled to try.

"Hey, I can't really speak to your dad, but your mom seems like one complicated lady. I'm sure they had some pretty good reasons."

Neelam didn't say anything. Instead, she continued to look at the ceiling. Gen got the distinct feeling that this conversation had hit a nerve, a very sensitive one that Neelam no longer wished to talk about. That was another one of her quirks: she had no problem talking up a storm unless it was about her or her family. Then, she became one of the most quiet people in the world.

"Did you know that the original decorative plan was to cover the ceiling with images of Apollo, because, you know, he was the sun god and this was the palace of the Sun King? But that didn't work out because some other palace had that in the works, so Louis XIV just had the entire ceiling dedicated to himself instead."

"Surprisingly, I did know that," Gen chuckled. Neelam was deflecting, something Gen knew very well, so she didn't push. "Come on. I think we've fucked around long enough."

Gen sat up and pulled Neelam with her. They'd both wasted enough time. Gen had work to do, and Heather was bound to come looking for her daughter at some point. The last thing Gen wanted to do was get caught in a mother-daughter showdown, and something told her that Neelam and Heather's arguments were ones for the history books.

Unfortunately their good mood was ruined by the presence of an intruder. Normally, such intruders this far into the palace included Heather, Maman, or Papa. This time, however, the intruder was a Selected. Salvatore to be exact.

"Ladies!" his voice boomed across the hall.

Salvatore was dressed in slacks and a button down that was barely buttoned up, those that were buttoned straining to stay closed. He was trying too hard to be sexy. He might as well have plastered his intentions across his forehead. They would scream, I'm here to get laid! And on most girls, Gen thought that his forward brand of cringe-worthy charm would work. Instead, it irritated her. The way he sauntered in the hall and interrupted them like he owned the place ground on Gen's nerves. Couldn't he see that she and Neelam were busy?

"Votre Altesse," Salvatore said in his long, drawn out accent, taking her hand to kiss. "May I say you look radiant this afternoon."

"Uh, thank you..." Gen trailed off, looking to Neelam for help, but all she did was shake her head like this wasn't her problem.

"And who are you?" Salvatore asked, following Gen's gaze to where Neelam stood. He gave her a once-over, not so subtly checking her out which made Gen irrationally angry that he had the gall to look at another, substantially younger girl while attending her Selection.

Neelam only crossed her arms over her chest and stated, "Not interested."

"So feisty," Salvatore said amusedly, though Gen could see he was not used to rejection and it stung his pride. "You would fit right in in Italy."

"Uh-huh..." Neelam trailed off, not impressed by the flattery. She gathered her water bottle and her towel and started walking away. "I'll leave you two to it."

Gen glared at Neelam, cursing the girl for leaving her alone to deal with her problems. The nerve! Now she had no excuse to leave, no one on which to blame her sudden urge to flee. If she were out on the two, usually this was the part of the night where she got Beau to call her with an 'emergency' to extract her from an awkward situation. But her phone was in her pocket and Beau would only make things worse. Gen was undoubtedly stuck with Salvatore, and suddenly the appeal to throw herself out the window became so much greater.

"Have you ever been to Italy?" Gen asked, forcing herself to make small talk. At least it kept him from staring at her like she was something to eat.

"Every summer since I was five," he replied proudly, puffing out his chest as if traveling to another country was an achievement.

"And I'm guessing you have family there?"

"My Nana and all the Esposito cousins," Salvatore explained, something wistful in his eye. "My parents were the only ones to move away. It broke their hearts."

Gen tried to muster sympathy, but she just couldn't. It wasn't like France and Italy were far...or enemies. Borders were quite open. Travel was not a hardship, at least not for a guy with very expensive taste in clothes. The cost of his shoes alone would be enough to cover a first class ticket.

"Don't you ever...I don't know...want to move back?" Gen suggested not-so-subtly.

Dieu, Gen wished he did so she could send him home out of practicality. The Queen of France could not marry someone who resided in a country other than hers. It was law. If Salvatore decided today to get on the boat to Sicily, Gen would pay for his fare.

"Does the princess not want me to stay?" Salvatore asked, affronted.

Oui.

"Non," Gen assured even though it was a lie. "It's just, you seem so sad when you talk about Italy. I don't want you to be miserable here."

"Princess, how could I ever be sad when I can bask in your heavenly beauty?" he said, taking Gen's hand and holding it to his chest.

Was this guy for real?

"That's...so sweet of you Salvatore..." Gen trailed off, very uncomfortable.

"If she thinks this way, then why has Votre Altesse not accepted my invitation to dinner?" he asked, his eyes shining with hurt. His violent emotions were giving her whiplash, and the way he talked about her in the third person to her face was strange. Stranger still was his gall to continue with, "I saw you choose that other man over me last night."

"Uhhh..."

Gen's brain short-circuited. Out of all the things she expected from this Selection - from Beau's scheming to breaking hearts - she did not expect this. She did not expect the weirdly intense competition between guys to develop so quickly, and even more alarmingly, reach her in the course of one night. Une nuit. It had only been a little over twelve hours since her date with Lucas and already Salvatore was hounding her about it. Were his pride and ego really so fragile that he needed to seek validation as to why Gen did not respond to his informal request to dinner? She thought they were just flirting, as one-sided and alarming as it had been. The request was banter upon first meeting, nothing of substance and certainly not a proposition befitting a princess. The entire scenario was absurd, but there was Salvatore, taking everything personally.

"Tell me, what does he have that I do not?" Salvatore insisted rather desperately, holding Gen's hand hostage until she gave him some answer. "Blond hair and pale skin are no comparison to my Italian blood, and I am far more physically fit so tell me - did he do something? Say something? Tell me what speaks to your soul and I shall give it to you."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, it wasn't like that," Gen insisted, trying to twist away, but Salvatore's grip was stronger, keeping her in place. "Lucas brought me flowers. He was kind. I wanted to thank him. End of story."

"Flowers! Of course!" Salvatore exclaimed, releasing Gen's hand to pull at his hair. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"Stupid?"

Gen watched Salvatore pace between the mirrors, his reflections showing some kind of newfound mania. She wondered if he had truly lost it. There was a moment where she seriously considered calling the guards in to escort Salvatore out. When he looked up at her, his eyes were alit and unfocused as if he were seeing the room completely differently.

"Princess, I shall decorate these halls in all the flowers your heart desires!" he proclaimed, arms spread out as he envisioned his plan coming to fruition.

"That really isn't necessary..."

"Oh, but I insist!"

"I really wish you wouldn't."

"Nonsense," Salvatore dismissed, not requiring her opinion any longer. "I shall decorate this palace in so many flowers that it will bring the great Gardens of Versailles to shame."

"Salvatore, I don't want your flowers," Gen said bluntly, and quite harshly if she were being honest. But she was tired of his shit, and just tired in general, and being nice to annoying suitors was not high on her list of priorities. "If I see one petal in this hall I will scream."

"Ah, I see...playing hard to get?" he said slyly, and honestly Gen had no idea why he couldn't take a hint. Salvatore winked and started backwards out the door, a grin on his face that looked as if they were sharing a secret. "I understand, and I'll play along for now, princess. But be warned, I will win this game of ours in the end, and your heart will be mine."

With one last kiss to her knuckles, Salvatore released her of his exhaustive presence. He sauntered away like a man with a plan, head held tall and chest puffed out with pride. It was ridiculous. His ego must have been the size of the entire continent if he thought that, after all this, Gen actually craved his attention. Playing hard to get, her ass! She wanted to make him a giant neon sign that said "fuck off" but she knew that would not be in good taste. If only he were another creep at the nightclub...then she could punch him in the face and not feel bad about it. Maybe she already had in the past and didn't remember. She had done a lot of club punching in her life.

How the hell did he even get this far into the palace anyway? This hall was directly linked to the royal chambers; coming through was like an invasion of privacy, and Gen swore Heather gave all the guys a strict set of rules by which to abide; creeping on the royal family was probably pretty high up there on the list of things not to do. Perhaps Gen would have to get more guards to stand at the entrance and turn away unsavory visitors. Of course, that came with the setback of a lack of privacy, which was the whole point of her coming here in the first place...but then again Neelam already ruined that so why not add more obstacles? Soon there would be nothing sacred about her house, no safe spaces, and considering how vast the palace was, that was just sad.

As if to justify this need for restriction, another figure came into view, this one familiar and much more welcome even though he was a moody vision in black.

"You okay?" Arlo asked, and if Gen didn't know him, she would have thought him genuinely concerned. "With all the shouting and declarations of love, it sounded like a soap opera in here."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Gen dismissed, though Salvatore had left her a smashing headache in his wake. "Were you spying on me?"

"No," Arlo denied. "I heard yelling, came to check it out. Think some guards were right behind me."

"Great," Gen grumbled, pinching her nose. This was the one and only time she wished Henri had been around. Then she could have had him drop kick Salvatore's overly confident ass into next week.

"That guy's a dick," Arlo said, nodding at the place Salvatore previously stood. "Him and Lochan could have a contest to see who would win biggest asshole."

"It's a little early to start making enemies," Gen sighed, though a small part of her was hopeful that the guys would get each other kicked out for fighting or sabotage. It seemed so much more appealing to let their fragile senses of masculinity do all the hard work for her.

"You don't seem too concerned that it's been all of twenty-four hours and some of us can't stand each other."

"My only brother besides the five year old is gay. I'm not exactly an expert on typical male behavior," Gen replied, earning a smirk from Arlo. "Besides, you're the kind of person who hates everyone. For all I know, everything could be sunshine and roses."

"Fair. I'll give you that."

Arlo slumped up against one of the mirrors, unaffected by the smudges he was creating on the pristine glass. He looked at the ceilings much less appreciatively than Neelam had; she was willing to bet that he didn't know the fascinating history behind those murals. Instead, he pulled a cookie out of the pack under his arm and chewed.

"Found your way back to the kitchens I see," Gen noted, pointing to the mini stash of sweets. "Do you eat anything besides cookies?"

"No," Arlo replied, and popped one in his mouth for emphasis. On second look, Gen noticed not only had he taken cookies, but there was also a pack of assorted macarons and a caramel tin. It was disgusting that he ate all those sweets and didn't blow up like a balloon.

"I hope you get fat," Gen said, covering a smirk while Arlo looked offended. A few crumbs fell out of the corners of his mouth.

"Is this how you treat all your friends? By insulting them?"

"Isn't this how you treat yours?" Gen countered.

"Whatever princess," was all Gen got in return, Arlo slinking out the hall the same way he came.

Gen stifled a smirk. No matter that rough exterior, Gen knew Arlo was beginning to care. All that leather and black and brood but yet he had a heart after all. She didn't know why that gave her such satisfaction.

Sighing, her attention returned to the problem at hand: too many boys, too little time, and too little motivation. It was as daunting a task after the interruption as before. However, she knew one thing that would make this process run a little easier.

Gen dug out Salvatore's file and threw it with the rejects.