Ambrose was quite pleased with the staff. They had done well, and all was in readiness for the ball. Still, a last walk through the house to inspect for dropped food seemed a sound measure.

Upstairs, there was a great deal of females bustling about, with swishing petticoats and nervous chatter. Lady Bradley herself was overseeing the last minute details of Sara's toilette. Janet and her sister Nora - who, Ambrose was happy to find had an open hand with ginger biscuits - were attending Sara.

The young lady in question sat in the middle of this bevy of women which also included two ladies maids. Ambrose was reminded of his own youth, when he had been squashed in the center of a pile of his squirming brothers and sisters. Lady Bradley acted very much like his own mother had, pushing, tweaking, and rearranging them all. He whuffled a bit of sympathy in Sara's direction and continued with his inspection of the house.

On the main floor, maids were rushing back and forth, adjusting the ivy, holly, and shockingly, the mistletoe. Ambrose knew that Lady Bradley accepted the somewhat raucous nature of the Twelfth Night ball, but she had never before hung mistletoe. He also knew that she planned to have him shut up in her boudoir for the evening, and he was certainly not about to let that happen.

He paid scant attention to the brilliant candles, bright paper streamers, and colorful glass balls. Time was beginning to run short before the first guests would arrive, and he had left the most important chore for last.

Dodging the kitchen maid and several footmen, he made his way over to the tables with the wassail and cakes. The wassail smelled quite good, the rich aroma of apples, cinnamon, cloves, and brandy tickling his nose. Ambrose had high hopes that towards the end of the evening, someone would be careless with their cup and leave it within his reach, or at the very least unattended on some table near a handy chair.

The Twelfth Night cake was a towering monstrosity that Ambrose never quite understood. Cake was meant to be eaten, not looked at like art. All the icing curlicues reminded him of some of the women who called on Lady Bradley and refused to share any of their cake, even going so far as to call him a "horrid animal" when they thought her ladyship was not listening. But, her ladyship always listened, and no one who refused Ambrose cake ever received an invitation or morning call from Lady Bradley again.

Ambrose realized he was drooling a little as he stared at the mountainous confection. Quickly, he licked his chops, hoping no one had noticed. Next to the Twelfth Night cake was the King Cake, and it puzzled him exceedingly as to why humans would put a dried bean and dried pea in a perfectly good cake. There had been a good deal of giggling and speculation below stairs as to who would get the bean and be king. Humans were so silly, sometimes, forgetting that England had a queen, not a king.

The dining room was laid out with glittering crystal and shiny silver on several long tables. Evidently, Lady Bradley was expecting quite a crowd. All well and good, for crowds increased the chances of happy accidents involving dropped cutlets, potatoes, and spilled soup.

Ambrose's final stop was the library, where Mr. Carmichael and Donald were chatting with Janet's husband, Mr. Gilbert Bradley. The older gentleman each held a glass of whiskey, and Ambrose wrinkled his nose. That was one drink he had no desire to taste. By the slightly watery-eyed and choked expression on Donald's face, it was not something he usually partook of either, but he still looked rather proud to be included in such a grown-up thing as the gathering of the gentlemen before a ball.

Lady Bradley's voice boomed out at the top of the stairs, issuing last minute instructions, and Ambrose felt this was his cue to find a most clever place to hide so as to avoid being caught and imprisoned in the boudoir.

A quick dash that was only a little injurious to his dignity had him scrambling under the tablecloth of one of the dining tables. He settled down, resting his several chins on his paws, ready to wait until the crowd was thick enough that his presence would go unnoticed.

"Ambrose!" Lady Bradley called out. "Where is that dog?"

Ambrose licked his nose in satisfaction as her search was cut short by the arrival of the first guests.

Sara was a soldier and not one to retreat in the face of difficulty.

"But, surely," she said to herself as she studied her reflection in the mirror. "A soldier is free to say that he does not like war without being thought a coward. I will do what I must tonight, but I do not have to like it."

She stood in answer to a discreet knock at the door and grimaced as her wings nearly knocked over a vase of flowers. Lady Bradley had decided that Sara would go as a butterfly, no doubt to symbolize her chrysalis from the cocoon of poverty and obscurity into wealth and society.

"I am fairly certain there is no butterfly that wears this much lace," Sara thought, as she opened the door of Lady Bradley's boudoir.

"Sara!" Donald exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "You look so very beautiful!"

"Oh! Thank you," she managed to say. "Have you come to fetch me to the ball?" she added, taking pity on Donald's self-conscious blush.

"Yes. Yes!" he stammered, offering his arm. "Her ladyship wishes everyone to gather in the ballroom. The guests are arriving now."

Sara squared her shoulders and nodded as she took his arm. "Then, let us go. It would be polite to keep her waiting." She leaned in just a little and whispered, "And, it is up to you to keep me from falling down the stairs or maiming anyone. Between my slippers and my wings, I fear for not only my safety tonight, but those of Lady Bradley's guests!"

Her friendly remark restored Donald to some of his earlier confidence, for he had determined to make the most of this ball and ask for the first dance. After all, he had been the one to practice her dancing with. The first dance of the evening would be his reward, if only he could swallow the lump in his throat that prevented him speaking every time he opened his mouth to ask for the honor.

"How lovely!" she cried as they descended the staircase into the sparkling, candlelit foyer. Her admiration was cut short by the sight of Lady Bradley receiving her guests as they filed in through the front door. Janet and Gilbert stood next to her in the receiving line, greeting the guests as well.

Donald felt the sudden tension in Sara's hand in the crook of his arm. "Come on," he said with an impish smile. "Let's duck around to the dining room and enter the ballroom from the back."

Sara gave him a thankful look. Dear, thoughtful Donald! What a sweet boy he was. Someday, he would make a very fortunate young lady very happy. With a happy laugh, the two dashed for the dining room, giggling as Sara's wings almost took out a whole section of ivy that artfully hung over a great gilt mirror.

Breathless and very pleased with themselves, Sara and Donald entered the ballroom. Quickly, Sara scanned the growing crowd to see where Aunt Margaret, Uncle Hugh, and Nora were. She knew what their costumes were, and soon enough, she picked out Madame Bovary in a blue silk robe a la polonaise, Henry VIII who looked a bit sheepish in his scarlet stockings, and the lovely Greek muse draped in yards of tulle with her golden hair twined with a laurel wreath. Donald looked a little out of place as a Spanish hidalgo, but Sara thought it charming.

There was something oddly familiar about the plump woman in the green velvet dress and medieval wimple who was speaking to Nora.

"Ermengarde!" Sara cried with delight. She tugged at Donald to make haste over to where Nora and Ermengarde stood.

"Ermie, I had no idea you were to come!" Sara said, embracing her friend.

"Oh, yes, well," she replied, blushing and hugging Sara back. "My fiance is a distant cousin of Gilbert Bradley's. Janet is my chaperone tonight, for my father had no wish to come out."

Sara looked sympathetically at Ermengarde, who seemed rather deflated at speaking of her fiance. "Well," she said. "We shall simply have to endure tonight together. What shall we be? Prisoners of the Bastille or soldiers on the eve of battle?"

Ermengarde laughed nervously and said, "But, Sara, you can't be a prisoner of a Bastille any more. You're a princess, now. A real princess in the eyes of society."

"I am learning that a princess can also be a prisoner," Sara thought to herself.

Donald cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "Uh, Sara?"

"Yes, Donald?"

"May I have the honor of the first dance of the evening?"

The poor boy looked as though he was about to faint from nervousness. Sara instinctively wanted to put him at ease and smiled kindly at him as she acquiesced. Being kind and having good manners was the easy part of being a princess.

It was just everything else that was turning out to be hard.

Never had being a princess been so difficult as it was that evening at the ball, dressed in silk, with pearls around her neck and diamonds on her ears.

Sara smiled her quaint, polite smile until her cheeks ached, and her fine little temper – never fully tamed – was simmering close to the surface.

She felt horribly self-conscious every time she took to the dance floor with a young man, even with Donald. Even though she had enjoyed dancing lessons as a child, her life as a servant had hardly been conducive to learning waltzes and polkas. Lady Bradley had hired a dancing master for a week of intensive lessons, and Donald had been most obliging in practicing with her every day.

"I wish this evening would end," she thought as she struggled to keep up with the music. "I would much rather be at home with a book than with all these people who congratulate me on my good fortune and look at me as if I were some prize to be won for their sons."

Indeed, Sara was finding that the attentions from the regiment of young men who vied for a place on her dance card was a frightening novelty. She felt strangely vulnerable, and no amount of pretending to be a princess could make her discomfort vanish.

At first, it had puzzled her how everyone had seemed to know who she was, despite wearing a mask and having no acquaintances at the ball except the Carmichaels. Janet had enlightened her that all of society was abuzz with the news that the mysterious diamond mine heiress was to be at Lady Bradley's Twelfth Night ball. Being the only stranger there, she was easily recognizable, even with her mask.

Yet another polka ended, and Sara fled to the refuge of the punch bowl, only to be greeted by three young men who all offered her cups. Sara took one with a quick word of thanks and tried again to find a safe haven in a shadowy corner of the ballroom, ending up behind a large potted plant.

Hidden behind the plant, Sara tried to marshal her reeling thoughts. She watched with a hint of regretful envy at the way Nora seemed to be enjoying herself, laughing, smiling and dancing. Nora looked unbelievably beautiful to Sara, with her golden hair, blue eyes and quick smile. More than that, Nora looked…right…in this ballroom. She belonged. Sara did not.

"I can't imagine this plant offers much in the way of conversation."

Sara looked up, a wealth of relief rushing through her at the sound of that voice, a voice she would know anywhere on this earth. She offered Erik her first genuine smile of the evening.

"I can pretend that it does."

"Or you could simply talk with me," he said, bowing slightly. "I promise to respond with more alacrity than a plant that will have to be reincarnated several times before it develops a set of vocal chords."

Sara laughed, and Erik felt his heart drop into his stomach. His eyes drifted inadvertently to the neckline of her dress, and his heart dropped even lower.

"Are you not enjoying yourself, Sara?" he whispered, without realizing he had used her Christian name.

Sara bit her lip. "I…I am afraid I don't belong here. I am too different."

She looked up and saw Erik's expression change ever so slightly, but she was unable to fathom its meaning.

"I didn't think you were the type to attend balls, Mr. D'Arcy." She tried to cover her sudden embarrassment with a change of subject.

"I'm not."

"Oh."

"Carmichael bullied me into it, and I'm obliged to stay until I dance with you."

"Oh."

Erik cringed, realizing that he had made dancing with her sound like an onerous chore, when in reality, he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms.

"Perhaps you might favor me with the next dance?" he asked, pitching his voice warm and invitingly low to convey the true compliment he felt at her company.

"Yes," Sara answered a little breathlessly, blushing becomingly. "I must warn you, though, I am not very good at dancing."

"Good. Neither am I. We shall stumble around the floor together."

Sara laughed, as they joined the waltz. Erik immediately giving lie to the fact that he was not a good dancer. She bit her lip several times as she stepped on his feet, but he never gave any indication that she was anything less than perfect in her movements. The truth of the matter was that he could not possibly have noticed her stepping on his toes when he was totally lost in the divine sensation of holding her in his arms.

She was, as far as he was concerned, the perfect armful. She was soft in the right places and slender in others. She was lithe and pliant, molding her body against his as his arms pressed her closer than was proper to his chest. She was warm in a way that heated his blood. He could feel her breath on the line of his jaw.

She was willingly in his arms, dancing with him, being seen in public with him. That stunned him most of all. There was no tension, no poised moment of flight in her muscles. Unlike…unlike…Christine.

"Well, well, if it isn't Princess Sara!"

Sara froze and stumbled at the sound of Lavinia Herbert's nasal voice and haughty accents. Erik's arms tightened around her before she could even stumble, and though she didn't realize it, she was holding on as tightly as she could to his hand and his shoulder. She lifted her chin a fraction.

"Lavinia," she acknowledged coldly.

"I suppose you can call me Lavinia now instead of 'Miss Lavinia.' How odd to think that all those years you were a servant – how well I remember you carrying coal and taking my laundry - and look at you now, the belle of the ball."

Lavinia laughed and Sara bit her lip quite hard.

"Really, Lavinia."

It was Erik's turn to bite his lip quite hard as Raoul de Chagny appeared at the side of his fiancée and quietly admonished her.

It would have been difficult to say at that moment whether it was Sara or Erik who contemplated violence with greater relish.