Author's Note: Yes, it is I! Rising from my writing slumber, almost two months late with another chapter. The holidays have kept my free time occupied, nonetheless, I managed to churn out another chapter before the end of the year. :) As always, I appreciate your patience, interest, and the positive reviews too!
I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and I wish you all a much happier and brighter start to the coming new year! And, of course, thank you for reading! :)
Disclaimer: The Slayers © Hajime Kanzaka, Funimation, and J.C. Staff. Any original characters belong to me.
Troubled Waters
Chapter 10
Masquerade
Much like Lina and Gourry's gurgling stomachs, Amelia's mind was relieved by the sight of the prepared table for the luncheon.
Amelia hoped the tantalizing food would distract her from the likely dull conversations to commence between clattering plates. Upon the extravagant table, a name card sat on the plate of each placement. Before the chair she had selected days ago, Amelia's name card was replaced with Prince Derek's. She crinkled her brow and looked directly across. Zelgadis's remained on the opposite seat. As for her name card, it traveled by front of the table and sat beside her father's and Lord Tatum's. Across the way would then be Lord Bardolf. She could only think of one person who would do such a thing.
She turned to her grandmother and pointed at the mistaken switch. "Someone changed the seating. I was supposed to sit across from Mister Zelgadis—"
"If you sat across from Mister Greywords then you would not be able to conduct a productive conversation with Lord Bardolf," Vonzelle said, ushering her over to the correct chair.
"But I can talk to him at the ball—"
"As you can Mister Greywords. When your time is not being delegated to more fruitful conversations." Vonzelle ticked an eyebrow when Amelia did not reply with an agreeable nod. "We all cannot have our way, Amelia. Thanks to your father, I, unfortunately, could not set up a children's table for your little friends and their lack of table manners either."
Before Amelia's pitch rose with an objection, Phil's bombastic voice claimed everyone's attention. Everyone took their seats. Amelia plopped down; her head hung low. She stared at her reflection in the blade of her polished butterknife. The edited seating arrangement was not the end of the world, yet it was another strike of her grandmother's hand, disabling Amelia's ability to will her own path. Perhaps at the ball, the sea of crowds would enable her to escape out of her grandmother's eyesight and with determination, procure her just a moment with those whose company she preferred.
At the helm of the table sat Phil, his left occupied by Amelia, Lord Tatum, Lord Manston, Zelgadis, and Count Savill. To his right sat Lord Bardolf, Vonzelle, Lina, Prince Derek, and Gourry. Phil's initial idea was for everyone to mix and mingle, against Vonzelle's wishes. She may have been a duchess and first and foremost, his mother-in-law, but Phil would never allow judgmental domination to overtake who was welcome to his table, no matter who they are.
"I'm delighted to have guests at our table to share our bountiful feast we are about to receive. Please, dig in everyone!" Phil gestured, permitting the feast to commence.
If one could even call it a feast.
Lina squinted at her plate. With the tips of her fork, she poked at her jellied beets, the random assortment of leafy greens, the lightly drizzled garlic vinaigrette, and two thinly sliced pieces of pheasant. She balked. This was no bountiful feast! This wasn't even enough to feed a church mouse! Had Phil, against his love for blood pudding and sausages, decided to go on a strict diet?
"Why the small portions?" she asked, dismissing proper decorum.
"The portions are reasonably sized, Miss Inverse," Vonzelle countered, her elbows tightly tucked at her sides as she sliced with her knife. "You may drown yourself in blood pudding soon enough at the banquet tonight."
Lina returned a miffed glare to her puny serving. At least there were rolls being passed around the table. And a large basket at that. Phil probably requested for extras, so there were bound to be some leftover in the kitchen which meant a high chance of refills. The current position of the basket lay in the hands of Zelgadis, who dismissed the offer, handing it off to Count Savill. Lina licked her upper lip as she saw the man take one for himself and extended the offer across the table to Gourry. She shot Gourry a foreboding look, one he received at every restaurant they entered, which went unnoticed as he piled his plate with four hot rolls. At last, they were handed to the prince of Ralteague, one hand away from Lina's extending fingers. Like Zelgadis, Derek too rejected the plush carbs, promptly ending the basket's journey. He simply placed the basket down before Gourry and attended to his plate.
Lina's mouth hung wide open. Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable! She struggled not to release a loud "Ahem!" right then there. Instead, she stretched awkwardly before the prince's plate. Her butterknife smacked the parked woven basket.
Derek's hands tightened their hold of the readied knife and fork. He turned to the disruptive sorceress with narrowed eyebrows. "Do you want something?"
"No. I just enjoy a good stretch for a roll that's all," she answered, matching his sharp tone.
Without pause, Derek understood the message and scooted the basket Lina's way. Five rolls filled the empty space of her plate. Every time she collected another roll, the prince's irises intensified. He huffed to himself and shook his head. The herb-scent of parsley entranced Lina's nostrils and as she opened each roll, the steam welcomed her cheeks with warmth. On the outside, butter flourished. But the inside, while soft and chewy, bore no moisture. She needed the butter dish. Her eyes scavenged for the allusive slab of creamy fat, until she found it abandoned by the prince, and too far for the length of her arm. He failed to acknowledge her tapping fingers, though it was unclear if it was done on purpose or not. In any case, her efforts proved to be useless as a more than self-indulgent Lord Manston finished what remnants were left of the coveted stick.
Guess I'll have to eat these plain! she griped, throwing her hands up.
She crashed her hands down, carelessly to the point where her occupied fork ascended its pinned piece of pheasant into the air and plopped into the challis of the prince. Red wine bubbled and splashed out the sides of the glass. The liquid left burgundy stains on the tablecloth and the sauce covered pheasant seeped and tainted the minuscule of wine left behind in the challis.
"Ugh," Derek groaned.
Lina sunk into her shoulders. She shrugged even when met with his harsh glare. "It was an accident."
"I'll have someone get you a new glass," Phil interjected. He motioned for a servant, who listened and nodded to abide by the crown prince's directions.
With a clean challis and a new wine bottle in tow, the servant walked towards the seated prince. However, he was stopped by Lord Manston, who gestured for his empty glass to be refilled. The clunk, clunk, clunk! resounded down the table, loud enough to draw flickering eyelids.
As the cup reached midway full, the servant titled the wine bottle upward. Lord Manston groaned at this and waved his hand. "More! You knob-head!"
The servant obeyed, bristled nonetheless until Lord Manston rose a hand and the servant stopped; one last droplet plopped into the fully capacitated challis. He picked up his drink, gulped, and a satisfying gasp rang out. Trickles of wine were dapped from the furry upper lip of the viscount.
The challis was half empty again.
Amelia bit her lip. Her eyes danced between a self-indulgent Lord Manston, an embarrassed Lina, a disgruntled Prince Derek, and then Zelgadis who rolled his eyes. Well, she admitted, she did not consider that her less than polished friends would drum up some interest.
For Lina's sake, Amelia diverted the attention onto herself instead. "So, have any of you met before?"
The responses of the suitors consisted of grunts, side-glances, and shaking heads.
"Apparently not," Count Savill said.
"It is rather strange, at least for me, considering I've visited all our countries," Lord Tatum answered. "Except for the Outer World. How I would love to visit! I plan to next summer. I've already made out my itinerary."
"What will you be going for? Sight-seeing?" Amelia asked.
"More than that, I can assure you. My father and I travel across the continent to offer financial aid in our reading and writing program for less than fortunate children."
Amelia smiled, thankful for neutral conversation. "How nice! Do you take your dog with you? He's beautiful by the way."
The deerhound basked in an exceptionally well-groomed coat like his master's cleansed shiny locks. "Thank you." He stroked under his dog's scruffy chin, who sat beside his master, patiently waiting for a morsel to fall conveniently from a plate. "Gideon and I are a real team. Wherever I go, he goes. And he's always sniffing out hare and rabbit during our hunts."
"You hunt?"
Amelia had not considered him a hunter. She imagined hunters as burly sized men, that intimidated their prey not with a weapon but of the coldness in their eyes alone. The earl bore a fine bone structure, his features delicate, long, and thin. He looked as if he did not eat his own catch, as it was evident, he could benefit from a healthy helping of protein.
Lord Tatum nodded, stabbing at his greens. "Oh, yes. But I'm a great admirer of poetry as well. I've actually written some of my own—"
"And this is not an open invitation for you to hold us hostage as your audience," Vonzelle said as if she possessed a crystal ball that foretold the quality of the earl's poems.
"Perhaps later though," Amelia suggested. "I would very much like to hear your work, Lord Tatum."
Lord Tatum's dim eyes brightened at her assurance. "I would be honored to have my work grace your ears, Princess. And to all of yours as well. Perhaps we could have a roundtable discussion on the intricacy and intent of poetry."
"Some sightseeing would be quite nice too," Lord Bardolf interjected.
"Lord Bardolf has never left the Outerworld until now," Vonzelle clarified.
"It is certainly all new." He turned to Phil with a polite nod. "Your capital, Prince Philionel, is a marvelous place. Just by the carriage window, I can tell your great city is filled with riches, history, and opportunities. I very much look forward to exploring every inch of it."
"Thank you, Lord Bardolf. We here in Seyruun are proud to share our accomplishments with all walks of life."
"And it is evident, your grace. I shall have to get myself a map. If his highness wouldn't mind, perhaps you could suggest some places for me to visit—"
"Nonsense, Lord Bardolf," Vonzelle interrupted. She laid a hand over Amelia's, tapping it with subtle implication. "My granddaughter would be obliged to show you about. She is very fond of her home."
"Yes," Phil agreed. "Amelia does know this place like the back of her hand."
Amelia blinked and mustered a smile. "Oh, uh— of course. I would be happy to give you a tour. For you all, if you'd like." She hadn't expected to be a tour guide and she hadn't expected her father to chime in either, innocently of course.
"I would very much appreciate it, Princess," Lord Bardolf said. "After listening to your grandmother's high praises, I cannot tell you what a delight it is to finally meet you. Though, I suppose I have Miss Inverse to thank for my ability to be here. After all, the story around Ula'ree goes that she was the one who destroyed the monster's barrier."
"Yes. It is quite something, isn't it?" Count Savill perked from his plate. His fingers laced themselves together as a resting place for his chin. He then quirked a smirk from the corner of his mouth, eyeing the ravenously chewing person of discussion. "To think we'd be dining with the infamous Lina Inverse who has demonstrated that her table manners are as frightening as her alleged dragon slaves."
Lina froze, her final piece of pheasant clenched between her vigorous teeth. She smeared the crumbs from her mouth with a cloth napkin, swallowed, and straightened her back. Yes, she knew that she was no delicate flower by any means, but to compare her earlier mishap of the prince's challis to the damage of her trademark spell was a cheap shot.
"What are you getting at?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing Miss Inverse," he fanned airily. "I am simply curious how someone as notoriously destructive as you became acquainted with Princess Amelia."
Lina returned to the Count with her own smirk. Now that was fair to compare her as dangerous as the dragon slave. "Let's just say the princess and I share similar pursuits and interests."
"Well, I wouldn't say we share all the same pursuits and interests," Amelia corrected. Yes, they shared a love for adventure but never did the princess find right in obliterating towns and their innocent inhibitors. "But Miss Lina and Mister Gourry have done great services to Seyruun. We are grateful to them. And Mister Zelgadis too. I don't know what we'd do without him."
"You keep him on staff?" Lord Manston exclaimed. His wide eyes examined Zelgadis as if he were an anomaly on display. "I can see why. Tell me Mister Greywords, what exactly are you?"
"Human," Amelia answered.
Another pair of eyes scrutinized Zelgadis's current state, despite Amelia's short curt response. She observed the facial muscles in her friend tense. His one exposed eye shuddered before that of green spectators that twinkled and extended their emerald hue, like vines entangling prey.
"In other words: a chimera," Lord Savill concluded. "How exotic."
"You look as if you were the byproduct of some mad experiment," Manston said with a curled lip.
For the first time, Gourry glanced up from his plate. "Hey, how did you know Phibrizzo turned him into a chimera?"
A sharp glare swiveled at Gourry's direction. If it weren't for the prince, seated between them, Lina would have slugged him for that. Instead, she went for the classic eyeroll. "Ignore him. He's had one too many sub concussive blows."
"You poor man. I'm terribly sorry for what happened to you, Mister Greywords," Lord Tatum said, a tone that rang with condolences of a departed loved one.
These performed sympathies had been fanned his way before. Zelgadis kept his head down, eyes focused on his picked over plate. "Don't be."
"Why shouldn't I?" Lord Tatum countered. "It's a hideous thing to do to a person! Turning someone into a science experiment!"
"Perhaps," Count Savill shrugged. His eyes flittered back to a withdrawn Zelgadis. "But I sense Mister Greywords is not entirely loathsome of his form. I presume certain capabilities have been, shall we say, enhanced?"
Amelia threw her napkin down. Hands clasped to the skirts of her dress and she exuded a puffed chest prepared with ample air and commanding words. Ready to defend she inched up from her seat, only to crash back down as another, much quicker voice arbitrated.
"My good men, why must you gawk and mock Mister Greywords?" Lord Bardolf said. "His appearance should not be a topic of intrigue."
Phil raised a mighty finger. "I concur. Mister Zelgadis is a valued member of our staff and is to be treated as such."
"Please, forgive my fellow noblemen, Mister Greywords," Lord Bardolf said. "We may be of a high caliber of lineage, but that does not spare us from the disease of ignorance."
"Don't waste your breath," Zelgadis snapped. He didn't need some stupid lord's spurious act of chivalry to soothe his already heightened insecurities. Nor have those insecurities soothed by an, albeit well-meant Phil.
Lord Manston indulged in another ample helping of wine, oblivious to the daggers Amelia shot his way. They were, however, evident to Lina. He was, the redhead concluded, the epitome of an undesirable dinner guest, or in this case, luncheon. Questions of her own had ruminated in her mind. And he was a potential target for answers. Mostly because of the way he snickered and jeered at her friend.
"You know, I have a question for you myself, Lord Manston," Lina said.
"Oh?" the viscount said, his tone dismissive. "What about?"
"I was told you're from Bezeld. From what I know, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump away to Mane."
"Your point?"
"I was just curious if you ever met the famous Payne clan."
For the first time, Lord Manston parted with his wine glass. The other suitors followed in suit. Derek jerked his head up and shifted in his chair. The muscles in his face turned rigid, only his eyes flowed to the still viscount.
Lord Manston frowned and grunted under his breath. "Never had the pleasure. My line of work does not entail the need for armory."
"But you do facilitate Kalmaart's museum of rare magical artifacts, do you not?" Lina pressed.
"Yes. What of it?"
"Well, I'm sure you've heard the rumors about Sir Gilliame Payne's interest in magic. Naturally, I would have thought they would have donated to your collection."
"It is not my collection, Miss Inverse," he asserted. "I merely fund the museum not run it. And if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you'd cease such discussion of this unsavory topic as it is of little to no interest to present company."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Magical items are always of interest. Especially to the highest bidder," Count Savill said as if the dollar signs etched in his eyes were not enough.
Lord Tatum sighed; his voice heavy with sorrow. "Shame what happened to the Payne family though. To meet such a tragic end."
"What happened?" Lord Bardolf asked. "Pardon me for speaking out of turn, but as an outsider from the mainland, I'm afraid I am uninformed of many of the happenings around these parts. They are foreign to me as you would be to my country."
"I understand, Lord Bardolf," Phil replied. He caught a flicker of trepidation seething seats away. "But perhaps another time I can—"
"Seven years ago, Sir Gilliame Payne and his family were slaughtered," Lord Tatum jumped in, oblivious to the crown prince's persistent head shaking. "They were traveling from here to Dabuon when something went horribly wrong with their carriage. The wreckage— They say it was like a glimpse into Hell. It was only a broken string of bloodied opals that could be identified. Hanging about the severed neck of— Goodness, I've said too much!"
A hand pressed to his pale cheek; the earl's eyes a pulsating bright blue. He stared down at the opposite end of the table, desperate for the attention of the offended. "Forgive me for my thoughtless tongue, Prince Derek!"
"Lord Tatum, I believe his highness would prefer for us to cease—"
"It's all right, Prince Philionel."
Spectators, the aware and unaware, the ones seated in front and behind him, encircled Derek with prying eyes. He wore an inward gaze, his voice smooth yet draped in heaviness. "It was years ago. Time moves on.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said as he rose from his seat. "I believe I will retire early until the ball tonight. I've felt somewhat unwell since my arrival. My apologies, Prince Philionel."
"It's perfectly all right, Derek," Phil assured.
Once the prince rounded the corner and disappeared altogether, the mood in the air changed. Count Savill released a sardonic huff. "Very nice, Lord Tatum."
"I am sorry," the Earl insisted. He glanced at the exit in which Derek took. "I didn't mean to stir up trouble—"
"What did you think would happen when you mentioned the death of his bride? You blithering knob-head!" Lord Manston snorted. He signaled to the silent servant with his challis again.
Lina dropped her silverware. She gawked at the revelation bursting from her mind. Regardless of Vonzelle's adamancy on the 'no elbow rule', the redhead perched hers there and pointed to the uncopied chair next to her. "You mean to say the prince was engaged to Sir Payne's daughter?"
"Yes, Miss Lina," Phil replied, his single furry eyebrow low like a half-masked flag. "I, like many, understand the difficulty of senseless loss. For the duration of our get-together, I advise we all keep remarks about the tragedy to ourselves."
"Yes," Vonzelle agreed. She flashed a blustery pair of narrowed eyes at the wilted earl. "This is all extremely inappropriate. I say, Lord Tatum, you should pen your senseless thoughts to your purple prose poetry. A person's death should never be a source of entertainment. Especially from a prominent family."
The luncheon from then on was performed in silence. Amelia shared an occasional glance with Zelgadis, though as to what his expression read, she could not decipher. In any case, she knew the causation behind the silence tugged at her heartstrings like a plucked mournful violin.
Poor Prince Derek…
When she was a little girl, the mere thought of formal balls entranced Amelia.
Sweeping scenes, lovers' eyes meeting across the floor, a missing glass slipper, a pumpkin transformed into a golden carriage— In storybooks, such romantic nuisances enraptured her vivid imagination. From her first official ball, Amelia held little glints of idyllic promises. She learned balls contributed to the aftereffects of aching feet, headaches, constricted ribs, and a parade of yawns. 'Prince Charming' never asked for a dance but instead, politicians swarmed about her, boring her with tedious conversations that belonged solely in the legislative chambers.
Even so, she hoped tonight would be different.
Yes, eager wooers would ask for her hand and partake in a dance or two… But her hand sought another. She hoped Zelgadis would share one dance with her. The string quartet, the dimly lit candles, the glint of a full moon, her romantically inspired pink gown… Everything was set right, and it was too big of an opportunity to pass up.
In her bedroom, Amelia's handmaiden prepared her for the night ahead. She dabbed a light coat of blush to the princess's face. Then, she stepped back and admired her work, pleased with the outcome.
"You look so pretty, Princess," she said.
Amelia smiled. "Thank you, Miss Luella. Do you have any plans for yourself tonight?"
"Not tonight," Luella sighed. She brushed soft dewy dust of eyeshadow to Amelia's eyelids. "This one's been colicky." She gestured to the bassinet cradled on Amelia's footbed. "I won't be goin' anywhere for a while now. Purse your lips for a moment, will ya?"
Amelia abided. Luella applied a rose shade of lipstick that complimented the princess's glowing peach skin. When Luella brought an engraved silver hand mirror to Amelia, the princess admired her handmaiden's knack for makeup application. The subtle yet sophisticated enhancements of her feminine features, the warm rouge of her cheeks, and the darkened eyelashes-built confidence within herself. But Zelgadis had seen Amelia dolled up before. Would tonight's reaction be any different?
Amelia placed the hand mirror onto her vanity, her trance broken by the gurgling occupant rocking inside the bassinet. She ventured over to the amused buddle of fits and giggles. Big brown eyes produced a grin and she reached in.
"She's absolutely adorable," Amelia gushed, wiggling the petite toes of the infant.
Luella smiled over her shoulder. "She's got an extra set of lungs on her that one."
"I'm glad you've both adjusted well to the move."
Luella sighed, collecting the makeup tools. "Me too. I can't thank his highness enough for taking us on. I had to get out of Zephilia. Too many memories… My husband looked like that Mister Gabriev fellow. About as smart as him too… That's what killed him, you know? Thought with his sword. But he had a heart of gold. Mister Gabriev is handsome, ain't he?"
"He's very handsome," Amelia agreed.
"Is he taken?"
Amelia bit her lip. "Um, sort of."
She couldn't speak on behalf of Gourry. But being a romantic, Amelia sensed the ebbs and flows between whom she deemed two reluctant lovers, who did not see a life without the others' presence. Yet, settling down was a far and distant idea for her vagabond friends. But Amelia could dream and live beyond her bodice-ripping tales. Romance may not have swung its vines her way, at the very least, she hoped her beloved friends would look beyond their stubborn ways and take a swing on the nearest vine available.
Amelia strayed back to the vanity, opening a rose gold jewelry box. "What about Mister Ernoldous? I've been meaning to ask you how your date went."
"All right I suppose." Luella shrugged. "He's nice and all but he doesn't light my fire. Too timid. You think one of the suitors might light your fire?"
Amelia blushed and fidgeted with her hands. "I doubt it."
"Well, if I were you, I'd be over the moon to have that Prince from Ralteague courtin' me. He's ravishin' to look at," Luella gushed, leaning against one of the bedposts.
"He's thoughtful too," Amelia added. Her eyes trailed, transfixed by the lush shades of wildflowers upon her desk. It was almost as if the words flowed naturally without the need to ponder it over.
She stopped herself short. The brightness of her thoughts dimmed as a shrunken flame swallowed by night's blanket. Prince Derek did not make an appearance after lunch. She wondered if he'd attend the ball. The shield of stoic dismissal was not foreign to Amelia; a similar performance enacted by a stonewalled chimera and of equal pain. She did not blame the prince if he did not attend.
"You're ready to break some hearts out there, Princess," Luella said. She stood behind Amelia, fingertips grazing the softness of the dress's sleeves. "This here gown of yours is bound to draw some attention."
When I was a little girl, I used to dream I'd own one of these here dresses and that Prince Charmin' would turn his head to look at me. Just once," Luella mused, now fiddling with the princess's crown.
"He would," Amelia assured. She stood up and took the crown from Luella's hands and sat the crown aside. She then held Luella's hands her grip tightened with an affirmative tone. "Every girl looks pretty in a gown."
Luella shrugged. She withdrew her hands, folding them across her chest. "Maybe. But we all ain't meant to wear gowns, are we?"
"Says who?"
Luella shook her head. "You know better, Princess."
She should have. But this was Amelia. Unhinging normativism and reconstructing an equal narrative for all kinds was what she aspired to do. She considered small changes in everyday life a step forward in the right direction. And tonight, the freckled handmaid in dingy skirts and rough hands with chewed fingernails reminded her to go beyond dreaming and start doing.
Inside her wardrobe, Amelia selected a canary yellow ballgown. The dress carried value being a personal favorite. Now, she wished for someone to enjoy it as much as she.
"Take this gown, Miss Luella," she gestured, the satin fabric sprawled out across her offered arms.
Luella's eyes popped open. "And where will I wear that?"
"To the ball tonight, silly!" Amelia grinned. "You'll look wonderful in it. Live out your fantasy just for tonight! Who knows, maybe someone special will be waiting for you out on the ballroom floor!"
"I couldn't do that, Princess—"
"Please, I insist. I, Princess Amelia Wil Tesla Seyruun, order you, Miss Luella, to wear this gown and have some well-deserved fun!"
"Well… All right!" she at last smiled. "I suppose I could ask Eliza to keep watch of the baby. But just for a couple of hours."
Amelia pulled her in for a hug. "Wonderful!"
The young women burst into lighthearted laughter, lips loosened and tongues eager to suggest hairdos and shades of eyeshadow and lipstick for Luella. Before brushes could graze the skin, Vonzelle invited herself into the bedroom, her cold stare assessing the young women and their erupted giddiness.
"What is this giggling about?"
Amelia spun around. She placed a hand to her heart, calming her startled nerves. "Grandmother Vonzelle! I was just getting dressed—"
"In this?" Her cane pointed at the soft rose-colored gown as if it were the suspect in an ongoing investigation.
"I had it made just for tonight," Amelia said resolutely. "And pink is my favorite—"
"Pink is for little girls, Amelia. Not eligible young women. Thankfully, I have brought you something much more appropriate for the occasion."
Vonzelle placed a large paper box wrapped in white silk ribbon on the bed. Amelia and Luella exchanged glances and the princess motioned towards the door. Luella's chipped nails dug into the borrowed dress and she tiptoed around the bed. Amelia followed with the swaddled baby in tow. Luella maneuvered the vibrant garment behind her back as she went behind Vonzelle. Two steps were taken before a definite clang resonated onto the floor. Luella jumped and her baby murmured in distress. On instinct, she motioned towards her child, but her dress failed to follow suit. She gave a sharp tug until she realized the gown's skirt was trapped under the base of the marchioness's staff.
"What are you doing with that?" Vonzelle asked.
Frozen in her tracks, a large lump parked itself in Luella's throat. She swallowed. Her meek eyes swiveled between the floor and the imperial woman. "I thought I might dress up for the evenin'—"
"Servants do not partake in royal events."
"But milady said—"
"I don't care what my granddaughter said. Handmaids are to stay in line and do what their occupation entails. Now go and take your infant with you. Your services are no longer required for the evening."
If Amelia were any other princess she would have submitted to her grandmother's ruling. But she thanked her sole influence, Daddy, that she wasn't. She waited for Vonzelle's back to face them and lipped for Luella to take the dress and skedaddle. She hurriedly opened the door for her handmaiden, handed the baby off, and whispered she'd see her friend at the ball.
After that, she strode past her grandmother, back to her vanity. Amelia hoped those eyes on the back of Vonzelle's head decided to take a well-earned siesta for the evening and would continue to do so throughout the ball. Whatever awaited her in the box, Amelia decided she'd at least wear the jewelry she intended. Her mother's prized locket. She smiled at her golden reflection shining upon the polished heart pendant. Perhaps, it would bring her some luck for her reluctant bodyguard to ask for one dance. She undid the clasp, only for the chain to be yanked from her readied neck. Amelia twirled and jumped. There Vonzelle stood with the locket clenched in her shaky fingers. Her blue irises dulled, and her plastered stoic frown morphed into soft slopped lines. With gentle care, she placed the locket into Amelia's jewelry box, as if she bid one final farewell to her ultimate loss. Slowly, the lid closed shut, the locket shunned back into its resting place.
"Not that," Vonzelle said quietly. She pulled a small box from her dress pocket. "I have these for you."
Amelia opened the wooden box, eyes squinting at the momentarily harsh glisten. Dangling diamonds hung from ear wires, the circumference of the jewels encrusted with rhinestones. She recognized the earrings; a gift from Lord Bardolf as a gesture of his courtship. She sighed at her grandmother's predictability and slid the hooks through each earhole with silent compliance.
Vonzelle removed the lid of the large box, pulled back the parchment and revealed the suggested dress. She draped the garment before her granddaughter's frame and admired the reflection of the gown's attention to detail. "This gown was designed by the renowned Madame Dubois. She is known for her opal stones. Women, from every country flock to have just one of her stones on their dresses. Chiefly, wedding gowns. This will suit you much better than that old thing."
Amelia ran a hand over the tiny, polished opals. Fingers traced the center of the bodice, each stone highlighting her abundant feminine form. "But— It's not me."
"Purple is the color of royalty, Amelia. Of course, it's you." Vonzelle sat the gown back onto the bed and gestured for Amelia to return to the vanity. With a brush in hand, she tsked. "Now, let's do something about your hair. I don't know what on earth possessed that silly girl to put a pin in like that…"
By the end of the dressing, Amelia felt like a bird in a cage. First figuratively, and now literally. It was certainly a downer for a night that was supposed to be full of fanciful romance. The ends of her upturned wavy tresses were swooped downward, and her body ached under the weight of the heavily embellished dress. When Amelia saw her reflection in the full-length mirror, she hated the gown even more. She felt old and tired. Like she had already served many years as queen and overseen an ageless war.
Vonzelle toured a full three-sixty of her granddaughter. She placed a hand on Amelia's shoulder and smiled at her redefined creation. "You look dignified, my dear. Now, for the crown."
Amelia dipped her head downward, the crown placed upon her head. For the first time, she did not feel proud of wearing the symbol of her duty.
"Tonight, all eyes will be on you," Vonzelle said as she adjusted the jewel-encrusted crown to sit straight on. "Whomever you choose to partake in the first dance with will leave a profound impression. Your decision will determine where the courtships stand. Lord Bardolf is a favorable choice given his ties to the Outerworld— I know you think it's my biased nature, but I ensure you I am thinking only of Seyruun."
Lord Bardolf, Lord Bardolf, Lord Bardolf! Amelia restrained her vocal cords though could not stop impeding tears swelling in the corners of her eyes. She turned to face her grandmother, shameless of her emotional state. "You think of Seyruun, but not of your own granddaughter?"
Vonzelle simply shook her head. She then took her granddaughter's chin in hand and glided her filed nails along Amelia's soft skin. "Amelia, you silly child, you are Seyruun. And for that, you cannot choose a husband that suits your heart. You are to serve something bigger than yourself. You will see after tonight."
A steady knock on the door broke the bubbling tension. With the back of her hand, she wiped her tears. A small scatter of mascara stained her skin. She rubbed the black ink until it faded, leaving her skin raw and red.
"That must be Mister Zelgadis," she sniffled. "Come in."
Dressed in a royal official uniform, Zelgadis entered standing astute, fulfilling his escort duties. "Amelia… Marchioness," he acknowledged with a purposeful sting to his tone.
"I will meet you in the ballroom in five minutes," Vonzelle said, ignoring present company. "Do not dillydally."
As she marched past him, Vonzelle burned one final glare of implied warning onto Zelgadis. He ignored her glower and faced Amelia only to hold himself back from gaping. Her figure, trapped in a heavy wine grape dress with her designated crown, glistening chandelier earrings, and a string of petite tie-dyed opal stones placed around the center of the gown's tapered waistline. Zelgadis thought the dress aged Amelia considerably. Her vibrancy sucked dry, her youth servant into fueling the pungent stewed tresses of fabric. Even the stones', glistening bright, dulled against the darkness of the dress. But he wouldn't tell her that. It was facially evident she felt the same.
Amelia sighed after a long pause. "I look horrible, don't I?"
"You never look horrible," he said.
The gentleness in his voice warmed her heart. She broke out into a fragile smile.
"But that dress does not suit you," he added.
Her smile dwindled and her eyes settled onto her clasped hands. "I know. It's not what I wanted to wear."
"It's only for one night," he reminded.
"I suppose."
He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
She looped her arm into his like many instances before. Tonight, she wished for a different sensation. Something wild, something evocative, something daring that would make her heart sing proudly and loudly to where fear of rejection no longer controlled desire. Instead, she felt nothing against a cold rigid arm.
Amelia decided weeks ago that Grandmother Vonzelle knew nothing about love. But she did know a thing or two about decorating.
She kept her arm enveloped in Zelgadis's, but his stiffness did not keep her from peeking out behind the velvet curtains. Everywhere her eyes trailed something furbished, iridescent, or illuminating captured her attention. In the center of the ballroom, a humongous crystal chandelier perched, its fifty-odd lit candles flickering brilliant flames to subside the darkened skies of the outside. The etched angels of the stairs and their coves appeared to shimmer with exception cleanliness. The autumnal tones of the curtains and table linens complemented each other by use of the favorable color wheel, and the buffed silver shone even the dullest of appetizers. From corner to corner, the grand room was flooded with guests. They chatted amongst themselves with waving fans and formal handshakes. There, somewhere among the organized chaos, the suitors were awaiting her entrance. Amelia wondered if the prince was swallowed in the sea of eligible countesses and baronesses who gathered like hens to chicken feed.
The royal announcer blew his trumpet. There was the signal.
"Presenting his royal highness, Crown Prince Philionel El Di Seyruun, and Princess Amelia Wil Tesla Seyruun!"
She squared her shoulders with her head held high. Then she and Zelgadis followed Daddy. She felt a sudden swish and whirl in her gut as her eyes locked onto the mass of dignitaries staring at her like thousands of fire ants. Normally, gatherings of the masses did not entice fear into her heart. But the circumstances were different. Her grandmother's words drilled themselves into her mind. Tonight, was all about impressions and securing relations. No pressure, right? Amelia smiled at the spectators, but behind her rehearsed grin, she felt as if the wind was knocked out of her by a massive gust as if done by a terrifying pair of jagged dragon's wings. Lina's advice played on repeat, that this was nothing more than a performance to humor Vonzelle, but Amelia found its solid foundation crumble by the sight of the eager suitors in the front row. Every step she took downward her mind cried for her to turn and run back up the stairs. But she knew behind the velvet curtains there truly was no real escape.
The churning worsened when they came down the last step of the staircase. Her only line of security then released his hold. She watched Zelgadis step to the side where Grandmother Vonzelle and Uncle Christopher stood. She joined her father with hesitation and kept her elbows tight at her sides. She made one final glance Zelgadis's way. She swallowed and her mouth tightened. Evidently, her gulp was noticeable as he returned her shaky gaze with a confident nod. She braced an, albeit nervous smile. He really was her rock. Solid and dependable.
"My people!" Phil boomed in his typical enthusiastic raspy voice. "I thank you all for your attendance on behalf of myself and the Marchioness of Doonatel. It is also my pleasure to acknowledge our eligible gentlemen from our neighboring kingdoms, who have come in the hopes of bridging one of their nations with Seyruun. This would not only strengthen our nation but bring further peace and prosperity to all! My daughter, Princess Amelia, has graciously accepted their efforts in courtship. And now she will dance with the honorary guest of her choice!"
Her hopeful eyes betrayed her groomed intent as she glanced over to Zelgadis. She felt her grandmother's stare scold her for venturing away from the five suitors before her. During her dressing, she had instructed Amelia that her first dance was to be shared with Lord Bardolf. Amelia's eyes cast down to the floor, then peered up at the anxiously awaiting gentlemen. At the very least, she was glad to see Prince Derek make a reappearance. He wore a mild smile, so calm and collected as if the prior mention of his deceased fiancée was all but a memory. If she must choose from the limited selection, then Amelia decided to choose by her own appeal rather than that of her grandmother's biased preference.
"I would be obliged if Prince Derek partook in the first dance with me," she said.
The prince came forward and bowed. "The honor is all mine, Princess."
Amelia heard her grandmother's fan close loudly as she accepted the prince's offered hand. She didn't look back to witness the likely disapproving scowl or the reaction of the other suitors. Instead, she kept her gaze on her temperate dancer partner and permitted him to escort her to the center of the dancefloor. There, he gently took her about the waist as she placed her hand atop his shoulder. Underneath his garb, she could feel the definition of a perfectly rounded shoulder.
The music struck immediately upon their first step. Insync with each other's movement, they glided along with ease. Amelia was thankful Miss Luella convinced her to wear a pair of exceptionally high heels. She felt less insecure about her short stature comparable to the much taller dance partner she acquired. Not only that, but she relaxed too. The prince led like a natural. His steps kept in rhythm to the music, which gave Amelia a break from leading a typical fumbling gentleman.
"You look lovely tonight, Princess Amelia," Derek said. His eyes scanned downward, cocking an eyebrow. "But I think something much lighter would better suit your personality."
"My grandmother wanted me to wear it," she confessed.
"Ah. It never gets old being dressed by someone else," he bore a smile that read of sympathy. "Regardless of how you feel about the dress, it has not hindered you."
Warmth enveloped Amelia's cheeks, but her mind strayed away from analyzing his compliment. She wondered if the prince was putting on a brave face after the luncheon debacle. She wouldn't have blamed him if he did.
"I thought that… you might not show up tonight," she came out with.
"I wouldn't have missed the main event," he said, still smiling.
"You like dances?"
The prince sighed. "Not particularly, no. The conversations are never anything worth remembering and most of the people aren't either. But that's the problem. You must remember those people. You have to remember their kids, their wife, their mistress, depending on if they've had too much to drink, the latest legislative agendas they've been pushing, the moats they want to build, and even knowing about their dog Fido who was a victim of a said wagon accident, yet miraculously survived with only a slight limp on his left paw to show for it."
Amelia shifted her eyes from side to side. "So, do I need to worry about meeting Fido's owner?"
Derek chuckled. "No. He's one of my guys."
Amelia smiled and laughed a little herself. Well, if there was one thing she learned about the prince, it was that he was a real, perhaps blunt, conversationalist. At least, she knew conversations would move beyond exchanges of polite pleasantries.
"If you don't like these gatherings, then why did you come?" she asked.
"I hoped we could arrange our meeting."
"Oh, right." Amelia hoped she didn't sound as disappointed to Derek as she did to herself. She dismissed the feeling and nodded. "The sooner the better, I suppose."
"We'll get it out of the way, so we can focus on what's important."
Amelia blinked. "Isn't the meeting important?"
Derek faltered at her innocent stare. "Of course, it is. But I meant us getting to know each other. If I intend to court you properly, I need to know you as a person."
But she didn't want to be courted. Not that he knew that. Derek was, after all, following his father's orders. And if Zelgadis's hunch held any authenticity, then he likely, sought the crown. But he needn't 'get to know her' to do so. All he required was a stamp of approval by Daddy. Was this merely a ploy to lower her guard or… did he desire to make a genuine effort?
Amelia eyed him with a peculiar glint. "You're serious about all of this?"
"It's my obligation."
Figures.
"What would you like to know?" she asked with no attempt to hide her sourness.
"Well, something beyond crowns, white magic, horses, and the woods would be nice," Derek answered with a playful ring.
She could tell him she defined herself as a hero of justice, and on several adventures had proven to be such. She could speak of her adoration for heights most would faint at the mere thought of pursuing, or how she used her fists as her own weaponry and could pummel a decent-sized opponent to boot. And of course, there was her political tenacity, her weakness for anything soft, furry, and defenseless, and, if he proved to be a keeper of secrets, her admission of being a romance novel junkie. But that would be a lot to tell and a lot to explain in just a few waltz steps. Or she could hem and haw, and act as delicate as she looked.
"That would take more than one dance," Amelia decided.
"Then we'll just have many dances, won't we? Or walks, or a game—"
"I like to climb."
When he made a face, she tried again.
"I like to be on top."
Derek fumbled in his steps as he gave Amelia an incredulous stare. Against her palm, his shoulder muscle flexed, becoming tight and rigid.
"You never struck me as the type," he said, wide-eyed.
Once his words clicked into place, Amelia mistook a step and stumbled backward on her heels. Her ankle twisted inward, and she winced. How embarrassing! She hadn't meant to say it like that! The weight of his words left her cheeks inflamed, her fingers, entwined in his jiggly like gelatin.
"Oh, no, no, no! You misunderstand me!" she said quickly with sheepish eyes. "I like to climb. Hard things— No, tall things!" She closed her eyes, silently cursing at her poor choice of words. "I mean like trees and rocks and boulders."
"In nature and euphemisms?" Derek broached with caution.
She gave him a look. "The former. I like to see the world from a different perspective."
"Is it safe to assume that we have a rock-climbing venture ahead of us?" he asked, both thankful for the clarification and its change in subject.
Amelia blinked, agape. "Really?"
"If that's what her highness wishes. But I must fair warn you, I'm a little competitive," he added with a playful smirk.
"I'm up for the challenge. Climbing is my specialty," she said with a touch of pride.
"It takes a long time to traverse a mountain. That gives us ample time to talk."
"Oh, you underestimate me, I can climb a mountain in like ten minutes." She remained unfazed by his arched brows. "But once we get to the top we can talk. Maybe we can have a picnic! We can take some crackers, some cheese, dried meats, nuts— Especially, pistachios! They're my favorite! They're Mister Zelgadis's favorites too."
They twirled, journeying to the opposite side of the ballroom. There, beyond Amelia's shoulder, Derek spotted a less than pleased Mister Greywords. "Your bodyguard? You know that much about him?"
"We're best friends! We've known each other for a long time," she explained, her bright enthusiasm carried unbridled.
Derek fell quiet for a moment before asking, "Does he like to climb things too?"
"Oh no, he prefers being on the ground."
"Then he won't join us for our rock-climbing outing?"
"He goes wherever I go, so I'm sure he'll be there." At least, she hoped. She never minded having him around, and if anything, he could provide her with his perspectives and observations on the prince.
Derek nodded slowly before slipping, what looked like, a rehearsed smile. "Can't wait."
Balls were never on Zelgadis's top ten list of events to attend.
In fact, he loathed them. By default, he disliked most people and he especially did not care for crowds where his physical transformation earned judgmental eyes and whispers. The reason he stuck around was due to Amelia on the dancefloor with Prince Whatshisface. And now, much to his chagrin, Zelgadis lost sight of the reason he stuck around, for she became swallowed by a sea of twirling oversized skirts, that despite their plumage, ebbed and flowed like a graceful wave washing in and out of its forever tied shore.
On the shoreline, posh lips sipped on champagne glass flutes while others sampled ornamented crusted mince pies. The four bummed suitors had yet to entice a lady to the dancefloor. They hung back and sipped on champagne. On occasion, their heads bobbed atop stretched necks, in search of their same reason for attendance. When they caught sight of their reason, smiling with presumably starry eyes, their lips flatlined in annoyance.
"So, this is how it's going to be throughout our entire visitation, isn't it?" Lord Savill sighed, swishing his drink in his hand.
"It figures as much," Lord Manston agreed. He took a glass off a tray from a passing servant. "Girls like her flock to men like him." He washed a large swig of metheglin down his throat. "Sculpted chin, even complexion, athletic build— He might as well be a statue!"
"He's about as real as one," Lord Savill joshed.
Their churlish comparison resulted in bouts of snickers. Lord Bardolf huffed and smirked. "Gentlemen, why so determined to give up when the fight has just begun?"
The chortles ceased, and any wicked smiles vanished along with them. Lord Manston's mustache bristled, and his eyes turned cold and stern. "I never said I wouldn't go down without a fight, Lord Bardolf."
A tall ravenous beauty, by stereotypical men's standards, whisked on by the sour suitors. She undid her closed fan and joined a small party of local noblemen. A crooked toothed smirk crept underneath Lord Manston's mustache. He emptied his drink quickly, then shoved it in the unexpected hands of Count Savill.
"In the meantime, however, there are equally succulent specimens to conquer," he said, smoothing back whatever thin nest of hair he had left.
Zelgadis sneered. Were these men the best Vonzelle could come up with? If so, the world was in short supply of prince charmings. He supposed he could make the unsavory observations known to Phil, but Zelgadis was no snitch. He surmised that Phil already made his own conclusions or that men like Lord Manston and their overindulgence in anything made of mead and breasts would be their own undoing sooner rather than later.
Zelgadis scanned the room and saw Phil had gained company from Seyruun's councilmen. It wasn't long before Vonzelle invited herself among the group. She whipped out her fan and tapped Phil on the shoulder. When he bent down and met her exceedingly short height, she cast the midnight blue trim laced accessory over her mouth and whispered in his ear. Zelgadis narrowed in on Vonzelle. For a few moments, he separated himself from the chaos that surrounded him. He pondered if any of those whispers were unfavorable words of his character.
But what did he care? Phil knew what kind of man he was and chiefly, he was in no danger of becoming royalty. He did not and would not fit the bill as Vonzelle so harshly reminded.
Yes, it did not matter. Yet, Zelgadis could not help but ask: what was so wrong with him anyway? A drunken pervert was among their midst, a pervert with pedigree no doubt, but still a pervert. Was that truly all that mattered? Blood? Men showered in primal depravity traipsed about the world, fanning fake pretenses, scamming the poor, and devouring women with their devilish eyes and hankering licked lips. All overlooked simply because of some fancy title and an absurdly long string of middle names. And as for him? Secluded from higher society by appearance alone.
"It's so unnecessary. I don't suppose my fellow gentlemen will make the best of things." Lord Tatum shook his head in disapproval. When he caught Zelgadis's attention, he continued. "Tell me, how long have you been employed by the royal family, Mister Greywords?"
Zelgadis regretted his acknowledgment. Alongside his disdain for balls and their brother banquets, polite chit-chat was a top-five contender of his list of despised social expectations. "Long enough to sufficiently guard the princess."
"So, you and Princess Amelia have been friends for quite some time, I presume?"
"What are you getting at?" Zelgadis snapped. He knew the man hadn't done anything to provoke such irritation. But after the day he had, he was in no mood to play nice with the suitors.
Lord Tatum blinked in surprise and waved his hands with a weak smile. "Only trying to make small talk, Mister Greywords. If your title entails you to keep watch of the princess, naturally I and the other suitors will be in your constant company."
Zelgadis frowned. "I wouldn't count on it."
A clamorous rang of laughter postulated their attention. Lord Manston managed to weasel his way into the group of noblemen, giving one of them a hearty pat on the back, in an underhanded chummy way. He nursed another glass, as his other hand wandered too far below the noblewoman's waist for comfort. Zelgadis and Lord Tatum watched as the viscount's index finger and thumb met with a slight pinch of flesh beneath skirts.
"What a horrid man," Lord Tatum scowled. "You should have heard what he said about the maids earlier today—"
"I didn't invite you to gossip about your fellow suitors, Lord Tatum," Zelgadis growled. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to."
He thought Lord Tatum would have known better than to plant another seed of gossip after Vonzelle publicly humiliated him with her terse reprimanding. Evidently, Lord Manston wasn't the only suitor who formed a bad habit. As he stalked off, Zelgadis didn't look back to see the state of the earl due to his brusque departure. Forget about proper decorum. It hadn't even been an hour and he already wished to retire for the night. But he knew he couldn't do that.
He needed a distraction. Perhaps, Lina and Gourry attracted a rousing audience as they reenacted the food fight debacle from two years earlier at The Golden Ram Inn.