Madam Skeeter's High Society Papers, No. 25

I believe it was my mother who once told me, "If you've seen one, you've seen them all!" — and I am afraid that turn of phrase is all I can offer you, dear readers, regarding the sullen, lackluster events of last night's ball. (My mother, of course, was talking of something else entirely!) True enough, the surroundings were splendid, the food passed muster, the wine potable though not enjoyable. The only real saving grace to the entire evening was the arrival and presence of Her Majesty — a fact of which, I am sure, she was all too aware. What else could explain the curl of complacency about her Royal mouth? (Though, perhaps it was the unmistakable whiff of young love floating over the dance floor, especially when a certain couple waltzed past…)

What a relief it is, knowing that we shall have a break from these terrible Balls for at least one evening. But Madam Skeeter, you may say, your hand to your chest in shock, nothing interesting ever happens at the opera! What on earth will you write about? To that, my dear readers, I only say what is true — there is always plenty going on around you. You must simply open your eyes — or whip out your opera glasses — to see it.

And what shall we see? The Unknown and the Recluse, edging ever-closer to one another, trading glances and smiles when they think none of us are watching? Or perhaps the shining Diamond herself, who seems to have set aside her initial infatuation in favor of courting her options? This, my lovelies, was perhaps the smartest choice she could have made. A choice which, to be frank, I would, at one point, not have imagined her capable of making. But then again, what is a season without its surprises?

"Miss Granger!" hissed Ms. Randolph, red splotches growing on her cheeks. "Will you stop fussing at your dress!"

Hermione fought back a scowl but did indeed stop. Luna's dress did technically fit, it was just… a rather more daring cut than she was used to wearing. "I can assure you, it will be no small miracle if, somehow, the seams do not burst before the tea arrives."

"Hush!" Ms. Randolph's eyes flashed. "There is hardly any need for such dramatics. You should show some gratitude to your friend for allowing you to borrow her beautiful dress."

Hermione took a breath — as much of a breath as she could take, in this corset — and turned her attention to Luna, who was sitting opposite her in the carriage. Luna met her gaze, something like mirth dancing in her bright blue eyes, though her expression remained flat and serene. "Luna," said Hermione, hoping that her friend could hear the sarcasm. "Thank you ever so much for allowing me to borrow the dress that Ms. Randolph insisted I wear."

"Not at all," Luna replied, over Ms. Randolph's choke of outrage. "You wear it far better than I ever have."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the compliment and shot her friend a genuine smile. "You indulge me," she said, just as the carriage rolled to a stop. The door popped open, and Hermione vaulted out of her seat..

It was just as well that she had a diligent footman. The sight before her nearly bowled her over completely.

Hermione had heard, of course, about Kew Gardens. Ms. Randolph herself had foamed at the mouth about it, and even Luna had told her that it was sure to be a wonderful, magical place teeming with diverse life and beauty. But nothing could truly have prepared her for the sight that greeted her now.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" said Luna beside her. Her hand found Hermione's and squeezed it. "I know, I could sit out here all day."

"And ruin your complexion," Ms. Randolph muttered as their carriage rolled away. "Come."

They followed another footman along a wide gravel path, surrounded by towering hedges and dense flowerbeds overflowing with blooms. One end of the land dipped into a wide, low pond, and at the other, a dense collection of trees promised shade and wildlife. Butterflies swam in the air, and the trees roared with birdsong. They were approaching a huge, vaulted glass building, which Hermione supposed to be a greenhouse. She was proven correct as they stepped in and found themselves enveloped by a musky, humid air.

"The Queen is receiving visitors on the terrace," said their footman as he led them past an overwhelming collection of orchids. "But feel free to wander the grounds as you please."

The terrace was bright and a welcome change from the stuffy air of the greenhouse. Tables and chairs were arranged in neat clusters, groaning with the weight of an indulgent tea and what looked to be half the Royal silver. The Queen was standing by the fountain, dressed in a resplendent canary yellow, and she gave Hermione a sharp look as she curtsied, the hem of her dress brushing the Queen's.

"Child," she said. "What on earth are you wearing?"

Behind her, Hermione could hear Ms. Randolph stifle a faint choking noise. She just offered the Queen her best placating smile and said, "I had to borrow an old dress of Lady Lovegood's, Your Majesty. Apparently, I did not pack enough dresses before my departure from Paris."

"I imagine it is difficult to prepare, without a mother's guidance." The Queen's gaze had not shifted an inch. "Have you heard from her family at all, now that you are back in England?"

For a brief moment, Hermione felt as thought she'd missed a step. Her stomach swooped and the previously warm, delicious air suddenly felt stifling. "No, ma'am," she said. "I have not." And do not expect to, she did not say.

A brief pause. The Queen just stared at her, that dark gaze drilling into Hermione's own. Then, the moment broke, and she turned to Luna. "And look at you, my Diamond. You are magnificent. Far beyond any comparison I could possibly hope to make."

Luna curtsied like a doll, the sunlight beaming in her hair. "You are too kind, Your Majesty."

"I've heard you have your pick of suitors," said the Queen, and the pride in her voice was unmistakable. "Have any stood out more than others?"

"Perhaps one or two, ma'am," Luna replied. For a moment, Hermione looked at her enigmatic little face and could only envy it.

"Well, the cream will rise in time, my dear." The Queen gave them both a nod. "Do enjoy yourselves. The éclairs in particular are indulgence manifested."

They curtsied and stepped away to allow the next guests an audience. "Éclairs," Hermione hissed to Luna. "We must—"

"I think not," Ms. Randolph snapped, happy to be sharp now that they were out of the Queen's earshot. "It is never a good idea to attend the opera on a full stomach."

Hermione snorted. "Così fan tutte is hardly a bloodbath. What, are we expected to swoon in the stands like fathers in a birthing room?"

"Hold your tongue!" hissed Ms. Randolph, her eyes flashing. "If you cannot keep a civil word in that mouth of yours—"

"I would be more inclined to do so," said Hermione coolly, "had I not been squeezed into a sausage casing this afternoon."

"Come, Hermione." Luna linked their arms. "I would like to try the peach tea."

With that, she swept them across the terrace, leaving Ms. Randolph wheezing with anger. "You did that on purpose," Luna breathed to her, once they were a good distance away.

Hermione hummed, smiling at a cluster of ladies. "Well, my gentle nature is in short supply today, Luna."

Luna's smile was sparkling. "Bold to assume you ever had one at all."

"You fox," Hermione chided as they reached a free table. A few footmen appeared and helped them into their chairs. She did not fail to notice the way the men's eyes stuck to her figure like glue, and fought the urge to throw a chair at them.

The peach tea was indeed delicious, but Hermione could only mournfully stare at the small platters of food. She'd been joking earlier, about her seams bursting, but now, under the hot sun and a dozen stares, she was actually quite worried about it happening. A single cucumber sandwich could make or break this dress.

"Hermione!" came a voice laced with surprise. "You're here!"

Hermione looked up to find Katie, dressed in a surprisingly pink dress, smiling at her. "Katie!" she exclaimed, managing to stand up and give her a hug. "Well met indeed, just when the party threatened to list into dullness."

Katie gave a chuckle. "You flatter me, as usual." She leaned forward and dropped her voice. "I am only here thanks to the forceful hand of my grandmother. Please, do not let me alone."

"Miss Bell!" Hermione said loudly, pulling her down into a chair. "You must join us!"

"It is so lovely to make your acquaintance," said Luna. "Hermione has told me such wonderful things about you."

For a moment, Katie could only stare at Luna like a complete idiot, transfixed.

"I know," Hermione muttered to her behind her raised teacup. "I would say you'll get used to it after a while, but you don't, really."

"The—the pleasure is all mine, my Lady," Katie finally managed. "It is an honor—"

Luna gave a light, trilling laugh. "Oh, you are sweet. You must have one of these strawberry tarts, they are divine."

All three of them then proceeded to spend a very delightful hour talking and gossiping of everything and nothing. Hermione learned even more details of Katie's life — growing up with three older brothers, who gave her a competitive streak a mile wide and particular knack for arm-wrestling. Katie enjoyed riding horses more than almost anything else, and even, to Hermione's shock, had been taught how to hunt and track.

"Really?" Hermione whispered to her, agape. "You've killed an animal?"

Katie smirked. "Three best stags in my father's collection, thank you very much."

Even Luna, who Hermione would've expected to blanch at this topic, was transfixed. "Does anyone know?"

"No one outside the family," Katie replied. "Well, except for you two." She winked at them, and Luna giggled in delight.

They were drawing a lot of attention, Hermione realized. Other young ladies had begun hovering near their table, inclining their heads, hoping to snatch a piece of conversation, or, perhaps, an invitation. Even the mothers and chaperones were looking their way, with raised eyebrows and cautious, even jealous, expressions. For a moment, a surge of something went through Hermione's body — something that felt a lot like satisfaction. Like winning.

This feeling only deepened when she saw Miss Brown standing beside a table at the far end, flanked by those twins, her expression thunderous. The abandoned sets of plates and teacups told Hermione that she had recently lost quite a crowd of supplicants — those who now hovered by Hermione, Luna, and Katie. Something was happening, here. Something was changing. Shifting, like the sands beneath the sea.

With that, Hermione's gaze drifted to the nearest group of debutantes and she smiled. "Miss Harris, Lady Stuart, Lady Ednam. Won't you join us?"

"Oh, yes!" Luna chimed in, eagerly turning to the young women behind her. "Lady Linley, Lady Wolmer — you must take some tea!"

All the young ladies beamed with delight, and a general chaos ensued as the footmen stepped in to push several tables together to make sure everyone had a seat. Hermione watched everything unfold with a distinct sense of pleasure, chatting happily to Lady Stuart about the good weather, all too aware that she had never imagined she'd feel this way during the dreaded season — in control, powerful. Ruthless.

Perhaps it is silly, she reflected as she sipped at a fresh cup of tea. Luna, Lady Ednam, Katie, and Lady Linley were now having a very good-natured argument about something or other, but Hermione had tuned them out. Perhaps it is silly to care about this sort of thing, about who sits where, about who listens to whom, about who has the most friends.

Then again, she thought, stealing another glance at Miss Brown, who was looking more agitated by the moment. Perhaps it isn't.

"—they are severely misguided, look what happened at Bautzen—"

"—Liverpool does not seem to care, he has a clear agenda—"

Hermione frowned, her awareness circling back to the conversation happening in front of her. This was the last thing she'd expected these women to be talking about.

"What do you think of it? Wellington going to the peninsula?"

"I hardly know what to think. I can see the reasoning — it is closer to Britain, so we might have more of an advantage. But attacking Napoleon in his home country—?"

"That might be just what he needs, a visitor on his front doorstep. It will rattle him—"

Just then, Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw a cluster of mothers approaching.

In seconds, they'd be within earshot.

"Yes, Lady Linley," she said loudly, loud enough that half the ladies flinched. "I completely agree with you, those tassels were too much for Countess Ramsay, they swallowed her figure and were entirely the wrong shade of blue."

For a moment, they all stared at her, speechless. She gave them a pointed look, and saw the recognition flicker in their faces.

"Oh, yes," said Lady Linley, picking up her teacup. "Tassels were all the rage, what, ten years ago, but we must keep up with the times—"

"That was very artful," Luna said to Hermione later, when they were strolling by the edge of the pond, a short distance away from the terrace. Katie was with them, looking more relaxed and happier than Hermione had ever seen her. "The way you evaded the oncoming attack."

"As always, Luna, you are too kind. I merely happened to see it in time." Now that it was just the three of them, Hermione bit her lip and took the leap. "I must admit, I was rather surprised… at the turn the conversation happened to take."

Luna cocked her head to one side, and even Katie shot her a glance. "Why is that?"

Hermione's face went hot. "They were talking of… politics. The war. And strategy."

"And?" Luna pressed. When Hermione remained silent, she smiled. "I see. You are surprised to find that someone other than you has a brain."

Hermione could cook an egg on her forehead. "No," she tried, "I just did not expect—"

"Of course they are interested in all that, Hermione," said Katie. "This war affects everyone, even those of us in glass houses. We all know someone in the army, some of us even have military men in our families." She shrugged, but Hermione caught the tension in her shoulders. "And France is only a short boat ride away."

"No, I—" Hermione tried again. "I did not mean—"

"I am sure you didn't," Luna said lightly, giving her hand a squeeze. "But do not worry. You have us all quite beat when it comes to literature and mathematics. I still cannot comprehend those colossal sums to which you devote your time, and doubt I ever will."

"I just did not think," Hermione went on, "that it was common. For women to be educated, in England."

Katie and Luna shared a look, a look that Hermione could not begin to comprehend. "We are not," said Katie. "Not really. Not the way you were. But most of us find a way to steal our father's morning paper, to sneak into the library in the middle of the night and read the books no one has touched in years. And we share it, all of it, with each other. And we steal moments, when we might discuss these things with those who might share our perspective. As you just saw."

"Goodness," Hermione breathed, looking out across the glassy, slippery pond. She felt a little dizzy, and not just because of her corset.

"This is not to say," Katie went on, "that we all share this concern for current events, for politics. Not everyone has the… curiosity."

Then, as if following this invisible cue, there came a burst of noise from along the bank. A snarl of frustration, loud enough that Hermione, Katie, and Luna could all hear it. A slow smirk spread across Katie's face, and she beckoned to the others, guiding them behind the branches of a nearby weeping willow, just out of sight for anyone approaching from the other end of the bank. Breathing in the sweet, dusty scent of the willow, Hermione's eye found a gap between the feathery branches, and she watched, anticipation knotting in her stomach.

She did not have to wait long. Within moments, their new point of interest came into view, golden curls flying around a red, angry face.

"—cannot stand to even look at her, that— that— witch!" Miss Brown spat, giving a very unladylike stomp into the soft earth. Her chest was heaving and she spun around to face — the twins, of course, who else? "She comes in here, simpering and waltzing around as if she owns the place, when she hasn't been so much as glimpsed in this country for nearly ten years, and what, we're all supposed to fawn over her and fall to her feet?! I bloody well think not!"

Beside Hermione, Katie shoved a gloved hand over her nose and mouth, stifling a bolt of laughter. Luna was grinning, drinking in the scene with something akin to triumph.

"She's not even that pretty!" Miss Brown went on, a savage edge to her words. "She looks as though she's rolled in a bit of dirt and slapped on a diamond necklace to make up for it! And that dress — oh, did you see that dress?! She looks like a harlot! Fresh off the streets of Soho, not even worth half a shilling—!"

"Did you hear that?" Hermione whispered, grinning. Katie trembled with suppressed laughter. "I am not even worth a measly shilling—"

"Who does she think she is?!" Miss Brown was becoming quite hysterical. The twins were starting to look nervous as they hovered. "Trying to steal all my friends, flashing those tits and those hips, it's no wonder the Duke only has eyes for her, she's probably already let him—"

"Miss Brown," said Hermione, stepping out from behind the willow. She cleared her throat, biting her tongue to keep from smiling, and wished she had a painter beside her at that moment. She would've loved to have a record of Miss Brown's expression to outlast them both. "As riveting as this is, I feel it is my duty to tell you that you sound quite ridiculous."

Miss Brown seemed to rally, though one of the twins looked ready to faint. "I was being honest," she spat. "Not ridiculous in the least."

"Really?" said Hermione. She heard the branches shift and knew that Luna and Katie had stepped in behind her. "Then I am sure the other guests would be happy to hear the unimaginative, petty vitriol you would use to spoil such a pleasant afternoon."

To her surprise, Miss Brown marched right up to her, staring up into her face with an anger that was almost laughable. "The other guests," Miss Brown snapped, "would agree with me."

"Would they?" Hermione said, glancing at the terrace. A small audience was forming, drawn by the noise. "Refresh my memory as to what, precisely, they would agree with?"

"That you are an incessant social climber with a half-baked lineage and the face of a second-rate charwoman!" cried Miss Brown. "That you put on airs and graces far above your station, and have bewitched the Duke into keeping your company!"

Hermione did laugh then. "If you think the Duke susceptible to such a trick, you truly have no grasp of reality at all."

"Nor do you!" Miss Brown heaved a great breath. "You think you are so special, but everything you are is just because your mother condescended to accept your pathetic father!"

Something ice-cold settled into Hermione veins and she stared down at Miss Brown. "Do not," she said, "speak a word against my parents!"
Miss Brown let out a scream of laughter. "I can and I shall!" She took a step back, not noticing that she was stepping directly into mud. "I shall say whatever I—!"

The world seemed to slow. One moment, Miss Brown took another step back, and the next, she was gone, swallowed by the pond and replaced by a terrific splash.

A stunned silence fell over the party. Hermione could only gape as there came a muffled burble, then Miss Brown's face, red and puffy, surfacing from the water. She thrashed like a caught fish, and great waves of water and mud surged into shore.

"Miss Brown," Hermione tried. She reached out. "Let me help you!"

Miss Brown locked gazes with her, and reached out in return. Then, she gave a hard pull, and Hermione found herself flying through the air and into the ice-cold, muddy water.

It hit her like a wall and she gasped and gagged all at once, hitting the bottom of the pond. Shuddering, it took enormous effort for her to kick out and stand up, spitting out half a lung's worth of water. By the time she shoved her hair out of her eyes, she realized that the tea party crowd had descended upon the pond, and utter pandemonium had broken out.

Skin numb, ears ringing, Hermione let herself be pulled into Luna and Katie's warm embrace, just as Miss Brown was heaved out of the water by the twins. The mothers were shrieking, the footmen were swarming, and just when she thought things couldn't get any worse—

"What on earth is this nonsense!" boomed a very deep, Royal voice. The Queen came marching through the crowd, the guests scattering around her. She stared at Hermione, then at Miss Brown. "Never have I seen such a display from two of the most refined young ladies!" She took a great breath, then continued in a low, deadly voice. "I would consider this matter resolved at once. If I hear so much as a whisper of you two arguing, I shall make my displeasure known." The Queen gave Hermione a final cut-throat look, and Hermione could only stare back at her. "And someone get this child a shawl, half the footmen have already forgotten their own names."

And then, to Hermione's astonishment, the Queen shot her a tiny, sharp smile.

"Luna," Hermione gritted out, snapping her fan shut. "If you do not stop talking at once—"

"No, truly." Luna was grinning and fluttering her lacy lilac fan across her face. "That is why they are all staring—"

Hermione gave a humorless laugh. "Oh, really? I thought it was because my tits and my hips could stop traffic—"

Luna seemed to actually consider this. "Well, they could, but news of your spat with Miss Brown has traveled far and wide. Most versions claim that you pushed her—"

A blush flooded Hermione's face and she pulled Luna aside. They were in the foyer of the Theater Royal in Covent Garden, and the air was tense with summer heat. There was enough of an excited crowd that their presence was not too obvious, but heads still turned to stare at Hermione, and she could practically see Rumor flying through the room on her shining chariot. It did not help that Hermione's dress — another borrowed from Luna — was just as if not more daring than the first. "Luna," she hissed. "I cannot be expected to sit through—"

"Good evening, ladies."

Hermione looked up at Cadogan and the Duke as they approached. They were dressed quite splendidly in formal suits, and the Duke's hair was almost neat. "Oh, yes, hello," she said, then turned back to Luna. "What was I supposed to do, let her flounder around like an idiot—?"

"Seems we are interrupting a most intriguing conversation," said Cadogan, genial as ever. He inclined his head. "A pleasure as always, Lady Lovegood." He turned to Hermione. "Miss— Granger!" The word turned into a squawk as he finally looked at her, and his face went as red as a tomato. "You both look," he went on, his voice half an octave higher as usual, "lovely!"

Hermione sighed as Luna smiled and curtsied.

"Prongs?" Cadogan squeaked, then he cleared his throat and tried again. "Prongs, do greet the lady—"

The Duke said nothing. He'd gone a very funny color and he was looking, quite resolutely, at Hermione's face.

"Prongs," Cadogan hissed, closing the distance between them. He muttered something in the Duke's ear and gave him a bit of a shake. Hermione caught the barest edge of the words — "pull yourself together—" and for a moment, almost smiled.

The Duke seemed to rally. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, not looking anywhere lower than her chin. "Miss Granger," he said, his voice deeper than usual. "How are you—?"

"Do not ask," Luna said as Hermione groaned and slumped against the wall. The two men quickly cleared their throats and stared up at the ceiling.

"Why?" managed the Duke, but then, the bells began to ring.

"Oh, dear," said Hermione, standing up and looking towards the entrance. "I'm not sure my father made it in time—"

"He will be here," Luna assured her, patting her on the arm. "Come, let's find our seats."

"Where are you sitting?" said Cadogan. He fell into step with them as they made their way to the main doors, swallowed by the crush of people.

"Up in the grand tier, with my father," said Luna. "Sir Ian is meant to join us, but—"

"That is where we are sitting as well," said Cadogan, delighted. "May we escort you?"

"Certainly." Luna beamed at him, and Cadogan beamed in return. Hermione hid a smile, then noticed that the Duke had fallen in step beside her.

"I gather," he said in an undertone, "that you had an interesting afternoon."

"Don't," she hissed back. "I will not even speak of it."

Something played about on his face. Now that he was closer, she could see the faint shadow of the bruise on his jaw, darker now than it had been the night before. "How I wish I could have been there to witness it. Miss Hermione Granger, dripping wet and ready to kill."

"Behave!" She thwacked him on the arm with her fan. As more and more people joined the crowd, she and the Duke were pushed closer together and Luna and Cadogan were pulled further away. "It was all Miss Brown's fault, you should have heard the things she was saying about me. What was I supposed to do, ignore her?"

"No," he returned. "And while I am sure that you did not push her, I rather wish you had."

Hermione stared at him. "You do?"

The Duke met her gaze, a haze of red still along his cheekbones. "Yes."

"Your program, Miss," came the usher's voice, and his leer met her chest. Scowling, Hermione snatched the bit of paper from him and shoved her way past, barely noticing the Duke following her. Some way ahead, she could see Luna's shining bun and Cadogan's dutiful ear. With a huff, she turned in the opposite direction, away from the crowd of guests, and made her way along the hall.

"How on earth am I meant to make it through this evening?" she threw over her shoulder, certain that the Duke would catch it. "I already draw enough attention as is, and now half the peers think I tried to drown a girl—"

"Trust me," he replied. "It is a miracle that Miss Brown has survived unscathed thus far."

"To put it gently." They'd reached her target. Hermione closed in on the footman, swiped a glass of wine from his tray, and downed it in a series of gulps.

"Well done." The Duke's words were warm, amused. He leaned against the wall, content to watch her test the limits of her own reputation. "That is certainly one way to pass the time."

"If I am to face half of London," Hermione replied, taking a great breath before she traded her empty glass for a fresh one, "I shall need more than a little courage."

"Good point. Though I do hope you managed to eat something after they fished you out of the pond?"

Hermione polished off her second glass and snorted. "What do you think?" she said to the footman, who was definitely younger than her with far too innocent a face. "Do you think the seams on this dress could survive my consumption of even a mouthful of food?"

The footman turned an alarming shade of puce. "My— my Lady— I do not—"

"Point made," said the Duke, taking her by the elbow and steering her down the hall. "No need to traumatize the servants."

Her body thudding from the alcohol, for a moment all she could think about was the place where the edge of his thumb caught the bare skin of her arm. "Do not patronize me," she hissed back. "You have no idea—"

"Yes, yes, you can berate me later." He guided her towards the stairs. "Did you manage to enjoy the tea at all, apart from its conclusion?"

"Hardly." She gathered her skirts with a huff and began to ascend the small, steep steps. "I did not get to eat any of the pastry, though I suppose the conversation was passable enough." Hermione glanced around, making sure they were alone. "There was talk of Bonaparte."

The Duke shot her a glance. "I am not surprised. The situation is tenuous."

"What I would give," she said, heaving the biggest breath she could manage as they mounted the second flight, "to see it for myself."

The Duke shook his head. "Of course. Show her a war, and she runs toward it."

"Can you blame me?" she countered. They stepped out onto the first floor, where streams of people were finding their seats in the grand tier. Happily, she noticed several footmen bearing trays of wine. "When the height of my entertainment is ill-fitting dresses, Miss Brown, and Così fan tutte?"

The Duke frowned at her as they drew even, his glasses beaming in the reflected light of the stage. "Hermione, the opera tonight is Le nozze di Figaro."

The world seemed to tilt, and it wasn't just the alcohol. "What?" she managed, her stomach giving a sickening jolt. She wrenched open her crumpled program and nearly swooned at the sight of those fateful words, printed in large, bold letters. They seemed to throb on the page, growing larger and larger as she stared at them, dizziness threatening to overcome her.

It took her several moments to realize that the Duke was looking at her, his brow creased as his mouth moved, as he said— "Hermione. Hermione, are you all right?"

"Fine," she managed, even offering a weak smile. Figaro. Figaro. She crumpled the program again. "My corset is rather tight this evening. Perhaps I came up the stairs too quickly."

The Duke did not look convinced. "Do you need a glass of water?"

"No, thank you." She caught a glimpse of her father, standing beside Xeno and waving at her. "My father is here. If you'll excuse me—"

"Of course," he said, but she was already gone.

The grand tier was packed, and it looked as though Hermione was not the only one helping herself to the wine. She side-stepped a handful of ladies, a very old man, and a woman with a strong nose before she drew even with — "Father," she said, relief seeping into her voice as she reached him. They could not embrace in public, but he squeezed her hand and smiled at her. He looked tired, weathered. "I am so glad you could make it this evening."

"As am I," he replied. Because they were surrounded on all sides, they were being watched. Sir Ian seemed to be conscious of this; he squeezed her hand again, and his gaze sharpened. "I was not aware of tonight's program."

"Nor I," she said. She watched him digest this, saw the flicker of his concern, and squeezed his hand in return. "I am sure I shall enjoy it."

Sir Ian looked at her for another moment, then he gave her a nod. "You and Luna are in the front row. She is already seated."

Hermione was barely aware of herself as she curtsied and smiled at Lord Devon — Figaro — as she squeezed her way past unhelpful Lords and Ladies — Figaro — as she sank into her seat and said something to Luna. Figaro, Figaro, Figaro.

Four acts, she told herself, staring down over the edge of the balcony at the empty, curtained stage. The candles roared in front of it, and the orchestra rattled their instruments. Four acts, and you can leave. Her eyes slipped shut for just the briefest moment. You can do this.

After several long minutes, there came a sudden silence. Then a whirring trickle of conversation, then silence again. The crowd held its breath, watching the stage with gleaming eyes. The conductor rose, tapping his baton on his music stand. Instruments up, then the violins.

A cascade of muted strings, then the burr of gentle winds. A blast of sound, and Hermione's heart leapt into her throat, a fierce thought pounding through her head — Keep it together.

The music built, and demurred, and built, the sound reverberating off the walls, and around her, her peers quivered with anticipation. Luna's excitement was electric; she was staring at the stage with huge, brilliant eyes, and she was smiling her real smile. Hermione almost smiled herself, her heart whirring along to the strings, and when the curtain opened, she felt ready.

The first act was easy enough. The wine still throbbed in her veins, and Hermione lost herself in the comedy of the stage, enthralled by the soprano, something in her squeezing tight to the notes she knew so well, though had not heard in almost a decade.

"Is it not dazzling?" Luna said to her at the first intermission, while Hermione helped herself to another glass of wine.

"Absolutely." Hermione took a healthy sip, her gaze skimming over the crowd. A short distance away, she caught Cadogan speaking to some young Lady or other. Beside him, the Duke glowered as usual, but then he looked right at her. She turned away.

The second act passed just as quickly. Hermione learned to ignore the weight of her stomach, the thick beating of her heart in her ears. The wine helped her to overlook the memories swimming to the surface of her mind, as did her father's gaze, which she could feel on the back of her head. Onstage, Susanna snuck into the closet, and the ghost of old linen drifted over Hermione's face. She shivered, burying the echo of her mother's laugh, the gleam of sunlight shining in through the crack in the door.

When the intermission bells rang, Hermione sighed and got up to stretch, feeling tense, feverish. She turned, and saw, to her shock, that her father's seat two rows behind her was empty. Her gaze darted to Lord Devon, who gave her a sympathetic look.

"My father," she said to Luna. "He is gone."

"Oh, no!" Luna turned to confirm it for herself. "He probably received word to tend to the King, Hermione."

"I am sorry, dear," said Lord Devon a few minutes later, after he'd pressed through the loitering crowd to check on them. His eyes were glassy in the damp heat of the theater.

Hermione offered him a smile and reached for a fresh glass of wine. "It is of no issue."

By the time the third act began, the harpsichord and the negotiation echoing in the theater, Hermione's heart was roaring in her ears, and she was fanning herself as quickly as she could without drawing attention. Breathe, she told herself, to little effect.

Figaro, Bartolo, and Marcellina embraced, and something pricked at her eyes. Susanna slapped Figaro in the face and something caught in her throat, leaving her unable to laugh along with the rest of the audience. And then, then.

The stage, empty except for the Countess. Her sharp, regal profile shining above her rich magenta dress as she looked to the heavens and sang, "Susanna does not come!"

Hermione's stomach rolled, and something inside her fractured. Heat swept up her neck and unbidden, fiercely hot tears sprang from her eyes.

Managing a shaky breath, Hermione slowly stood up, dipped her head, and slipped out of her row. Thankfully, the audience around her was so enraptured by the tender voice filling the theater that no one seemed to notice her departure.

Head spinning, heart pounding, Hermione staggered out of the theater and down the empty hall, slumping onto a bench below a wide, unflattering portrait of some anonymous, swollen aristocrat. Tears poured down her face in tandem to the echoes of the Countess's questions, carrying the scent of dust and hot chocolate, the warmth of familiar skin, the exultant look on her mother's face when she—

"Stop it!" Hermione hissed, curling into herself, wiping furiously at her cheeks. The air seemed to disappear, her lungs squeezing around nothing as she tried to stifle a sob.

A throat cleared in a quiet cough. "Are you all right, my Lady?"

Hermione looked up, and blinked at the blurry figure in front of her. "Do I look all right?"

It was a gentleman. Tall, broad, with a wide, handsome face and wavy blond hair parted to one side. His right arm was in a sling, but he carried himself in a sure, unrepentant manner. His bright blue eyes found hers, and something inside her seemed to stir in response. He gave a sheepish, lopsided grin and held out a handkerchief with his good hand. "I suppose that was a rather an idiotic question. Allow me to make up for it."

In spite of herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. "Thank you." She took the handkerchief and began to dab at her face, sneaking another look at the gentleman. He was finely dressed, but in a simple, mended sort of way. Money, she thought, but not much of it. "Might I know the name of this handkerchief's owner?"

He smiled again, and Hermione felt a flicker of warmth. "Lieutenant McLaggen, my Lady."

"Not a Lady," she returned, stifling a hiccup. The tightness in her chest seemed to unravel a bit. "Merely a Miss. But you are on leave, then, Lieutenant?"

He nodded. "Not much use for me until I finish healing. And I am only here thanks to a pity-invite from one of the higher-ups." He pointed to the space beside her on the bench. "May I?"

Hermione nodded before she thought about it, and when she did, her heart throbbed again. I am alone, she realized. With an officer. "America, or the Continent?"

"The Continent," he replied, then held out his injured arm with a sigh. "Stupid mistake, and I have never been one to enjoy sitting still. Although…" The Lieutenant cocked his head to one side as he looked at her, playfully speculative. "I have to admit the present company is most helpful in that regard."

Hermione did smile then. "You flatter me, sir."

"I hope so." Now his smile was cheeky. "A beautiful woman deserves flattery, I think."

She took a shuddering breath, still smiling. "If this is your attempt to stop me from crying, I believe you have succeeded."

"Not a short-lived victory, I hope." He was still looking at her, but his teasing seemed to ebb away. "May I inquire as to the nature of your upset?"

Hermione snorted, then sighed. She balled up the handkerchief. "Simply a bad day. Not nearly as dramatic as you make it sound."

"I see. I was hoping it was a rake, so we could get ourselves some real entertainment."

She gave him a mocking look. "Why, sir, do you not enjoy the opera?"

"Why do you think I am wandering the halls with a pocket full of handkerchiefs?" he countered. "No, almost anything would be more interesting than this."

Hermione shook her head. The wine, she thought. That is why I am humoring him. "You remind me of another gentleman I know."

"Good God, I hope not. I am handful enough on my own." He grinned as she laughed. "There, see? Tears forgotten."

"It appears so." And they were. Hermione felt warm, soothed. Her skin prickled. "I do not know how I will last through the rest of this."

"You will," he said at once, without a hint of doubt. When she looked at him, he caught her gaze and held it. "I know we only just met, but not every young lady would be brave enough to speak to a Lieutenant alone, let alone endure his abhorrent company." With that, he stood up. "And now, I must be on my way."

"Oh." She blinked, surprised. "Must you?"

The Lieutenant shook his head as he headed for the nearest exit. "Had my fill of arias for this evening." Then he winked. "Keep the handkerchief."

With that, the Lieutenant disappeared down the stairs, and Hermione leaned back against the wall, trying to figure out what had just happened. A part of her wondered if she had imagined it all. And why on earth was she grinning?

"Hermione. Are you all right?"

She looked up and met the gaze of none other than the Duke. He was standing not two feet in front of her, but she had not heard him approach. Two in one night, she thought. Ms. Randolph would have a heart attack. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I am fine, thank you." She cleared her throat, then frowned. "What are you doing here?"

To her amazement, that red haze appeared on his cheekbones again, and he looked away. "I saw you leave," he said. "You seemed… upset."

For a brief moment, she wanted nothing more than to pretend otherwise. But then— the wine, she thought— "Yes," she said. "I was, a bit."

His gaze snapped back to hers. "Because of the opera?"

"Because I had a terrible day, Your Grace." Which was technically true. Hermione shrugged, trying to play it off. "It is getting late. I am tired, and uncomfortable, and homesick." True again, she realized, but a beat too late.

When she'd first met the Duke, Hermione would've expected a speech such as this to make him roll his eyes and leave. To her surprise now, he did neither. "I understand," he said, his voice low. "And I must admit, this is my first time at the opera in years. I had forgotten how hot it gets."

She smiled, shaking her head. "I cannot conceive how you survive, wearing those jackets."

"I'd take a jacket over a corset any day," the Duke countered, with half a smile. Then, he held out a handkerchief. "May I?"

"That is all right." Hermione held up her handkerchief in reply. "I brought one from home." The lie was quick, easy, like a reflex. But still, she wondered why she did it. "I thought I might cry at the end."

"And I think," said the Duke, pocketing his handkerchief, "that when the time comes, you will be early to your own Death."

"A macabre, back-handed compliment." She stood up with a stifled groan. These shoes really were awful. "Good to know we are back to normal."

A rich baritone boomed down the hall, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The double wedding was about to begin.

The Duke seemed to notice. "It is only a few minutes until the intermission," he said. "We could remain out here, rather than disturb the audience."

Hermione nodded, feeling a flood of relief. Then, her brain caught up, and she shot the Duke a look. "You know this opera."

He almost smiled. "Of course I do."

She shook her head. "You are rife with contradiction."

"Glad to hear it," he replied, and around them, the music swelled.

don't mind me I'm just over here mainlining le nozze di figaro

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