Alinnya, love. You were right. I'll admit it.
You were right about the entire thing.
She was more than a little nervous of walking through those big double doors into the palace proper, because then it meant she had to let go of Jack, as it was unseemly to cling to one's husband in public. But oh, how she wanted to.
She knew exactly what she was up against- stunning whores with painted faces, miniscule waists, high breasts and soft, seductive voices. She had nothing at her disposal to fight these women, and she knew Jack. Knew him all too well.
The despair in her swelled beyond all hope, and her hands in her lap were white and sweaty. She didn't dare to look down at them.
Scars, scars, scars, that's all she'd ever been. Brands and battlewounds, nicks and scrapes and the overpowering emotional scars she'd carried with her for as long as she could remember. She swore to herself that she wouldn't cry when he left her. She would find someone else, something else, and go on, and pretend that it had never happened, and become one of those seemingly helpless predators in that building, and shut herself away from any possible hurt, ever again, forever. She could do that. She could survive. She had more balls than any man.
Don't leave me.
She held her head high, and even managed a small smile at the bellman who helped her down, earning her a dogmatic look from Jack as she took his arm, and she walked, almost floated, towards the palace, no outward appearance of her dying heart. Twasn't proper.
I would die for you. Goodbye.
Jack had never seen such a disgusting display of wealth in all of his life. The pirate in him was using all his brainpower to figure out how to walk off with the chandelier, the man in him was overawed by its size, the light it cast into the room. He did his level best not to appear as awed and outleagued as he felt, and out of the corner of his eyes, noticed that both Roland and Alinnya seemed immune to the whole thing. How'd they do it? Roland acted as though he were about to step on hot coals, Alinnya as though she were taking steps toward a guillotine. Both under their best masks of politeness, of course, but he knew them both well enough to see the signs. He squeezed Alinnya's arm, gently, lending her all the support he could. They weren't dead yet. She grinned at him out of the corner of her eyes, and they stepped through the door, and he was blinded by the lights as the crier called their names.
Let the games begin. He was trying not to grin like a madman.