I said two weeks, it has been a month . . . apologizes.
On a related note: this is the shortest chapter I have ever posted. Ever.
The best trained and practiced ladies felt a smattering of fear as they were poised at the top of the Grand staircase in front of the entire court. Alanna, who had neither training nor practice, was nothing short of terrified. She loosely grasped the arm of the Duke, who was kind enough to escort her down the stairs, and held her breath, figuring that passing out from oxygen deprivation would be just as good as disappearing. Though she would be slightly more embarrassed. As she descended the steps, the heraldic titles ringing in her ear, her vision tunneled. On the best of her days she could tolerate a crowd. At this moment she was nervous and paranoid at the masse of people staring at her.
She looked ahead, and was blinded by the glare of the three monarchs ahead of her. The jewels on their outfits and the gold on the thrones glared like a message from the Gods, 'run away' it said. She felt the Duke's grasp on her arm tighten, as if he knew her thoughts. He leaned in closer, and barely moving his lips, murmured to her, "you should have left off the robe, you look nice in that dress."
Alanna felt her check start to burn, and opened her mouth to retort, but the couple had made it to the front of the room by that time, so she had lost her opportunity. She curtsied formally, if not a bit wobbly, in a bow of fealty to the monarchs. The King, his eyes elsewhere, politely ignored her. The Queen looked nothing if not tired. It was only with the Prince that she caught a glance from. The boy, if she could call him that, she mused, was taller then expected. He had the dark hair and blue eyes of the family Conté, matched with rather pale skin he was a sight to behold. Alanna was sure all the court flirts thought so. In comparison to the Duke, however, the Prince was nothing exciting; he looked like a mere boy. She felt the Duke guide her to one side; obviously her audience with the royal family was over. Was she better for it? Probably not.
There were any number of dunder-headed boys more then willing to take her for a spin on the dance floor. Forced by custom, she acquiesced to the requests, time after time, and honestly, her feet ached. Just as she was about to plead exhaustion, and rightly so, she was approached by the Prince himself.
Moving to the gentle rhythm of a waltz, she was stunned by the fluidness of her partner. The soothing music and comfortable steps were enough to make her open to conversation.
"Are you enjoying yourself milady?"
"Immensely, your highness," she said, smiling, "however, I was concerned about the fate of my brother this wonderful evening."
The Prince grimaced. "Unfortunately, your brother became ill this afternoon and could not make it here tonight, I am sure that he will be more then happy to see you on the morrow."
Alanna knew there was something untoward going on, but she couldn't place her finger on it. So deep in thought, she half missed the next words the Prince spoke, " . . . on my tunic." He grinned.
"Pardon?" She asked.
"I was just commenting on how lovely your vomit looked all over my tunic." His grin was larger now and his eyes were laughing.
Alanna could feel her face grow red, and she was at once grateful the song had ended.
Realizing that this was the last place she wanted to be, she fled.
