A/N: This chapter is starlet-centric, which I know feels a lot like what I write in this story, but that's part of the point of nextgen and I am a sucker for nextgen sorry not sorry.
Chapter Sixty: An Owlet Takes Wing
"I hate this," the Marchioness groused. She avoided looking out the carriage, glad her mother and sister flanked her at either side instead, whilst the Baroness Coal-on-the-Hill and her daughter sat on the other side. "Why do I have to attend the National Ball? I don't even like the Season itself, let alone its biggest event."
"It looks better," Lady Clara replied. "Maglina is your youngest sister and Oriana grew up with you kids—it'll give off the air of a better sense of commitment to not just Kasterborous and Gallifrey's standing, but to the nation as a whole."
"I am engaged to be married in the Autumn. One would think that would mean not only commitment, but that I can put this nonsense aside for another few decades—forever if I don't have daughters."
"We don't write the rules," the Baroness smirked. She glanced at her daughter and gave her an encouraging pat on the knee. "You ready?"
"It can't be worse than my coming-of-age ceremony," Oriana replied. "What about you, Maggie?"
"I don't know," Maglina responded. "This isn't like going and hosting parties at the house—everyone is technically allowed, aren't they?"
"True, but Sterling's not with us, so they might think it's safe," Oriana smirked, thinking back to the first party the two of them ever hosted. Her face then fell in realization. "Mum? Lady Clara? Could that man be there?"
"That child—as that's all he is if he hasn't grown up in the meantime—will have to get through me if he wants to even do so much as apologize to you," the Marchioness scowled. "Just because it is us and not Papa or Sterling or Tara does not mean we are helpless."
"I didn't think we were. It's just that…" The younger woman trailed off, her gaze moving to her hands as she examined her fingernails. "Now that I think about it, things could go plenty worse than my coming-of-age, couldn't they?"
"They could, but your mother and I are also wearing our swords, so don't worry. We are intimidating enough."
Oriana and Maglina shared a look—now both were hesitant concerning the ceremony. It was looking beyond frightening with increasing certainty. The closer the horses pulled the carriage, the more anxious they became, until they finally stopped in front of the castle, where scores of smallfolk were gathered to see their glimpses of the gold-clad debutantes and their noble sponsors.
With each carriage that emptied, a new set of whispers arose. Which family was gaining power, and which was close to ruin? Who held control in their landholdings, and who was neglecting their duties? What was the likelihood of a match made that night, let alone over the entire Season and beyond? The whispers ran quick and the bets flowed freely.
As the carriage containing the Kasterborsian contingent opened, there was little keeping tongues from wagging. The Marchioness Kasterborous and Gallifrey was a rare sight indeed, with her deep navy dress and a sash of military honors some claimed was red as the northern night sky, yet most knew as the color of blood. Next was her lady mother, another sister dressed in gold, and their guests. The Baroness Coal-on-the-Hill was middling-born, certainly, yet she appeared every bit the part of nobility with her own dress of black and sash of red. Her highborn daughter, in her own dress of gold, was to be the first of their line to be formally presented, exciting all those who were to take to the betting halls soon as the guests were all present. The first presentation in a family was near always cause for commotion, and one glimpse at the fair features and nervous smile on the comely future Baroness was all the people needed to see for new wagers and strategies to begin forming.
"Are things always this way?" Oriana asked quietly as the five made the long walk into the castle. She waved politely at the people on either side of the walkway—there were more there than she was comfortable with. Her mother shrugged slightly, unable to wholly answer.
"What do you think, Clara?" the Baroness echoed. "You grew up attending the Season: how does this crowd compare to years past?
"It's very comparable, actually," Lady Clara said. "This event has long been the height of the social calendar—interkingdom alliances are born here, thrive here, die here, and then are forged anew. It would take a year of great uncertainty to have a Season without the National Ball, and I'd hate to see how everyone would fare without it."
As they entered the palace, the young Marchioness split off from her party and waited in the main hall, glad for the drinks that were already being served to dull the tedium of the event. She could see the dais where the royal family sat, acknowledging each pair—a debutante and a sponsor—who were brought before them. A few men brought their sons before His Highness this year, though it was mostly mothers and their daughters. Dresses and jackets of gold began to populate the room, to the point where when familiar names were called, she could barely hear them over the low, droning din buzzing in the room.
"Lady Clara Oswald of Blackpoole, Marchioness Emeritus of Kasterborous and Gallifrey, and her daughter, Lady Maglina Diantha of Gallifrey!"
"About damn time," the Marchioness mumbled under her breath. She nodded at a passing servant and he approached with a tray of nibbles, from which she took one. He nodded back—a familiar face, it was likely he had been at the palace for a few years now and was not merely seasonal staff.
"Lady Physician Martha Samantha Jones-Pink, Baroness Coal-on-the-Hill, and her daughter, Lady Oriana Adeola Pink, Baronetess Hillvale!"
"Oooh, he could actually pronounce it this time around," the Marchioness smirked. She watched as the rest of her group finally made their way over towards her, the mothers glad the fuss was over with and their daughters still attempting to take in the grand scale of the overall event. "Good—much longer and I might've moved on to a stronger wine and then most certainly become drunk."
"Don't say things like that," Lady Clara chided. "It wasn't that bad, was it Martha?"
"I'll be damned; there's some old classmates from University," the Baroness marveled, not entirely paying attention. "Oriana, would you like to come meet them?"
"No thank you, Mum."
"Then stay with Maglina—I'll be right back." She walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
"Stars, it's Chatham," the Marchioness cursed. "I guess I wasn't hidden as well as I thought." Maglina and Oriana looked in the direction she was and saw a greasy-haired man with his eyes on them, headed their way. "I bet he's heard about Grant and is ready to tease me into oblivion. Tell him I'm falling ill." At that she attempted to slip away, with the interloper she was attempting to dodge changing course to follow her. For the three who now remained, there was still a chance they would stay together, until…
"If you girls need me, I'll be over there," Lady Clara said, motioning towards a group of women her age. "An old friend of mine needs to be gently bragged-to before Astra's second is born while she hasn't figured out why her children all hate her overbearing ways."
"You are cruel, Mama."
"Then she never should have mocked first my lack of marriage, then my husband after I was wed," Lady Clara smirked. She left the two young women on their own, the teens suddenly feeling rather small in the large, packed ballroom. They made their way around the room, attempting to find a familiar face amongst the other partygoers and failing miserably.
"I wish some of your other siblings were here," Oriana whispered, "like Tara or Sterling. They'd make me feel safer."
"I wouldn't wish this place on either of them, even if they swipe all the parkin during the End Moon," Maglina replied.
"There's just so many people…"
"…hence why National Ball…"
"I never should have agreed to come—I should have let my creation be it for me."
"…and leave me all alone? You wouldn't be able to stand it…"
"A couple of northern lasses, I hear?" chuckled a voice. Both Maglina and Oriana jumped in surprise, turning so that they could see the source of the question. Two young men stood there—both about five years older than the debutantes—one with spectacles and a naturally light brown complexion, the other a mustache and what was clearly a pale countenance deepened by the sun, with lines on his skin denoting how high his collar usually sat.
"How perceptive," Maglina smiled politely. "Do you visit the northern lands often?"
"Often enough to recognize their sounds," Mustache replied, meaning that Spectacles had yet to speak. "Kasterborous, correct? Kasterborous and… what is that hint in your voice…?"
"Blackpoole," Spectacles answered. "She is the Marchioness Kasterborous's sister, which would make you the future Baroness Coal-on-the-Hill, a child not only of her barony, but Kasterborous, Gallifrey, and Gloucester."
"Who are you?" Oriana asked. The hairs on her neck stood as a chill flushed its way through her; she did not like this.
"I am Lord Greenlake, son of the Count Richmond," Spectacles replied, bowing slightly. "Pardon my sounding intrusive—my father is quite the gossip-hound, meaning I know much more than I likely should upon first meeting someone new."
"…and I am Earl Dewford," Mustache added, "and I apologize for sneaking up on you two like that. We merely saw you and wanted to know if you care for dancing… unless you are huddled together because you wish to dance with one another…"
"We are dear friends, though you are correct in that we wish for different dance partners," Maglina said. She hooked her arm with Oriana's, however, in an effort to seem uninterested in the pair before them. "We really must find my sister…"
"Baron Chatham's got her occupied across the room—probably one last ditch to see if he can chat her up enough to change her mind about Althos's youngest," Mustache said. "She'll be busy for a while."
"That is right… rumor has it she's about to marry one of Bridgette's castoffs. She goes through more men than dresses some years…" Spectacles scratched his chin in thought. "I didn't think he was a particularly fetching lad…"
"He is fetching enough for Her Ladyship the Marchioness, which is all we really ask," Oriana stated. "Does Baron Chatham think he have a chance?"
"Honestly? We're not entirely sure what he thinks," Mustache said. The song that was playing ended, quickly starting up into a more lively number, which seemed to excite him greatly. "Lady Gallifrey! Let's dance!"
"I really don't…!"
Before Maglina could realize it, she was being swept onto the dance floor, being brought into the midst of the steps despite her prior refusal. She made sure to probe her partner's emotions as he twirled her around, noting how he was solidly broadcasting nothing but how he loved to dance and how beautiful he found her, wanting to drink in the sight of her all night. He was simple, she found, and his simplicity did not suit her. By the time the song ended, she was able to find their way towards the edge of the dance floor, making it so that she did not bump into anyone as she wrenched herself from his grasp.
"Lady Gallifrey, are you done with dancing already?"
"I don't want to leave my friend alone," she replied firmly. "If you want to dance, there are other partners to find."
"Maggie!" She looked over her shoulder and saw that Oriana was not far away, making to move towards her. An additional glance around the room helped her locate both their mothers and her sister as well, none too far off. Maglina turned back towards Mustache, noting the indecipherable expression on his face.
"Thank you for the dance, Earl Dewford, but I have to get back," she said. She spun on her heel and went to join her best friend when Mustache grabbed her arm, stopping her. Everything seemed to stop for a moment as a new set of emotions filtered into her consciousness as his skin touched hers. While his face showed concern and confusion, what Maglina could read frightened her. Yes, she was safe there, at the Ball, with scores upon scores of people around at any given moment, but he was planning ahead, and she did not like where his thoughts were going.
"Lady Gallifrey, please…" He began to pull her in closer, his grip firm. When he stepped towards her, Maglina panicked and did the only thing her brain could think of at the moment:
She threw him over her shoulder, into the nearby table being cleared of old nibbles by the palace staff. A punchbowl was overturned as the surface it had been on snapped in half, crashing atop Mustache along with the remainder of the now-ruined nibbles. Everything truly stopped as everyone around—staff and guests alike—stared at the scene.
"Oh…! Are you alright?!" Maglina finally squeaked out. She rushed around the table to the side of a trembling member of the wait-staff, the teen having just barely missed getting a boot in his face. "I'm so sorry about that! I didn't mean to scare you…!"
"You little bitch!" Mustache snarled, having finally caught his breath and bearings. "I was just trying to talk to you!"
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Lady Clara said, making her way through the gathering crowd, the Baroness at her side. "Maglina is not the daughter of mine who flips people into tables for fun. If you are now wearing the menu, then chances are you did something to warrant it."
"The only mistake I made was thinking that possibly one of your daughters absorbed any manners," Mustache scowled. "You northern women are little different from the ignorant smallfolk."
"Say that again," the Baroness dared. She drew her sword and held it so the tip was not far from Mustache's chest. Others nearby were palming their own weapons, ready to spring into action should something skew awry. "We don't wear these for fun, as I'm sure you are aware."
"I am the one who is thrown into a table, and instead of seeing if I am fine, my attacker goes and helps a servant sit!" He gestured over at Maglina and Oriana both, who were making sure the startled waiter was alright. "How is that right?" He froze as he felt the flat of a blade against the ridge of his spine and a voice hissed in his ear.
"Leave now before you embarrass yourself even more," the Marchioness growled, "and I never want to see you in my lands again. Is that clear?"
"You are not His Highness."
"…and he is not stopping me, now is he?"
Bristling, Mustache stormed away, making towards the hall's exit with all eyes trained on him. Many whispers followed, curious about what he had done to constitute such a punishment. The Baroness and Marchioness both sheathed their swords and groaned inwardly—there was going to be plenty of explaining before the night was done and neither were looking forward to it.
"Are you enjoying yourself at your first National Ball, Young Lady Coal-on-the-Hill?"
Oriana accepted a glass from a nearby waiter and turned back towards her conversation partner. As Maglina was twirling around the floor with her mustachioed dance partner, she was left with his bespectacled companion, grinding their way through conversation.
"I'd like it better if your friend didn't whisk mine away," she replied. "We simply wanted to mingle at this year's event with safety in numbers—he almost has a courting look in his eyes."
"You are correct that he does wish for a woman to court, but he is also an idiot," Spectacles acknowledged. He took a sip of his own drink and scanned the room. "I will stay with you until she can distract him with another girl in gold, if you wish. I wish to press nothing upon either of you."
"Thank you," Oriana nodded. She saw how Spectacles was observing the other guests and took note. "Are you here to find a woman to court?"
"That is a strong word; no, more that I am searching for someone who shall tolerate me."
"…you and a paramour…?"
He glanced down at her and smiled. "Why do you think we approached you two? My childhood mate is clear about his eventual intentions with yours, though I was hoping at least one of you ladies were in need of tolerance as much as myself. Was I even partially correct?"
"We need tolerance, but not in that regard," she smirked. "We are Kasterborsians by blood—if it is not our personality that is big, it is a member of our family's, and the vast Northern Lands create personalities to match."
"…and Lady Gallifrey is your family."
"…in a way, yeah. We're sisters, as odd it might be to some." The song ended and she saw Maglina near the edge of the floor, attempting to slip away from Mustache. "Oh, there she is… Maggie!"
Oriana gave Spectacles her drink and began to walk towards her friend, trying to maneuver politely around the other guests. The two made eye contact and she could see the uneasiness in her eyes—when Maglina was uneasy, then it was something to worry about. She was only a few paces away when Mustache attempted to pull Maglina into his grasp, after which she did something Oriana had not seen her friend do in years by using his momentum to toss him over her shoulder and into a nearby table. Everything crashed and clanged and clattered with such a resounding noise that everyone hushed and stared at the massive spill that resulted. After a moment of being stunned by her own actions, Maglina went to a waiter who had been on the other side of the table, gently easing him away from the chaos.
"If more women were like that, I think I'd be more inclined," Spectacles marveled. He followed Oriana as she went to Maglina and the waiter, ignoring how his friend was sputtering and getting ready to make even more of a scene.
"Maggie, are you okay?" Oriana asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she replied, her face still red from embarrassment. "I'm more worried about this guy."
"Percy…" the waiter breathed. His entire body was still shaking, despite the fact he was now sitting and away from the disaster. "My name is Percy, ma'am."
"I am very sorry I almost did that to you, Percy; that was not my intention."
"If I may, ma'am, you don't look the sort to intend to use one man to bludgeon another."
"…and I apologize for my friend's actions," Spectacles added. "I don't know what he did to cause you to do this, but I don't doubt whether or not he deserved his punishment."
"Then why do you stick by him?" Oriana wondered, her tone more curious than accusing.
"Just as you and Lady Gallifrey are sisters, he and I are brothers, if you'll understand it that way," he replied.
"That I do." They watched as Mustache stormed away, taking the attention with him. "Should you leave, or…?"
"We came separately, and I'm sure the worst bruising is to his ego—he'll be fine."
"Greenlake, ditch the dead weight already," the Marchioness said as she sheathed her sword and walked over to the small group. "He's going to get you in trouble as well as himself one of these days."
"You are not incorrect about that, Kasterborous," Spectacles admitted. He gave a slight nod and slipped into the crowd, vanishing from sight.
"I think we should let this young man do his job and allow the rest of the staff to do so as well," Lady Clara noted, seeing that there was a cluster of servants and other staff members gathering nearby. The lad who Maglina had nearly hit with her dance partner stood from his seat, having recovered enough to give them a bow.
"Thank you, miladies," he said. "You did not need to show me kindness."
"Of course we did—you were nearly collateral damage," the Marchioness insisted. "You're here to work, not get flattened by some well-bred projectile."
"Thank you, ma'am." The waiter bowed again and took his leave, only for another to show up, the mousy messenger whispering to the Marchioness, who cursed in her ceremonial tongue.
"What now?" the Baroness wondered.
"It's His Highness—he wishes to speak to me." She turned towards her sister and scowled. "If I'm in trouble, then so are you. Let's go."
Maglina gulped—she was doomed.
As it turned out, the King was far from angered… he was down-right amused by the handling of Mustache's unwarranted advances. Drawing swords in the middle of the palace outside of sport was normally a high offense, though in this case, he was willing to make an exception for them and their party.
Stars in the sky.
The sisters returned to the ball finding themselves to be the main topic of discussion. A girl her size, flipping Dewford over like a doll? The woman who inherited her father's lands and titles early, resorting to threats of violence in the middle of a social event? Did you see the amount of concern they gave over a servant and not Dewford himself? It was not only disgraceful, but the most interesting thing that came of the National Ball in years.
A while more of awkwardly attempting to socialize and the Kasterborsian contingent retired early to their townhouse, where the youngest of their number—even if only by a few months—threw herself into her room and refused to emerge for conciliatory tea and cakes. She did not cry, nor shout, nor go on an accusatory rampage, but merely sulked and wallowed in her own presence for the remainder of the night, wishing to see no one. Even her best friend could not coax her from her room until the following morning, when her stomach was empty and the gossip columns filled with speculation on nearly every debutant and then some. It was not until the Marchioness found her sister's name, did she get the young woman to smile again, tossing the paper towards her, words of affirmation circled in pen.
Gallant Gallifrey: Lady Maglina showed that even highborn women are bred differently in the Northern Lands, defending herself with grace and guts. Wherever she goes, no trouble shall follow after last night's display, and that is a guarantee.
Maybe… possibly… she did not ruin her chances just yet.