AN: Cinderella-esque drabble set in the 1800s (or thereabouts). Unbetaed because lately I've just been flying by the seat of my pants and it's starting to show in research/quality. Will need to stop that soon. :)
Enjoy!
Walking toward the enormous, ornate doors, Molly took a deep breath and pressed her hand against her stomach in hopes of calming the sudden fluttering of butterflies.
She could do this.
Her black gown fit her like a glove. She had spent the better part of three months sewing in what little free time she had to make the ball gown out of her mourning dress. After her father passed the year before, she was left with no more family; no one left to mourn. A black gown was surely a social faux-paus, but with the mask on her face and the silver chain threaded through her flowing, uncovered tresses, no one would recognize her as the morbid morgue mouse. And she couldn't afford to buy even a third-hand dress. She'd had to scrimp and save for the silver beading she'd added to the sweetheart neckline. The fitted sleeves ended at her elbows and the skirt billowed out from the bottom of the corset, the fabric brushing the ground with every twist she took.
She couldn't stop the excited and nervous smile from spreading across her face.
The manservants on either side of the entrance opened the doors to the ballroom. Music and laughter filled her ears and she pulled her shoulders back.
She was going to the ball!
oOo
Seventeen.
He'd danced with seventeen women. And all of them were insipid little dullards. Sherlock caught his mother's pointed glare over the head of his current dancing partner, a particularly arrogant duchess with nefarious designs on his crown, and forced an emotionless smile.
They whirled about the floor and Sherlock glanced at the line of masked ladies waiting for their turn with him. It stretched around the enormous room. He inwardly groaned. Why had he agreed to this?
Behind him, the doors opened and a subdued hush came over the attendees in a wave.
Latecomers were not an uncommon occurrence, so it was a surprise to Sherlock that the small orchestra trailed off in a discordant mess and the conversations around him come to a stumbling halt as everyone turned to look up.
Sherlock followed their gazes and turned around.
A woman stood at the top of the stairs, petite with soft brown hair. Her features were pleasing, if a bit plain. But was most striking about her was the black gown she wore. The silver beading along the neckline shimmered in the lights as her chest rose and fell. Already he could hear the snide comments from those around him about the audacity of the stranger for brash, inappropriate colour she wore, but he found himself admiring her for that alone. Her hair was loose and fell to her waist in a gentle wave and, unlike all the other women, her arms were bare of jewelry or gloves.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in intrigue.
At last, someone not concerned with 'proper etiquette'.
Abandoning the duchess, Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the newcomer and slowly made his way toward her as she descended the stairs. A dark blush stained her cheeks at being the center of attention, but she kept her head held high. When she reached the bottom, Sherlock broke free of the crowd and stepped in front of her path.
She looked up at him and her brown eyes widened behind her mask in shock when she realised who was blocking her way.
'Your H-Highness.' She belatedly remembered to curtsy and Sherlock cursed the ridiculous custom even as he bowed at the waist.
A small gasp escaped her lips when he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the soft skin. When she tried to pull it back, his fingers caressed the flesh of her palm and he felt the callouses on her fingertips and he glanced down to note the minute scars on her fingers.
This woman was most certainly not born of royalty.
A genuine smile creased his face and he held fast to her hand.
'May I claim the first dance?'
The blush traveled down her neck and spread across her collarbone.
'You may,' she replied in a soft, but confident voice.
The gaping onlookers parted as he led her to the center of the dance floor. Sherlock turned and placed his free hand on her waist, tugging her closer. She had to tilt her head up to look him in the eye. He could see the pounding of her heart against her throat and, for the first time, found himself flattered to be admired by a woman.
The first notes of a waltz flowed through the air. With confidence, he stepped forward and they fell into the dance with ease.
'You are not royalty.'
Instantly, her red cheeks paled and fear crossed her features. Sherlock regretted his untethered tongue and rushed to reassure her.
'Do not worry, I have no intention of outing the one person in this room who has not made me wish to perish from boredom.'
She swallowed nervously and glanced over at the King and Queen, who watched them unabashedly. But then she looked up at him and suddenly Sherlock felt as if she was reading his very thoughts. How could this stranger see him so well?
'Then I have arrived just in time,' she quipped with a mock serious frown. 'One cannot have the crown prince dying at his own ball!'
Sherlock chuckled and spun them in a quarter turn. The skirt of her gown billowed out around his legs and he found himself entranced by her smile. Though not as conventionally beautiful as many of the other women, with thin lips and a small figure, her gentle confidence and courage made her all the more beautiful in his eyes.
'What is your name?'
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. 'Now, why would I tell you that? It would rather spoil the anonymity of a masque ball.'
'True,' he agreed. 'But I find myself at an unfair disadvantage. You know who I am, yet I must spend the evening wondering who you are.'
'I doubt that. Once our dance is finished, you will be on to the next woman and forget all about me.'
Sherlock sobered and slowed to a stop. 'I doubt that.'
Her cheeks darkened further and she lowered her eyes. But Sherlock could see the shy smile she was trying to hold back. Readjusting his hand on her waist, he pulled her just a bit closer and led them back into the dance.
They had become the center of attention as they whirled about the floor. But Sherlock didn't care. His focus was entirely on the woman in his arms.
'Not royalty, yet you are obviously one of our subjects,' he commented smoothly. 'I feel foolish having to ask, but I fear I must; have we met before?'
Her lips twitched. 'No, Your Majesty.'
'You have not immigrated here recently, have you?'
'No.'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Who was this woman?
'The callouses on your hands, you are clearly a hard worker. Seamstress?'
She shook her head, smiling.
'Scribe?'
'No.'
'Maid?'
'No.'
'I don't like not knowing,' he pouted. 'May I have a hint?'
Her laughter rang through the room, but she still shook her head. 'I find it rather amusing that, for a man whose great feats of deduction are known throughout the kingdom, you are having difficulty discerning the origin of a few calluses.'
A begrudging smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's lips.
But to his disappointment, the song all too soon came to an end and they slowed to a graceful stop.
Reluctantly, he let her pull her hand away and they both applauded the music.
As the strains of the next song began, she turned to him with a regretful smile. Knowing she was about to leave him to the line of insipid females, Sherlock cut her off before she could say a word.
'Come with me.'
He held out his hand to her and his heart jolted in his chest when she smiled widely and slipped her hand in his.
Completely ignoring the smug smiles on his parents' faces and the angry dismay of the waiting ladies, he led her off the dance floor and outside into the quiet of the courtyard.
Candle-lit lanterns were placed all along the pathways and near the fountains. As they further ventured into the gardens, the music and voices grew dim.
'Will you truly not tell me your name?'
She looked over at him and stopped. 'Is a name so important to you?'
He paused for a moment, then turned to face her. 'To me, a name is like the title of a musical composition. The bars and notes composing the melody embody the essence of who you are; a sweet minuet, a seductive serenade or a poetic rhapsody. To understand the title, one must learn the music. And to understand the music, I must know the title.'
Her eyes softened as she considered him. She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth in thought, then took a deep breath.
'Molly. My name is Molly.'
'Molly,' he repeated, enjoying the way her name rolled off his tongue. He smiled and took her hand, bowing over it. 'A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Molly.'
Her soft laughter washed over him and he straightened, joining in with his own deep chuckles.
'Shall we continue?' He offered her his arm and she nodded.
'Now that the mystery of your name has been solved, the next is to determine your occupation.'
Molly hummed in her throat. 'Perhaps it is a mystery best kept unsolved.'
'I don't see why it has to be.' Sherlock looked down at her as they strolled. 'I've already determined you are not a lady of the night and no other occupation would instill such a need for secrecy. Unless I have made a rare incorrect deduction and you are, in fact, a woman of ill fame?'
Upon his words, Molly had inhaled sharply and flushed deep red. 'Assuredly not, Your Highness!' She stopped and pulled her arm away. 'I enjoy my work, though many have mocked me for it.' She looked down at her hands and smiled ruefully. 'It may not be glamorous, but it's meaningful. Not just to me, but to so many others.'
Seeing her insecurity at what she perceived to be a flaw and pushing aside his own curiosity for the moment, Sherlock took her hands in his and examined them closely. They were by no means disfigured. But they were not the soft hands of a woman who enjoyed an easy life. They were rough in the fingertips and palms and minute scars marred the pads of each finger. But she kept them neat and clean. These were the hands of a conscientious, hard worker.
Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath when he lifted each hand to his lips and pressed gentle kisses to her knuckles.
'Then I admire you all the more for it,' he murmured. She flushed in pleasure. Looking into her eyes, he kept hold of one hand and reached up to brush her cheek, gently guiding her to tilt her chin. He leaned down and wetted his lips, his intentions clear.
This was the woman he didn't know he'd been waiting for.
Oh, his parents would never let him hear the end of it.
But as her eyes fluttered shut and she stepped closer, he found he didn't care in the least.
oOo
The Prince is about to kiss me!
Molly's heart threatened to beat right out of her chest. This night had gone completely differently than she had ever dreamed!
To find herself with the Prince, speaking in such an intimate manner, to be alone with him in such a romantic place… it was inconceivable! And yet, here she was in his embrace, breathlessly anticipating his kiss.
Just before her eyes closed, something over his shoulder caught her attention and she opened them again.
Behind the Prince, she saw a familiar face peering around a hedge and fear unlike anything Molly had ever known flooded her being. One of the maids, Janine, was watching them with a suspicious look on her face. Janine craned her neck to get a closer look and Molly knew she was seconds from being found out.
Molly sucked in her breath and stepped back. 'I have to go.'
Sherlock frowned and held fast when she tried to take her hand back. 'Why?'
'It's awfully late, I really must be going!'
'What's wrong?' Immediately deducing something had spooked her, he looked around, but only saw a few royal servants' bustling about replacing the candles in the lanterns. But she had taken his distraction and jerked her hand away. Grabbing her skirts, she raced back inside and shoved her way toward the door.
'Wait!' Sherlock called after her.
Couples dancing immediately stopped and parted as she hastened across the floor. Sherlock was right on her heels, his hand reaching out to grab her arm.
But then he was gone.
She reached the steps and raced up them as fast as she could. When she got to the top, she looked back. Having been waylaid by an indignant duchess, Sherlock was just now reaching the stairs. His face was a mixture of confusion and frustration.
Spinning on her heel, she fled.
oOo
Sherlock stared out into the courtyard. He'd searched the kingdom high and low for the woman with brown hair and eyes that enchanted him. Yet he could not find her and there was no "Molly" listed in any of the census records.
She can't have simply disappeared into thin air.
At his side, he rubbed his fingers together absentmindedly. The phantom feeling of the callouses and nicks on her hand haunted him.
The only reminder that she was real and she was out there. Somewhere.
He clenched his fist and turned on his heel to march back inside.
'William, dear, would you mind finishing these for me?' The Queen entered the study with an armful of letters. She laid them on the desk and divided them by section. 'These are for the Spanish Court and must be sealed and sent out today. And these are-'
Sherlock glowered at the pages over her shoulder. 'Why must I do this?'
His mother returned his glower with one of her own. 'Because one day this will be solely your responsibility. And because I have other matters to which I must attend. Are you aware that one of the scribes passed away this morning? I must meet with his family and begin the process for his funeral and burial.'
Slightly chastised, Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement and picked up one of the pages. His eyes flew across the page and he didn't hear her leave the room.
Sinking into his seat, he reached for his seal.
But then something she had said clicked into place in his mind. Sitting back, he closed his eyes and brought his fingertips to his chin. Pieces of cream parchment drifted around him in his thoughts and he plucked them from the air one at a time.
Burial.
'I find it meaningful…'
Callouses.
From holding tools and stitching needles.
Scars.
From mistakes made when she learned the trade.
His eyes snapped open.
A wide grin split his face and he jumped up. 'I know where she is!'