"Rise then, free folk of the West, people of Gondor and Rohan. Rise and we shall stand silent for those we carry in our hearts. May the memory of their toil and sacrifice and triumph endure long with these golden days!"
At the Steward's ringing words a hush descended. The assembled throng arose, row upon row, from the steps of Merethrond to the courtyard beyond the shining fountain. Proud, hearts full, and silent, they stood twice the length of the standing silence. The birds held their song and the wind dared not play as it stretched, full and heavy, until at last a silver trumpet sang from the Tower-top and the butts of many spears drummed upon the stone.
Éowyn opened her eyes again, and let the beauty of the late day's perfect waning light take her breath away. The Citadel and all around were bathed in a wash of rose gold over white. It struck fire to the spear points, and gilded the simple splendour of the hall's embellishments, for each door and bench was crowned with garlands of hawthorn, juniper, and blooming dogwood. Underfoot bunches of tiny hyacinths and blue-veined white starflowers from Mindolluin's slopes made a sweet scented carpet. Even the White Tree seemed almost noble in its stillness, and as the joyous clapping of many, many hands filled her ears, she looked up to the hall's top step.
Faramir stood on the steps alone, without rod or heavy robes but with an authority unmistakable to all. His black surcoat bore the sigil of the Steward picked out in silver thread, his mail glistened in the sun and one hand rested on the hilt of a great sword inlaid with a curious blue jewel. He looked grave, and proud, and for the first time in her experience, every inch a warrior.
It was entirely unsettling.
"My lady, are you ready?"
"Pardon?" Startled out of her reverie, Éowyn felt a blush heat her cheeks as she looked askance at her commander. Elfhelm stood placidly beside, himself resplendent in clean armour and battle cloak, his long blond braids bound by silver beads.
There was a puzzled furrow on his brow.
"My lady?" One gauntleted hand gestured for her to join those beginning to file out from the first rows of seats. He cocked his head, waiting for her acknowledgement.
Éowyn glanced quickly up toward the steps. There was the barest flash of black and silver before Faramir vanished into the hall. He had gone, but not the unsettled feeling that had lingered since the night they walked in the Houses' garden. Damn her cowardly heart. They had had so little time to speak. And she had not found words to ask about what still felt almost as a waking dream.
Elfhelm's voice, this time, became a little sharper. "Éowyn?"
Enough. She shook herself, gave one last lingering look before slipping her hand into the crook of Elfhelm's arm. "Géa, Marshal. My thanks," she murmured, and they stepped forward, following the line of celebrants waiting to enter into the hall.
The crowd was mostly quiet, patiently following as they trod the tiny flowers underfoot, and she was content to follow in like fashion. As they mounted the first step Elfhelm looked down, caught her gaze, the furrow yet between his brows, for no matter the Worm was most likely scrabbling in some flea bitten barn, he worried about her still. He had made an oath to his Prince and he would keep it.
"Eowyn are you well? You have been very quiet all this day."
Had she? Perhaps, although it had been a solemn service, bittersweet and not filled between the formal words with much chattering. There had been words of praise for the Ringbearers, songs of rejoicing, grateful thanks to the fiefs and kingdoms that had come to Gondor's aid. The Captains of the White Tower, Gondor's new Steward and her Warden, Ivriniel for her brother and the Marshal for Éomer-king had all stood on the white marble steps and been saluted. Elfhelm, normally a man of few words, had led the Riders in lament and song and Éowyn had been content. Her brother's gesture had been enough.
She lightly squeezed his arm to reassure. "I am a little tired, that is all." It was just this edge of a falsehood, but necessary. How could she explain what she did not entirely understand herself? Gondor's Steward was so much upon her mind.
Elfhelm frowned, clearly wanting to say more, but settled for his customary grunt. "Then that is well."
Minutes of silent shuffling saw them reach the top step and pass underneath the great arched door. Inside, the hall was a delight for one expecting a cool expanse of smooth and white. Crafted of many tones of marble; alabaster and ivory, ebony and a lustrous silver-grey, it was lit by torches and candles in the deep windows beyond the aisles at either side. Garlands of green wound around the tall pillars and softened the weight of stone. Most surprising of all was the roof. Above the high frieze of stern and silent kings, the vaulting gleamed gold and jade, carnelian and sapphire, as if a cloth of silk had been shot through with many coloured threads.
Éowyn stood in awe, wondering at the artisans; if they were men of Númenor or perhaps Elves of the north, for it was said many folk had had a hand in building the long ago new realm.
She followed Elfhelm's broad back into the milling crowd. About the long walls were set groups of high backed chairs and many tables laden with food and drink. The dance and repast to come were to be the social part of the event and so the faint strains of harp and viol and gitar lifted about the excited chatter.
She was just about to enquire if there were rules about where they might be placed when a small delighted shriek rose up.
"Éowyn, there you are!"
Lothíriel waved excitedly, wending her way through the crush of revelers, with Ivriniel and Varan in tow. Éowyn looked on in frank amazement. Lothíriel, always beautiful no matter the drabness of her healer's garb, now looked positively ethereal. Her raven hair was set with small stars of argent and iolite that sparkled as she moved and she was clad in a shimmering gown of palest blue and silver. Stunning-like a twilight night set above an iridescent sea-but it was, in truth, Ivriniel who most surprised. Why, she was handsome?! Even pretty, with just the barest touch of paint glistening above her mist-grey eyes, shading the same fine cheekbones that lent her nephew an air of grace. Her gown was of midnight blue and her dark hair fell in a curtain of perfectly straight strands well past her waist. Two glossy braids were held back by an intricate silver circlet so bright it must surely be mithril.
In the face of such elegance, Éowyn felt suddenly grateful she had made an effort with her own attire.
"Your highness, Princess, Master Healer." She dipped her head in greeting.
"My Lady of Rohan."
Varan's lips twitched sardonically, most amused by her formal address, but Ivriniel was having none of it. She laid her hand on Éowyn's unbound arm. "My dear, the formal ceremony is now ended. We can go back to our given names."
Thank Béma, Éowyn thought, watching the Marshal bend over Lothíriel's small neat hand and wishing her Westu hal. He had an almost stunned expression on his craggy face that spoke volumes of the Princess's effect on men.
"Westu Elfhelm hal," Lothiriel replied, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. She had pronounced it properly: with the 'thu' of the Riddermark, not the 'tu' heard in Gondor's own Sindarin. The Marshal beamed. His pupil, the one who had 'interrogated' him on proper Rohirric speech, was proving a quick and ready study.
"Is not this delightful!?" Lothíriel sighed happily, turning to survey the crowd after greetings had been exchanged all round.
Éowyn smiled at her exuberance. "It is. Although I confess I am unsure where to start."
"With a toast of course!" declared Varan, pointing to a table fairly groaning under the weight of a heavy cask. He smiled in turn at each of them around the group. "May I fetch you all a goblet? I am told that even Prince Imrahil's priceless cellar has been raided in the zeal to provide for thirsty soldiers."
Ivriniel snorted. "It can stand to lose a dozen casks or two. My brother collects wine the way dragons collect gold." She inclined her head. "Please. I would love a glass as I am not on the wards until the morrow."
"And I am, but can manage one draught without ill effect." Varan declared, and turned to catch Elfhelm's eye. "Marshal will you lend a hand?"
"With pleasure."
And with that the two men departed, Varan's long grey sleeves and cloak flapping around his tall thin frame like the wings of some great grey heron. Éowyn resisted the urge to laugh. What did it mean that both healers she knew had something bird-like about them? Persistence? Detail in handiwork? Craftiness? That the Master Healer certainly had, but as she looked about the crowd she noticed how many owed a debt of gratitude to his skill. And Ivriniel's. Amongst the Riders of Elfhelm's muster, the tall black clad Tower Guard, and even the small knot of leather-armoured Rangers there were those still bandaged but well enough to be on their feet. Here and there were ones she knew- Private Eldrin's short-shorn locks stood out amongst a group of plainer folk—and Anborn, of course, held court amidst the laughing men.
They were quite strategically placed beside the bright plumage of the few young noblewomen.
Ivriniel followed the direction of her gaze. "I see that ladies of the City have begun to trickle back. Ceridwen has her youngest two in tow. And Lady Celos has her three."
Lothíriel's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Amerith was right. They have been rushed back like heifers bound for the spring market. Much good it will do them. None of them can compare to you, Éowyn. You look absolutely perfect: a golden lily amidst a sea of dark painted pansies."
Éowyn felt a flush creep up her cheeks. She was unused to being the recipient of compliments, particularly from other women. "Thank you," she murmured, touched that her friend would trouble herself to speak. "It was important to do credit in my brother's absence."
The two women exchanged a glance. "And so you have," Ivriniel declared. "More than done him credit. All eyes will be upon you."
There was a slight emphasis on all. What did she mean? Someone in particular? Éowyn again wondered if Faramir had said anything of his suit. It seemed unlikely, or else would she not comment far more plainly? Had Ivriniel guessed? Had Lothíriel?
Puzzled, she let the two women chatter on, relieved when at last the men returned. After the toast was drunk they drifted to the tables to peruse the offerings: savouries and sweets, fruit that Edoras would not see for months and even a few Rohirric specialties. The chefs had outdone themselves and she was pleased to find she could balance a small plate with her bandaged arm.
Taking her goblet and standing to one side, Éowyn focused on enjoying the spectacle, the wine and food, the candleglow.
She was not at all scanning the crowd for a particular tall dark head.
Nor at all disappointed when the music for dancing started up.
The tune was bright, lively and lilting to set the hall abuzz. Lothiriel allowed Elfhelm to draw her into the dancing and Varan led Ivriniel to the front of the set but Éowyn hung back, refusing even Anborn's entreaty to take the floor. A few moments of (hopefully) unobtrusive searching found Faramir across the hall, near another entrance. He stood taller than even the tall Gondorians, had divested his cape and armour for a silk tunic of soft blue-grey that shimmered in the light. Hair bound by silver circlet, he looked lordly and noble, very much the noble Steward: speaking to the revelers, dancing for a turn or two with several of the young things who batted their eyes at him.
Éowyn silently ground her teeth. What was it Amerith had called them? Empty headed chits. But still decorum demanded some attention be paid.
She sipped her wine and tried a little patience. He was slowly making his way across the floor, partner to partner, heading toward her, but then just as he might come close enough to see her a distinctive trilling laugh rose up.
Amerith. In a scandalously low cut gown of emerald trimmed with lace of gold. Now they were dancing, near hands clasped, auburn and dark heads bent together, laughing at some jest.
Like a flock of magpies, the crowd around were leaning forward, heads turning back and forth, following the spectacle of their every move.
A spike of something green and hot, and entirely unworthy, shot through her breast.
They were just dear friends who once had been in love. And whom all the city had to watch.
A quick glance askance at Ivriniel and Lothíriel mollified a little of the anger. Those who knew him best were also watching, but, in contrast, were quite unconcerned; simply admiring and waiting for him to head their way.
Perhaps she was being unfairly shrewish.
"My dear Lady of the Shield-arm. Would you honour me with a turn?"
Éowyn blinked, with an effort pulled her gaze from the dancers and found at her elbow the august figure of Minas Tirith's Warden of the Keys. His grey eyes were kind and he looked on her with neither pity nor consolation.
Regretfully, she shook her head. Though she loved to dance, her feet strangely rooted to the spot. "I am sorry my Lord Hurin. Perhaps a little later." But the tall and urbane Gondorian was not to be put off. Instead of leaving for another dancing partner Hurin stayed for conversation. He delighted her with the knowledge that it was his branch of the family (second cousins, once removed) who bred Gondor's famed small but swift messenger horses. They were well into details of lineage and tack, of how the farriers fashioned special shoes to grip the slick pavers of the streets when she felt a sudden prickling at her nape.
There was a sense of excited energy, like lightning soaking into earth.
"Éowyn! I…"
She turned and looked up to find Faramir standing there, a little harried and relieved to be at liberty, lips slowly curving into the softest smile she had ever seen.
"You look… beautiful."
A flight of tiny butterflies cavorted in her stomach. For a moment she knew not if she was on her head or heels. Faramir, always so well versed in words, was standing there, nearly stricken dumb, a light of awe shining in his eyes.
"Thank you," she acknowledged, and he bowed over her hand, pressed a decorous kiss to its heated skin. When he straightened up, his gaze alit upon her hair.
"You wore them."
Them? "Oh!" She put her hands up to carefully touch Kira's handiwork. The sprigs of white jasmine flowers were still there, tied and pinned cleverly so as not to fall. She flushed. Even her vanity had decreed something more than just the belt of linked silver leaves was needed to complete her look for all its shine and pleasing drape.
"I did. I have no jewellery. I rode with none." And I would not play dressing up with another woman's frippery, she wanted to add, but held that back. The gown with its diaphanous sleeves was loan enough.
His curious fingers reached out, so close they almost brushed against her skin. "And this?" The silver medallion stamped with the mark of Rohan's running steed hung on a chain in the hollow of her throat.
She swallowed. "It is Elfhelm's bridle boss. I needed something of the kingdom I represent upon my person. I was just telling Lord Hurin of it." Lord Hurin! She had completely forgot that he was there! Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she turned to find that the gentleman was gone. "But he was just here?!" Béma. How horribly impolite had she been! Hurin had been considerate and welcoming and she had treated him like a piece of furniture!
Faramir's lips twitched. "Very perspicacious, my cousin. He judges well when to leave the field."
"But…I have been inexcusably rude."
"My lady, there is no need to be concerned." Faramir turned, stepped out of the way of a passing guardsman and inclined his head in greeting. The hall was filling up. More folk had taken to the dance floor and she wondered if he wished another set, but for the nonce he seemed most happy to stay with her.
"Éowyn, once more I applaud your ingenuity, " he remarked, when they had both availed themselves of a proffered tray laden with small fried pastries. They were filled with meat and spiced with cinnamon and clove. Delicious and nearly like a half-moon shaped pie she loved at Yule.
"I could hardly have done otherwise," she explained, around a mouthful of pastry. "I was thankful enough to borrow a gown suitable to the night."
"And it is absolutely lovely. Although had you eschewed that too, there is something of a tradition to be ingenious with one's garb."
"How so?"
Faramir's eyes glinted mischeviously. "My grandmother Eleanna first met my grandfather Echthelion at a country ball at his aunt's estate. He was a Captain then and she was one of the last refugees from south Ithilien, her father's demesne having been quickly overrun. Of course she had no fancy dress in which to meet with the future Steward."
"What did she do?"
"Wore the most elaborate thing she had to hand."
"Which was?"
"A nightgown."
Éowyn giggled. "You are joking!"
"I am not," Faramir objected, grinning wryly. "No one dared to make a fuss and Grandfather was absolutely smitten. I once dared Boromir to repeat the feat."
'You didn't!"
"I did," Faramir hastened to protest, "He turned up to Cair Andros's yearly mess dinner in a black velvet bedrobe and cap. I think the new recruits were worried it was official. That they'd need to purchase something similar!"
With that the two of them simply fell apart, laughing until tears pricked at the corner of their eyes. Oh but it felt good. To be free with each other as they had been. Intimate. Easy. As if they had known each other three years not scarce three weeks. Éowyn's heart thudded hard and Faramir grinned, held her hand again and looking more carefree than he had in weeks.
Sadly it was not to last.
Reluctantly, he raised up his dark head and scanned the hall again. There were far too many curious heads turned their way. A group of painted and perfumed, imposing ladies frowned behind their fans but most ominously of all, a slightly flustered looking Cahil hovered beside the nearest group of Guards,
He looked down into her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. "I am sorry. My time this night is not all my own, though were my heart to choose I would spend every moment of it with you." Grey eyes darkened briefly. "I hope that you can forgive me? I have had duties to attend, and more flocking now. Being with you will be my reward for playing the diplomat."
"I understand," she said quietly, and she did. A daughter of Aldburg and Edoras knew well that duty came first, yet she could not resist something of the urge to tease. "I have watched you pay court to the young ladies vying for your attention. You do it well. The Steward seems most fair in his attentions. "
His mouth quirked to one side. "I have had much practice."
"Entertaining or avoiding them?"
"Both!"
They laughed again. Accepted cup of Dol Amroth's light frothy wine passed by a servant and watched as a complicated rondel began.
Faramir pointed to a petite young thing whose hand was clasped with a rather imposing Swan Knight. Her black hair was piled into a swooping nest of curls so well trained, they looked as if they would not move from wind or passion. "Do you see that one?"
Éowyn stared, trying to imagine how she avoided grazing her dancing partner. "Yes?"
He took a gulp of wine. "Lady Ceridwen's youngest. I suffered through one dance with her already. Unless my skills are entirely dulled, I believe she is about to claim another one."
The music stopped and right on cue, the lady curtseyed and whirled around, standing on tiptoe to search the crowd.
"Oh Valar. Quick!" Faramir exclaimed, reaching for her hand, setting both goblets on a passing tray so fast the precious liquid sloshed. He placed an arm about her waist and searched her eyes. "Are you sufficiently provisioned?"
"For what?" she asked, bemused.
"Why, to test how high I can swing your beautiful skirts!"
The music started up, faster and with a steady drum behind the tune. She laughed, giddy with anticipation and warmth that coiled underneath her heart, tilting her head and holding his gaze. This was more like to the Rohirric dances that she loved. "With your shoulder barely healed? Will Varan not disapprove of such unorthodox exercise?"
"With certainty."
"Then yes!"
.
~~~000~~~
Beyond the next towering onyx pillar, another wallflower smiled and sipped thoughtfully at her drink, watching a dashing, newly commissioned Swan knight lead the disappointed ingénue off the dance floor.
Her object was quite delightfully broad of shoulder, handsome in his dress tunic of silver and blue, and proudly bearing the sign of his first injury: a well healed slash just barely visible in his hairline.
It should not, mused the Duchess of Lossarnach to herself, pose too great an impediment.
Given the vigor of his dancing.
"Amerith, you look like the cat that got the cream."
"Oh!" The Duchess gave the tiniest of startled squeaks and turned to find the Princess of Dol Amroth at her side. "Ivriniel! That was most unfair. Were you any quieter, you could be mistaken for a mouse."
"But never one caught poaching something that they should not." The older woman snorted and followed an emerald gaze across the hall, "You should be ashamed of yourself, Amerith. That young man could almost be your son."
A hand laden with sparkling jewels flew to the Duchess's breast. "I am shocked! Even wounded. that you should think I would look on any fair young man that way."
"Like a ripe peach from which you wish take a juicy bite?"
"An utterly scandalous assertion. These days I am far more interested in the length of a man's wit."
"Then I daresay you are using the wrong yardstick," Ivriniel observeda little smugly. "Haldan is pretty as his horse's barding. But only slightly more informed."
"About manoeuvers?" Amerith asked as innocently as she dared. "I thought your brother commissioned only well educated men."
The Princess flushed scarlet and began to choke, having just raised her goblet to her lips. Amerith reached out to obligingly held her cup. "I thank you for that bit of intelligence, my dear. I may have to change my mind."
"Only 'may'?" Ivriniel shot back, once she had cleared her throat.
Amerith grinned and silently handed the heavy silver vessel back, inclining her auburn head.
Ivriniel, clearly not minded to argue more, took a cautious sip and turned back to the spectacle.
The line of dancers was sweeping across the floor, watched by an entire Age of silent carven Kings. Beneath Meneldil's ever youthful visage, before the empty dais and its honour guard.
The black carved seat of the Stewards was still there. Empty and forlorn.
"My aunt Ivrenna will be sad to have missed this day," The Princess sighed quietly. "But Tolfalas has been too occupied with Corsairs to come. The last, I understand, has just been found and sunk, trying to outrun Galathon out in the Bay. They will celebrate when he comes into port."
Amerith nodded. "And there is time yet to come for a coronation. The other one whom I understand to be put out is your younger nephew. Lothíriel says Erchirion hates to miss a ball."
"Erchirion will be drunk once his official duties are set down. He will have to admirably lead the more unofficial celebrations." Ivriniel noted with a sardonic grin. "The price of wanting to hold office."
From what Amerith had experienced of Imrahil's second son, she could well believe it. He was a high-hearted, good-natured man, as enamoured of wine and jests as he was of ships and sailing. "Too true."
With that, both women fell silent, let themselves enjoy the music and the warmth of good food and drink. The set dance ended. A pavanne began and Lothíriel, this time, took the hand of a blushing Haldan. She looked poised and regal. He looked as if he might truly faint at his good fortune.
Amerith, watched them closely, biting a tiny iced rosebud from the top of a small square cake. "Lothíriel is made for greater things than a simple knight in your brother's retinue," she observed. "Perhaps now that the Shadow is eradicated, the young things will think more to the future."
Ivriniel nodded. "She reminds me of my grandmother. Plucked from a hoyden life in Lossarnach's groaning orchards to be a princess on a jut of rock. She was fearless. And thrilled with all new things."
"Fana? I was too young to know her. My mother spoke of her with such fondness."
"Gardens were her love," smiled the Princess. "All of us have a little of her heart but it was Finduilas who had her wit. And her love for beauty. My sister adored parties. The flowers, the banners and decoration." She sighed and her gaze followed Lothíriel's dark head again. "Imrahil and his children are cut from cloth of another kind. They have my father's steady shrewdness but some of his mother's outspokenness."
"And you?" asked Amerith, intrigued. "Do you not have her success with plants? A green thumb where others cultivate only dirt?"
Ivriniel's response was swift and dry as browned November leaves. "Be careful Duchess. Any nicer and people will mistake that we are friends."
"Heavens, have I gone too far?" Amerith hid behind her goblet and allowed herself the luxury of a private smile. Who would have guessed that Ivriniel could be so enjoyable? Quick at conversation and observant at the world beyond her bedpans. It was startling, even surprising, coming from the sober cuckoo in the Dol Amroth nest.
"Allies, surely" she replied, watching Ivriniel accept another tall goblet of rich dark wine, and thinking peace bought as a temporary purchase was not too costly. It would certainly have its benefits. Another respected voice to wield common sense where it was due. Help shepherd a generation who knew only war into a glittering and, hopefully less cautious Age. "Together we can be so much more effective."
The Princess regarded her a longer moment before she nodded slowly. "Agreed."
"Excellent," Amerith finished her tidbit and brushed her hands. "Our first campaign shall have to be keeping watch upon the matriarchs. They are plotting rather shamelessly to snare an unexpected Steward."
"As always." Ivriniel gestured to the lamplit recesses of the hall with her cup. "But now with more coordination. There is an intruder in their midst. Mother calling to mother, like mumak bellowing to mumak across Umbar's teeming swamps."
Amerith chuckled at the perfect image. And every last one of them lumbering about the hall, seeking to improve their daughters fortunes. She turned her head to follow a certain striking couple in blue and silver-white. Éowyn was frowning, looking anxiously at her feet and Faramir was grinning, holding her firmly about the waist. In lieu of gripping her broken hand. "Have you noticed which way the wind is blowing?"
"Of course I have. I am the daughter of a seaman," sniffed Ivriniel. "But I also know he did not spend the night with us."
The Princess's fine dark eyebrows quirked but Amerith, long used to being the object of overblown and baseless gossip, did not rise to the bait. "I simply refused to let him rattle in the palace quarters. He slept alone in a deep feather bed, had company to break his fast and now has on a tunic that, thank the Valar, does not make him look as if he was just dragged from his sickbed. Right up until we left there were questions from Hurin concerning seating. He was somewhat flummoxed as to precedence. Lady Éowyn was a puzzle. She is injured foreign nobility but has no official title."
"She is a King's sister, Where else would she be but with the council and dignitaries?"
Amerith gave a little shrug. "He was worried to insult her with a farther row."
"If she was not happy, I daresay she will let him know."
True. The woman quite clearly knew her own mind. And had the spine to speak it.
Amerith watched the promenade reach the nearer entry of the hall and wheel as one. Only one knot failed to the execute the turn. Gold and Raven. Laughing delightedly together and quite uncaring of the slip.
"Exactly as Boromir predicted," she whispered, almost to herself.
"Pardon?"
Amerith flushed. How careless to speak so aloud. She was slipping. To thrilled to she him happy once again. "I once danced with his brother and discussed how Faramir would be should he fall in love. He would shine, said Boromir, and I believe that he was right."
Ivriniel smiled a little sadly. "He usually was, where his brother was concerned. And they are both shining, simply breathtaking together. Such contrast and yet so similar in a way."
The Duchess glanced at her companion, impressed again, pleased that another had noticed it too. Very interesting. She was not the only one to have seen the change in his demeanor. Nienna, lady of mercy, this was something so hoped for so long, but now it was true it was a little disconcerting. "I expect he simply cannot help himself, like metal to a lodestone. The Steward's desk is reportedly sprouting poetry. Three pages in Quenya with quite good alliteration."
Ivriniel nodded but did not add more. The two women watched the dance floor and sipped their drinks. The music had stopped. The dancers had done each other a courtesy and now the White Lady was shaking her head at another prospective dancing partner, the Steward's hand firmly clasped in hers.
"That is their third dance in a row." The Princess was not the only one keeping count. A small shower of frowns fell about the hall. "They are monopolizing each other scandalously.
"Then we shall have to step in and relieve the pressure."
Ivriniel turned and looked perplexed. Amerith silently saluted with her goblet and drained it to the dregs. "How better than to keep the swains occupied? Haldan, was that his name?"
The Princess's tone, when she answered, was mostly exquisitely noncommittal. "Yes..."
Amerith set aside her cup and picked up the hem of her gown.
"Excellent. Then perhaps you will introduce us?"
.
.
Whew.. Finally an update! RL got ridiculously busy once my son was better and back at school. Thank you ever so much to AllTheStrangeKreachers, SJC99, jewelboo and Elly'sCake for favouriting, and SJC99, jewelboo, abigail-in-space, lescornichons, and Levade for following.
And hugs and thanks to Eschscholzia, Thanwen and Carawyn who gave comments and corrections. As always I am so very grateful.