One: Regency

.

.

in another life

we've never met, and

I wonder if I'll find you

.

.

Sakura had a vision of a cobbled path when she laid her hand in his.

A moment passed between them. One in which the air grew fall-chilled and the table to her right morphed into a bench. The night was young, the trees were quiet, and a gate stood imposing behind them.

In the time it took for her to draw a sharp breath, the unfamiliar scene was gone.

"Everything okay?" her new partner asked, voice low and quiet in the music.

"Certainly." Sakura smiled. "Shall we dance?"

The man dipped his head in agreement. Fingers closing around hers, he led them to the dance floor. The hall was grand, the piano player skilled, and he turned to her with an easy bow and a small smirk. She returned the formality.

Then he was sweeping her into his arms and twirling her around the ballroom.

Sakura hated these societal events.

If it weren't the emperor's personal invitation she'd have foregone it like all the rest. But once a year, every New Years' Ball, her father forced her into an outrageous gown and draped her in ridiculous jewels. Forcibly chauffeured her to this spectacle that everyone who was anyone was expected to attend.

She was hardly anyone important. The minor title she held, however, was still enough. And she never hated that fact so much as on the last day of the year.

The noble-born ladies avoided her like the plague. A daughter of a commoner granted titles for business ties was poor company in their minds. They were born to this lavish lifestyle. Sakura was a budding teenager when she first stepped into the world of nobility—a fact the women of this foreign place never missed an opportunity to point out.

She never used the right fork. Didn't know the appropriate angle to curtsey for each respective rank. Never spoke with the proper demure nor partook in the customary activities expected of ladies. She couldn't embroider or play the piano or dance particularly well.

While the ladies here turned a cold shoulder, the noble-born men flocked to her like bees on lavender. She was a young, single woman whose father controlled a large purse. And beyond that, there were rumors in titled male circles.

Rumors about how new money girls behaved. How they were quick to bed and eager to please. How they'd do almost anything in the hopes of catching a high-ranked husband.

The baseless rumors were to her advantage, somewhat.

So eager were the men to test the validity of such claims that they often overlooked her lack of skill in dancing. And conversation. And her lack of interest in them.

At least, it appeared that way. Sakura had yet to hear any nasty gossip about how terrible she truly was, despite eight years of attending this event—hundreds of dances containing countless smashed toes and gown stumbles.

Six years ago, when she'd come of age, she gave up trying to avoid dancing.

Her father had told her, quite sternly, that: Every sixteen-year-old lady without a betrothed is expected to dance with all potential suitors who ask her!

And to: Stop being so difficult.

And: Wouldn't it be nice if you found a fiance?

And: It's bad for business when my daughter slights the son of every Lord!

So she danced.

Luckily for her, though, the single men asking single women to dance thinned out as she aged into her twenties. With every passing year, the availabile men willing to ask an unwed woman as old as her thinned even more.

"What an expression," someone remarked near her ear. "Can't say I've ever danced with a woman who's so obviously enthused to be my partner."

Her cheeks pinked; she ducked her head to hide it. "Well, you're a wonderful dancer—my Lord. I'm grateful you offered your hand to me."

She heard a soft chuckle. "Yes. That scowl a moment ago shone with gratitude."

Sakura gasped at having been caught and confronted, lifting her eyes to meet his. It wasn't the proper thing to do—a true noble lady would've apologized. Would've kept her head down.

But men in this opulent world rarely spoke to unacquainted women with such sarcasm. They surely never pointed out a lady's pronounced displeasure, be it their own narcissism or their hope she'd find her way under them one day, regardless.

So she was surprised.

She hadn't gotten a good look when he appeared before her earlier and she'd promptly zoned out as soon as his hand landed on her waist. Looking now was a vision. Onyx, almond-shaped eyes, black as midnight hair shaggy around his face, smooth porcelain skin. Long lashes and full lips and straight nose and very clearly—

"Lord Uchiha," she whispered, dread crawling over her. The third most powerful family on the continent, and she'd gone and snubbed him. "Please forgive me. My mind was elsewhere, I meant no offense."

"No offense taken. Please continue with your prior impropriety. I much prefer it." The corner of his lip lifted as he twirled her to the left. "And Lord Uchiha is my father. My name is Sasuke."

She held his gaze, and the moment seemed to slip away from her again. The ballroom undressed into a staircase. A strange, half-masked man was before her, two boys beside her, and one of them was declaring, I hate a lot of things and I don't particularly like anything—

Careful not to let her lack of attention on him show, she managed out a—"I wouldn't dare address you so informally."

New money she may have been, but she'd learned enough to know that every son in a noble family directly under the family's title holder was referred to as Lord.

He tsked."All things in time, as my mother always says. You're Sakura Haruno, are you not?"

The shock of him knowing her name made her miss the next step. Her heel landed on his toes. She stuttered out an apology.

For the first time in her life, she wished she were a little better at this lady thing.

"I-I am, Lord Uchiha."

"My brother tells me that you only ever make a showing in society at this ball. I don't really care for these events, myself."

Sakura was lost for words.

There were a hundred questions that single statement conjured, the most pertinent ones being how on earth Itachi Uchiha would know she only attended one ball a year and why Sasuke Uchiha cared to ask it of him.

He smirked again. "You aren't very good at hiding your thoughts. Don't be so nervous."

The song ended as his sentence did. Sakura swiftly stepped out of his arms with a low bow, keen on getting away from the man and whatever he meant to achieve with this strange conversation. In her experience, it never ended well when a powerful man took too much notice of her.

Particularly at these events.

Although he was quite handsome, it was probably best to leave well enough alone.

"My apologies, Lord Uchiha, for my inexperience. Thank you for the dance, nonetheless. May you have a pleasant evening."

She blinked, and he stood before her in prison clothes, grasping her left hand. His thumb brushed over her fourth finger, a ring appearing under its pad, with a quiet—Wear that.

She blinked again, and he was before her in his tailored suit, head tilted, clean and perfect and plainly no prisoner.

"It seems we've both come without partners," he said, stilling her feet as she turned to leave him. And there within the grand hall, before a hundred titled eyes, against the unwritten rules of noble balls: Sasuke Uchiha offered his hand to her a second time. "May I escort you from now on, Lady Haruno?"