As if being seated on the raised dais at the front of the huge dining hall isn't bad enough, someone had the brilliant idea to put Moira next to the Duke of Fen--ancient, half deaf, and far too handsy for anyone's sanity. Perhaps someone is testing Moira's ability to be diplomatic.

Regardless, her patience has been slowly wearing down over the course of the evening--if it wasn't fending off Benawaye's reaching hands, it was smiling politely as Duchess Moore, seated across the table, subtly insulted everything from Moira's hair to the way she held her fork. Prince Jaron, to Moira's left, hasn't been much help. If he speaks at all, it's only to make some bland comment in response to someone else.

By the time the last course is cleared away and deserts are brought out, Moira is losing her mind. The only consolation is that this portion of the evening is when the bland orchestra will go away, to be replaced by whatever entertainment has been commissioned. Last night it was a delightful jester. With so many Troupes about, there's no telling what it might be.

"What have they got for us tonight, do you think?" Benawaye asks, his voice too loud, one wrinkled hand clamping crow-like onto Moira's thigh. She quickly dislodges him with a smack on his wrist, earning a cackle, and gives him a bland smile.

"I'm sure I don't know, My Lord," she murmurs, struggling not to dig her nails into him.

Calm. She is calm.

Honestly, why hasn't this old coot been retired to the country yet? His son is already past his middle years, but he has a grandson in his prime, more than willing to take on the title of Duke.

"Well, of course not, a pretty girl like yourself doesn't have room for knowing things," Benawaye says jovially, and she tenses, prepared to fend off another grope, but he merely cackles at her again.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Moira says through clenched teeth, forcing a polite smile to her lips. Calm, calm, calm. She subtly smoothes the edges of her expression, a mask of polite disinterest.

Benawaye pats her arm, but Moira is saved from whatever words are on his tongue when a trumpet sounds. The guests all turn toward the half-moon stage. The one good thing about being at this table is the perfect, unobstructed view.

A Herald in a half black, half white mask stands in the center of the stage, blowing a trumpet. Once the room has quieted to hushed whispers, he lowers the instrument. "Long live the King!" He bellows, and his words are met with applause and fervent repetitions of the adage. Moira murmurs the words dutifully along with everyone else.

"Most illustrious guests of His Majesty," the Herald continues, "please enjoy this evening's entertainment, courtesy of His Royal Highness, our very own Crown Prince Jaron!"

Moira's eyes slide to the left as she applauds politely with the crowd. Prince Jaron inclines his head at the adulation, his expression a mask of serenity. He's impossible to read. Another thing grating on Moira's nerves.

She looks back to the stage as the Herald says, "Welcome, the Izani Troupe!" The three spotlights shining on the stage are shuttered, and Moira is left blinking at the gloom, wondering why that sounds so familiar.

Izani... where has she heard that before...

The middle spotlight alights, revealing a girl lying on the stage, one leg folded beneath her, the other bent at the knee, her arms splayed artfully above her head. Moira can't make out much more than swaths of cerulean fabric and a mass of dark blonde hair. Something on her ankle glints in the spotlight.

And then Moira's attention is wholly removed from the girl, captured by a sound--easily the most exquisite sound she's ever heard.

It's a violin, she's sure, the vibrating strains of a melody drifting, fully formed, into the air. It instantly plucks at something within her, and she can honestly say that she doesn't think she's ever heard a violin so well and artfully played before. Her eyes scan the stage, searching for the musician, but though she can make out two shapes in the gloom, the necessary spotlights are still off.

Another instrument joins the violin--a flute, its melody light and swift, like a stream babbling over rocks. The melodies entwine into something that is utterly breathtaking, and she'd swear for a moment that she can taste honey on her tongue, feel a summer breeze through her hair, smell the warm grasses blowing around her ankles, all of it encompassed and fulfilled by the music.

Her body sways a bit of its own volition, demanding that she dance. Moira forces herself to remain in her chair, because polite young princesses do not dance with abandon like common Players--or so her father is always saying.

The girl on the stage, however, has no such constraints. Her body lifts effortlessly, twisting with no apparent effort, as if some other force is carrying her on the winds of the perfect melody. The audience is enthralled--both by the music and by the girl as she dances across the stage, each movement almost ethereal.

Moira doesn't think she's ever seen a Troupe perform so well. Why has no one snatched this group up yet, commissioned them permanently? And why does 'Izani' sound so familiar? Why--

Moira is pulled from her thoughts when the spotlights brighten a bit, revealing the musicians as the melody takes a faster turn, cascading over her skin like a waterfall. To the right of the dancer is the flute player, seated in some sort of wheeled chair. His hair is long and dark--in fact, she'd swear it has a cobalt sheen--and a colorful quilt covers his legs, as if he's an invalid. But the way his fingers dance over that flute, the music that pours from him... Moira's eyes go to the left, to the violinist.

The sight is a bucket of ice water down her back. She can't quite hear the music anymore, only sees the dancer from the corner of her eye.

It can't be. No, that's impossible.

He's a sailor, already gone, he left with the tides days ago...

But the protests are weak when faced with the proof in front of her eyes.

That cropped, messy whey-blonde hair. Those broad, very bare shoulders. A face carved from sin itself, perfect in every way, breathtakingly beautiful and just rugged enough to be dangerously handsome. He stands casually, a walnut colored violin tucked beneath his chin, eyes closed. And the sounds that come from that violin, sweet Goddess.

Moira didn't think there could be anything more beautiful than his voice. But the way he plays that instrument, as if it's a part of him...

She can't breathe. She doesn't understand what he's doing here. Why is he on that stage, playing a violin, when he's supposed to be out at sea? When he's not supposed to be haunting her?

When she's trying to forget him?

Moira tries to swallow, but her throat is too dry, so she reaches for her goblet only to realize that her hands are shaking. Quickly, she buries them in her skirts beneath the table, trying to keep her eyes on the dancing girl and not on Feng, on those perfectly sculpted muscles and the way the light glimmers in his hair and--

She prays Melia will give her strength, because Moira has none of her own. Her limbs are weak and heavy, her breaths too fast, her body too taut.

She's sure that at any moment someone will look at her and realize, that it will be plain as day on her features what she's done.

Oh, Goddess, what she's done.

Only now, with the sudden swiftness of a summer storm, does Moira realize that she could be accused of treason for this. She could be killed.

She doesn't think King Endin is the type to order her execution for something like this, but... oh, her father will be furious. She'll be put in the stocks, or worse. She'll be stripped of her title--not that Moira really cares overmuch for her title, but she has nowhere else to go.

No one can know. They can't find out.

He can't be here.

And yet there he is, on the stage, playing a violin with the same sure confidence that he played her just four days ago. By Oes, has it really only been four days? Well, maybe it's been five.

She can't breathe.

"Are you alright?" A soft voice comes from her left and Moira almost jumps, barely managing to keep from flinching. She glances over to see Prince Jaron eyeing her with careful concern.

Oh Goddess. What has she done? What has she done what has she done what has she--

Stop it, Morika! She scolds herself sternly, sweaty palms encased in the silk of her skirts. She shoves at Benawaye's hand as she feels him encroaching again and gives the Prince a polite--if slightly shaky--smile.

"Just a bit lightheaded," she says softly. "I'm sure I'm fine, Your Highness."

Jaron doesn't appear to believe her, but he doesn't contest her words. He just nods and, after a moment's hesitation, pats her arm lightly. His touch does nothing to calm her nerves. It only makes her feel worse.

She vaguely notices the melody changing, the girl moving into a different dance. Her eyes track Feng of their own volition as he joins in, playing and dancing at the same time, spinning in time with the girl. Only the flutist stays stationary, but he doesn't seem to mind, focused on his instrument.

Around her, the audience is captivated--those who aren't completely entranced by the sinuous, sensual dancer and Feng's muscles are taken in by the otherworldly music, creating a hush in the crowd that it rarely experiences.

Moira tries to calm her pattering heart. Breathe. Calm. Everything is fine.

But every time she starts to believe her own words, her eyes latch onto Feng again, and her hope dissipates.

Everything is not fine. Moira can almost hear all the things her father will yell when he finds out.

She's a traitor. She betrayed her betrothed. She's a... a fornicator. No better than a common whore. She's not fit to be his daughter, not fit to be a princess, not fit for anything. She's a disappointment.

Moira shudders, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She prays and prays and prays that it will be over soon, and she can go to her room and bury her head under the covers and pretend that this never happened.

She prays that he'll leave, and this time he won't come back.

Somehow she doesn't think Melia is very inclined to answer her prayers. Moira certainly wouldn't, if she was the Goddess.

That thought just makes everything worse. Surely this is a nightmare, and she'll wake up to find that none of it was real, only a torment of her imagination. Surely this can't be happening.

And yet, when she pinches herself, it hurts.

And the night goes on and on.