38 | The Moon Ball
Though they had just experienced mass murder and a subsequent hanging, the city's nobles set aside any disturbing news and horrific weather to gather under the glass ceiling of the palace's ballroom to dance, drink, eat, laugh, and celebrate another year of peace and prosperity—for some.
It was always a sensory masterpiece; the haze of scented bodies moving fluidly on the dance floor created a cloud of musk and spice—heady for the servants who were not used to the strong aromas of expensive oils and rich perfumes. The ballroom glittered as if the stars had been lassoed and gathered to shine on every vase, glass, platter, and jewel. There were times Sera found herself blinking when a jewel encrusted neck angled just enough to catch the light.
Sera stood to the side, near the banquet tables, ready to clear a platter as soon as it looked too empty. There was one other maid near her, but the sour-faced girl had never been friendly to Sera and kept her eyes trained on the stray fingers picking out their preferred bite. A friend would have been welcome for Sera, her mind could not be trusted to not dwell on Koltin. All she wished was to talk, discover the matter, and resolve it so that she did not have to feel so unsettled.
She was tired of crying, her skin sensitive and dry from the salty tears, and for the most part she did not feel as if she could cry anymore. Her heart was sore and cracked, but seeing Koltin earlier had helped mend just a little of the hurt. It had almost felt as if they were working as a team again—listening to each other. It gave her hope, and it also made her angry. He couldn't just say what he wished to her because he was in a foul mood, especially the things he had said. It had been so blunt, so precise. He knew what words to say, they were deliberately meant to hurt her. She was coming to believe it the more she thought about it.
A voice cleared to her left, and the sour-faced maid looked at a platter near Sera that was just under half full. Sera jumped, picking up the platter and escorted it to the closest footman who replaced it with a new platter of stuffed pears and figs. It smelt of maple syrup, cinnamon, and burnt sugar, and Sera was happy to set it on the banquet table and step away, her stomach grumbling at the rich smells. Not for the first time that evening did she curse for not grabbing a bite to eat before leaving the kitchen. If Magada had been there she would have had no choice but to remember.
The sour-faced maid glared as Sera resumed her position. The girl deserved a talking to about body language and facial expressions. One couldn't go around being unpleasant all one's life, there had to be consequences for such behaviour. Sera smiled at the girl, the gesture forced and uncomfortable, but such discomforts were worth it when the response was so satisfying. Sour-face's eyes widened and she jerkily returned her eyes to the pastries.
Logan's cheeks ached. His feet hurt and his back felt on the brink of collapse, like a house of cards in a hurricane. As if he had been at the ball for several hours instead of just one. What would be considered a polite time to take his leave? An hour? Two? How much more could he take with a smile on his face?
The ladies of the Lethilian court knew him well. They bobbed and curtsied before him, knowing he was far from charmed by their plunging necklines and glistening pearls. Years of unsuccessfully trying to understand just what their prince wanted had shown them that despite the crown, they would still be married to a social pariah. It made him want to laugh.
He had successfully become the most unwanted eligible bachelor in the kingdom's history—a title he affectionately dubbed on himself, but one he no longer knew if he wished to hold. His eyes sought out the now familiar jewel within the crowd of stones. Gemima stood by her father, next to King Warrick. A polite smile pulling at her lips, breaking her otherwise bored posture.
Sophia stood with Logan across the room where the guests entered and were announced. Their father didn't have the patience for court traditions—Logan's distaste for it was a far more accommodating welcome. Sophia on the other hand was the perfect host. Each guest was welcomed with informed questions and delicate smiles. She currently held the Coulderbournes entranced with her story of a certain palace bird that sung a beautiful tune, supposedly from Lady Coulderbourne's homeland.
Sophia graciously promised to invite the woman back to listen for herself.
"Oh, that would be wonderful," Lady Coulderborn gushed. "It has been years since I last heard a ditty from my own land."
Sophia's smile was extraordinary, and to Logan's surprise—and horror—she turned to him. "Lady Weatherstone was kind enough to teach the bird master the tune. My brother and I have been enjoying the exotic sounds of the Grey Mountains for days now. I can't imagine ever growing tired of it. Would you not agree, Logan?"
Logan blinked at her a few times, feeling aghast at being asked his opinion. Eons could have passed and still words escaped him; he felt the pressure of an audience hounding for his opinion. "I... no I suppose not."
Sophia's sharp elbow nudged him in the ribs, making him jump and almost squawk. He recovered by covering it with a laugh, and hid the grimace with a strained smile.
"It's riveting," Logan lied.
Lady Coulderbourne's smile revealed that she believed his lie as much as she believed in magic, or peace. "Tell me, despite your obvious love for Grey Mountains' melodious exports, what do you have to say for its prettier offerings?"
Logan felt as if an enamelled finger had just invaded his rather personal pie. Such was life at court; the meddling parents attempting to orchestrate marriages and gather rumours, to be a step ahead of everyone else.
"She is charming," Sophia said with a bright smile. She squeezed Logan's wrist, letting him know she had this snooping nose covered. "The picture of sophisticated poise and etiquette. Please" —a curtsy— "enjoy the Moon Ball. My family welcomes you."
Lady Coulderbourne had the grace to lower into a curtsy before taking her leave. Logan did not miss the annoyed glance she shot over her shoulder.
"She is an aggravating goose that one." Sophia stretched her neck back and released a long sigh. "For now it seems everyone has arrived and our duties are done."
"Give it another five minutes," Logan said, "and the next wave of sycophants shall arrive."
Sophia grinned. "I rather enjoy being impressed. Really Logan, if you did not take yourself so seriously you might find that some fun can be had with the aristocracy."
"I think you will find it is only you that thinks so, and most certainly not I. If word had to get back to father that I had insulted–"
"Oh father knows the parade and performances that need to be shown at these kinds of things, he cannot blame you for–"
"He would." Logan smiled, placing a hand on his sister's shoulders. "Have your fun, Sophia, you need not fret for my well being."
Sophia pursed her lips. "I do no fret for your well being more than I fret for your preference of solitude. Have you made time for Lady Weatherstone?"
"I've..." Logan took a deep breath in. "There has been a lot going on and–"
"Spare me excuses. I can handle the door for now. I suggest you relieve Lady Weatherstone of our father's boring speeches."
"I dare not, Sophia. You know–"
"I dare you to spend another moment in my presence before I start moaning to you about the seamstress, who just could not hem this gown in the precise manner I wanted. Interested in hearing the tale?"
Logan groaned and allowed his sister to push him gently away. "Well, such torture would have any man running for the hills."
His sister's answering grin was feline. Logan smiled back, and even though he would rather hear the tale of the seamstress, he walked towards his father and Lady Gemima. Hungry eyes followed him, he felt the burn of them singeing his skin, murmurs trailed his progress. What scandal had the nobles whispering behind their gloves and wine glasses?
He avoided their gazes by keeping his eyes trained on his father's feet, safer than the accusing eyes that would likely send him into retreat. He also avoided looking at Gemima lest his courage desert him. Their last encounter was far from ideal, and after she had left him standing in the cold with his fist clenched at his side, he had done quite a bit of thinking.
"Prince Logan," a gruff voice called at his side, a large hand brought him to a halt. Logan's gaze jumped up, meeting Gemima's for a moment—had she been watching his approach—before resting on Lord Dorian's beaming features. "You seem deep in thought, Your Highness, anything I can help you with?" He winked.
Logan laughed. "You seem deep in your cups, My Lord?"
Dorian's grin was answer enough. "There was a most fascinating lord I had the pleasure of meeting. His name...escapes me, but he wove the most engaging tale, and before I knew it, I swayed when I stood and slurred as I spoke. This Lethilian wine has a kick to it, I shall give it that."
"It does indeed." Logan's eyes trailed back to Gemima who had returned her gaze to her father.
Dorian followed his gaze. "Oh! Wonderful, are you going to ask her to dance?"
"I intend to ask her something, I suppose that's as good as anything."
"What will you talk about?"
"I imagine–"
"You have to keep her thoughts from the hanging, at all costs."
"I shall do my best." Logan frowned, feeling his courage sway.
"You need not fear of silence. If words escape you, compliment her and ask about her dress or her jewels. There are always stories that come along with jewels that big." Dorian snapped his fingers. "If the unfortunate does occur and her thoughts lead the conversation towards such...horrors, perhaps suggest charities or solutions that involve some sort of...donation. And, if all else fails, speak about your dog as a puppy."
"What?"
"Women love baby animals."
Logan contained the laugh that threatened to send his sides aching. "I do fear your tongue is being controlled by your intoxication, My Lord."
Dorian grinned.
"I shall take your recommendations into consideration. For now, I should start my journey to possible humiliation or accolade."
"My best of wishes," Dorian bowed, backing away until the crowd consumed him. The last Logan saw was a broad smile surrounded by tanned skin.
Taking in as much air as his lungs could manage, Logan straightened his back and approached the dais. Gemima sat primly upon a guest seat to the King's side, her legs pressed firmly together, the skirt of her dress draped in a manner that was far more coordinated than fabric should be. She noticed him, her eyes sparkling a brilliant blue before she smiled.
Logan felt his breath hitch and his steps falter for a split second before he dropped into a bow and extended his hand. He decided the less he spoke within hearing range of his father, the less the likelihood of humiliation. As it were, it took all of Logan's self control not to look at his father and discover what emotion contorted his features.
Gemima hesitated in her seat, eyeing Logan's extended hand before looking to the King and her father for approval.
Logan's gaze was drawn to his father's at a clearing of a throat. His eyes locked with steely grey ones that seemed to burn through him.
Well, I have to say something now. "Please excuse Lady Weatherstone," he said with surprising ease, "she has promised me a dance."
King Warrick took his time in nodding an approval. Gemima was up and curtsying before Logan stood straight. She floated off the dais and had her arm looped through his in a few breaths. Together they bowed and left the monarch and his guest to discuss their politics.
"I thought you'd never come," Gemima breathed next to him. "I was starting to wonder if our..."
"Let us leave today's events as a past occurrence and not allow it to ruin a wonderful evening, shall we?" Logan had been preparing all the way over to dismiss their earlier encounter, and was satisfied with its delivery.
Gemima smiled and squeezed his arm. "In that case, I have something to tell you. Well, I have something to report."
"You have finished the diary?"
"I have indeed. It was rather...crude, but the writing was simple enough, and except for a few ink blots, it was legible enough." They entered the dancing area and Gemima twirled to face him before he could guide her into position. Silently scolding himself for not taking more of an initiative, he positioned his hands, one at her hip and the other holding hers. Before she had the chance to guide them into the dance, he took charge, but it was a beat too early and she did not foresee the movement. Their foreheads collided and he stepped away, a litany of apologies out before he could stop them.
"I am quite alright, My–"
"Logan, call me Logan." He was rubbing at his temple, but the smile she wore had him grinning too. "Shall we try again?"
She smiled, and this time she placed her hand on his shoulder first and slipped her other into his. "On the beat this time?"
They entered the dance to a chorus of silent murmurs. Logan and Gemima laughed, their eyes locked on each other so as not to meet any others.
"I'm surprised no one has stopped dancing to gape," Gemima said, her lips barely moving to avoid a possible lip reader amongst the crowd.
Logan cleared his throat. "I'm not used to such scrutiny anymore. It has been years since my father's guests have thought me a worthy subject to gossip about or stare at." His eyes widened. "I suppose it's not I they gape at or gossip about."
"You think it I?" Gemima feigned an incredulous snort. "I am but a humble guest from a distant land with incomparable riches."
"And incomparable beauty." Logan felt the tips of his ears warm as soon as he said it. He cleared his throat and was about to apologise when Gemima spoke.
"If you are about to take back that compliment, think what damage it may cause. First, you tell a lady you think her beautiful and then, because you find yourself embarrassed for admitting thinking such a forward compliment, you retract it with an apology."
"Not for the compliment," Logan stuttered. "Just for its delivery."
"You think I need poetic stanzas?"
"No, I..." Logan frowned, exhaled, and shook his head. "I'm not the only living creature in this room that thinks you a beauty, but I am honoured to say I am the one who dances with her."
Gemima's smile widened and she nodded approvingly. "That is by far the most gracious recovery you have made so far, Prince Logan."
"And it will hopefully not be the last. I mean...I hope I will not need to recover again...but..." he trailed off at her laughter. "Could we perhaps speak of the report you have?"
"I think it a far safer topic too."
"Safer? No. Less embarrassing? Yes."
Gemima's nose scrunched. "I shall ignore that and continue with my report."
"Please, do."
The dance called for a twirl. It was a moment when dancing partners separated, weaved amongst the other dancers, clapped, tapped, and twirled once more before finally returning to each other.
"So," Gemima began, "Hobblebey keeps fretting over the winter and the repercussions of the city being overcrowded."
"He had those concerns in previous accounts too."
"I imagine so, but there was an entry where he mentions a possible solution." She moved closer, her body so close to his her skirts were between his legs. "He speaks of a merchant hailing from the Southern Isles with product to increase crop growth."
"The Southern Isle merchants are renowned pirates." Logan shook his head.
"Now, yes. But what if they weren't back then? He seemed convinced of this merchant's honour and managed to convince others of it too, for the trade agreement for the seed was granted. Finishing the account, I have yet to learn if the seed ever arrived on Lethilian soil, but what if–"
"The seed is Cob?" Logan mused. "It's possible. Actually, it is most likely..."
"My thoughts exactly." She grinned. "Have you read of anything similar?"
Logan shook his head. "I am reading a few years before your account. All he mentions so far is court politics and a growing unease amongst the citizens. According to our history, there was a small civil war between my accounts and the start of yours. The matter was dealt with relatively swiftly, but it resulted in an influx of refugees within the city."
"Hence the over-population."
"Precisely. I suppose now all we need to do is find out if the seed arrived."
"And if it did what the merchant said it would do."
Logan narrowed his eyes, his mind already racing ahead to his study and the mountains of accords and accounts that lay unread. How many answers lay in the words written by a bitter, old man so many years ago?
"I believe you have left me alone on the dance floor, Prince Logan." Gemima's voice brought him back and he smiled apologetically. "Before you utter what I know is on the tip of your tongue, I have a solution, but it will involve sneaking away."
Logan's brows rose so fast he felt dizzy. "Sneak...to?"
Gemima grinned. "Why the answers to our questions of course. Hobbleby is fast becoming a far more attractive entertainer than our current audience.
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