Hydrangea sat on the chair in the bath chamber. Her heart was still pounding and she was still catching her breath.
Grabbing her head in her hands she closed her eyes frustratedly.
'Why had I let him kiss me? What's wrong with me?' But even as she cursed herself for her actions, she thought back to his warm eyes and his hand just behind her head. She blinked as her body began to warm at the memory of his lips.
She stood and began pacing.
Even though kissing had seemed like the only logical option in that scenario, it hadn't been. She told herself steadfastly. She couldn't lose her nerve.
She sighed in vexation when she remembered all his words, saying that he'd seen her hesitancy, her fear. Why was he paying such close attention to her?
She clenched her fists and opened them, her nails digging into her palms.
Her shoulders began to shake.
She felt so alone, so afraid. All she had was Bastian, but… argh! It didn't make any sense. Nothing made sense anymore. She wanted to tell him how she felt, but at the same time she feared that warmth in his eyes, and the sorrow she knew she would see.
She grasped a strand of her hair as it drifted into her line of sight. She stilled, her eyes fixed on a point in space. Why had he gotten so upset? She fingered the tips of her hair, it only reached the middle of her back now, but it would be much more manageable.
She absentmindedly fiddled with her hair, her thoughts resting on everything he'd said.
She didn't understand why he wanted to go to Selva alone. It was dangerous, yes. And yes, she was not the strongest fighter, she wasn't a fighter at all. But, she needed to go. And not just because of all of the dreams and visions that she'd not yet seen a conclusion to, but because… she didn't want to be alone.
All she had was him. And if he left her in a country that was not her home, a cold, dangerous country, she would never forgive him.
She chuckled to herself. She'd already forgiven him for an unforgivable thing, what's this compared to that?
~~~~~~~~~~
Both of their thoughts were tortured by that day. Bastian fought the sadness that threatened to crush him, and Hydrangea fought the suffocating fear of his coming departure.
But, before he could leave for Selva, the Tsarina had a ball to host for the happy couple.
It had been advertised for only a few days, and would be attended by only the most influential of leaders in Viskogorny.
The Tzar, Tsarina and their nine children would be present, along with their spouses and children. Many dukes, duchesses, counts and countesses, barons and baronesses had been invited. All of the generals and their wives, the knights of high standing and if they happened to be wed, then their wives as well had been invited.
The ball was to be held in the palace, the large, grand ballroom had been decorated and ornamented with the most lavish of adornments. Millions of candles were lit and placed on chandeliers and candelabras. Dried flowers paired with fresh ones from the greenhouses were filling each vase to its brim. The polished floor was swept and clean, the stone ready for the hundreds of feet that would be dancing on it.
Food was set about, on the tables that would be dined at, on platters along the sides. Servants walked about with glasses ready to be served.
At the back of the ballroom were four thrones, the largest being reserved for the Tzar. And straight across the room from these seats, was the large staircase. Its marble steps that split to become two separate stairways were draped with a royal red carpet, lined with gold. The marble railing was decorated with gold and silver ribbons woven in between the posts. At the top of the steps was a balcony that overlooked the room, the room filled with gold and golden light.
Behind this balcony was a set of doors, white with gold. A Viskogornian guard was stationed at either side, clad in a soldier's dress comprised of deep red shirt and slacks. A brown overcoat with brass buttons was worn overtop and a brown, broad-rimmed hat was set atop his head. A sword was at his side and sturdy leather boots were on his feet.
Beyond these guarded doors and down many long halls was Hydrangea. Her pale face was watching her reflection in the mirror.
She hadn't seen Bastian in three days, since their fight. Since he'd kissed her.
She tugged at her lips with her teeth, watching as some of the paint scraped off her lips.
The Tsarina had sent a tailor to her the day after their fight. And that tailor had measured her size and made a fabulous dress. The fabric was cotton and felt soft on the outside, but the multiple layers of starched fabric underneath the dress were sweltering and uncomfortable.
She turned her hips and watched as the dress swayed, twirling beautifully.
She wondered if he would think it beautiful.
One of maids that had helped to dress her suddenly shouted and distracted Hydrangea from her thoughts.
The maid dragged her over to the bath chamber and fixed the paint on her lips.
She flexed her toes in the tight red shoes that she was wearing.
It seemed as though the only colours to exist in Viskogorny were gold and red, she thought as she observed her red dress once more.
She exited the bath chamber and found a new servant standing by the door. He wore a brown coloured wig, his clothes were very regal, white breeches with a sharp blue overcoat buttoned mid-chest.
The only indication that he was a servant was that he'd bowed his head when she'd reentered the room.
"Your majesty," He said and she nodded in response, "I have been ordered to direct you to the ballroom. If you'll please come with me."
She walked after him as he walked to the door and opened it.
By the time they'd reached the antechamber to the ballroom her feet hurt excruciatingly.
The servant bid her farewell and she nodded him a goodbye.
She decided to remain standing, sitting in the dress may squash her lungs.
Hearing noises to her left she walked to the wall and peeked through a curtain there. She blinked then peered through curiously.
Beyond the barrier of the curtain was the ballroom below.
The shining floor was strewn with crowds of people, no one was dancing and they spoke in hushed murmurs with the occasional delicate laughter of a woman.
"Well," Her attention was snapped away by a familiar deep voice, "You're all dressed up."
His voice held no notes of mocking, but rather notes holding a tinge of sadness.
She clenched her fists by her side, her left eye began twitching and she turned to face him.