Javi spreads her hands out to catch the snowflakes. "Look how the sky looks!" she says. "I didn't know it would be like that!"
You squint up into the pale blanket of cloud, surveying the flakes drifting to the ground. "It's lovely."
Dominique sighs heavily. "Beaumont will agree with me, won't you, Beaumont?"
Beaumont, who is up ahead with his hands jammed in his pockets, ignores Dominique even as he rushes to catch up with him.
Next
The snow is not Dominique's only problem. The next day, he grabs you for an emergency Student Council meeting in one of the common rooms. Gabi is the first to arrive, looking very formal with their notebook at the ready.
"I just received a letter saying that a member of the string quartet we booked is sick, so they're backing out," Dominique says. "What are we supposed to do? We can't have a ball without music."
Gabi looks at you expectantly. "Does Prince Hugoz have any thoughts?"
"This is a great opportunity," you say. "We've got the chance to make the music even better than it would have been. Gabi, write to the agencies and find out who they have available."
Gabi snaps to it. "Of course, Prince Hugoz," they say.
Dominique gives you a grateful look. "You're a lifesaver."
Within three days, Gabi has tracked down a quartet whose style is far more modern than the planned musicians. The Council rallies around to brief the new quartet on their Winter Ball work, and all is settled with a minimum of fuss.
Even so, Dominique remains intensely focused on the ball itself. One evening you find him poring over a catalog of outfits muttering about green velvet or plum. "This'll be my last Hearthlight at Archambault," he says. "I have to go all out."
Beaumont and Javi stroll in, bringing cold air and the smell of woodsmoke with them. Beaumont hunkers down to look at the catalog. "If you wear that, you'll look like a soldier," he says. "All those shiny buttons. Horrible."
As for you, there's no question of picking from a catalog. Your mother's tailor, Mx. Caruso, is on hand to create a bespoke outfit for the occasion, which, as you know, is themed around a rustic, pastoral feel. You arrange a telephone call in Pascal's office to discuss your specifications; after the usual pleasantries, Mx. Caruso is all business.
"First," they say, their voice tinny and distant through the telephone receiver, "what sort of evening wear would Your Highness like to wear for the occasion?"
"Delightful!" Mx. Caruso says. You hear the sound of scribbling in the background. "And we need something that will befit royalty, of course! Would your Highness be willing to provide guidance on the subject?"
You ask for:
"Hmm, yes," Mx. Caruso says. "Absolutely! This is going to be wonderful, I can promise you that!"
With a few more questions, they're done. The last time you spoke with them was for your eighteenth birthday party, when they were as enthusiastic and efficient as today, with every other sentence an exclamation. You wonder whether they're like that with everyone, or just with you.
When you emerge, Pascal meets you at the door, beaming. "What a time to be young," he says. "The Winter Ball is the highlight of the season! And I think you've got a few admirers waiting for you."
A little cluster of younger students wait, whispering and blushing, in the corridor. They scatter as you approach, but you hear something about "ask him! Ask him!"
There, of course, lies the question. At the Archambault Winter Ball, you'll need to ask someone to enter the ballroom with you. There's an assumption that it's a romantic overture, as with many such things, but you're sure you can ask someone in a way that does not imply romance. No one, yet, has been brave enough to ask you outright.
Then comes the fact that you need to pick your companion for the evening. You decide on:
Beaumont, of course, is easy to track down. You find him one evening in the Vercher House common room, reading. He does not see you at first, until you move closer; then he startles and closes the book with a snap.
"Yes?" he says abruptly. "Can I help you?"
"It's about the Winter Ball," you say, and continue:
Beaumont's eyes narrow as he looks up at you. "If I'd…?"
"Yes, I was wondering…"
The moment stretches out as you face one another. Beaumont's face is blank; you take a deep breath.
"Would you walk in with me?" you say. "As a friend."
A pause, while Beaumont appears to be making calculations in his head. "Yes," he says eventually, and then opens his book again.
"Hmm," Beaumont says, his gaze on his reading once more. There seems little more to get out of him, and so you head for your rooms to get ready for bed.
Next
Finally, the day of the ball arrives. In your rooms, a pair of servants help you dress. Outside your darkened window, snow is falling thick and fast, illuminated by the soft light within.
The servants are efficient and deferential, murmuring over the beauty of the fabrics and the intricacy of the embroidery. Your robe is made of bright scarlet brocade, its low-cut style fitted close to your chest. A dramatic slash in the skirt reaches almost up to your hip. With your every movement, the gold shimmers and dances; everyone will be watching you, whether they intend to or not.
You add a gold mask adorned with crimson feathers, a glittering coronet, and a pair of the finest velvet gloves to cap off the look.
Carriages line the drive leading up to the main Archambault building, and Gallatin students cluster around in the snow, breath steaming, eyes alight. Asher is close beside you, their stance as upright and formal as it ever is. They're wearing a pale blue suit and a plain blue mask. As soon as you see Beaumont, Asher steps away carefully, allowing you space.
Beaumont is dressed somberly, though expensively, in a dark green suit; his high-collared creamy shirt is buttoned right to his chin, and his green mask is unadorned. "I don't normally go to these things," he says. "Maybe tonight will be more interesting."
With a deep bow, he holds out a hand.
"Shall we, Prince Hugoz?" he says.
You take Beaumont's hand in yours; as you do so, there's a hubbub of excitement around you as the other students realize what's happening, and that you are indeed going to walk in with Beaumont. The flurry of interest only stokes higher as you walk together to the banquet hall entrance.
You pause at the threshold, the warmth at your face contrasting oddly with the snowy chill at your back.
"Prince Hugoz, son of Queen Estell of Westerlin, and Lord Laurie Beaumont!"
You Enter
Cheering and applause rise as you enter the ballroom. Hundreds of candles burn in sparkling chandeliers, while a huge fire roars at one end of the hall. The lights look wonderfully warm upon finely made wheat-colored table linen; gourds and harvest decorations have been placed by the windows. The entire hall looks delightfully cozy. It's exactly what you wanted when you picked this theme.
Everyone is watching you. The musicians strike up.
Next
You spot Trevelyan talking passionately with their partner, but they pause as they see you and flash a smile at both you and Beaumont.
Nearby, you see Dominique and Javi amidst a large group of Archambault and Gallatin students at the buffet table. Dominique looks excited; Javi looks unimpressed.
"I heard," Beaumont says, "by which I mean Dominique blabbed it to everyone in the school, that there's going to be a gondola ride or something happening."
He pauses.
"I'm not fussed about what we do," he says
You make a beeline for the vast glass doors, which have been thrown open for the occasion. Warm light spills onto the terrace outside, but as soon as you cross the threshold, the cold air hits you like a wave. Beaumont's jaw tightens, but he does not admit anything so undignified as feeling the cold.
You head for the trees at the end of the drive, and find a bench on which to rest. Not to mention conversing without being overheard. As Beaumont scuffs his shoe on the ground, dirt sprays up his pant leg.
"Damn it. Damn it!" Beaumont snaps, lips tight with annoyance.
He rubs a hand over his eyes.
"Apologies," he mutters, not looking directly at you. "I'm not used to being around people outside the office after the summer. Poorly housetrained. Like my bird Patch."
Beaumont almost looks about to snap at you, but then he pauses for a second, and rolls his neck slowly from side to side.
He smiles, just a little, then cracks his knuckles one by one, avoiding your eye again.
"It's strange being away from the old house," he says in a rush. "Each year it takes a while to get used to it. Since my parents passed, I've kept it much the same. So being somewhere else…it…"
He's quiet for a moment, and a frown-line appears between his brows.
"It's been strange," he says, "that's all."
Beaumont takes in a deep breath as though about to speak, but then changes his mind. "Easy to say," he says eventually, but he does look more relaxed.
Next
Anyhow," Beaumont says briskly. He flicks a strand of his hair dismissively off his face. "Maybe having you around will help me remember to behave. Prince Hugoz."
There's an intense glint in his dark eyes.
"If," he says, "you think you're persuasive enough."
"I don't know if that's meant as a compliment," Beaumont says, "but I'll take it as one, if you please."
He shivers.
"I'd like to get back indoors," he says. "I didn't realize how cold it was."
As you enter, the music shifts to a slow, stately waltz. Beaumont catches your eye. "Shall we?"
The Dance Begins
The dance is stately at first, and then languid and flowing. Beaumont's steps are abrupt and heavy; he dances with more force than grace.
A cry rings out.
Next
The music stops, discordant. On the teachers' dais, Pascal, gray-faced, rises to his feet clutching his throat, then collapses.
Silence for a second. Then a flurry of shock and fear ripples across the banquet hall. Anthony, who was sitting beside Pascal, is frozen. On the other side, Chiara says something sharp to one of the servants.
Clemence and Vere jump to their feet. Clemence tries to quiet the room, but Vere cups her hands around her mouth and bellows for silence.
"Lord Haberlin is unwell," she snaps. "Someone telephone the doctor. Immediately. Where's Nurse Friedrich?"
Clemence kneels by Pascal, trying to rouse him, but a cluster of Gallatin and Archambault teachers alike swarm around them. Even Vere cannot keep them under control, and she looks desperately over at you.
"Hugoz," she says, "help sort this out, won't you? They'll listen to you."