by I didn’t, though Jay tried his level best to do so. We went in together, about two and a half minutes after the king and queen had joined their adoring subjects. Apparently Jay wasn’t used to my being four feet wide at the ankles, either, for his foot became tangled in reams of silk and we almost toppled over together.
‘Oops,’ he said, which about covered it.
I waited while he disentangled himself from my dress. ‘I’m a public hazard in this thing.’
‘I can’t think how there weren’t more fatal accidents at the Old Court.’
Let me back up a moment. Their Majesties’ private mansion, however fine, had nothing on the real heart of Mandridore: the royal palace. A mere seven or eight minutes in the coach was sufficient to convey us to this spectacular building, and as we waited behind the king and queen’s coach I had ample time to get an eyeful of it.
Think Buckingham Palace. Then mentally increase it to about three times the size — not just in width or surface area but in height, too. Unsurprisingly, considering our costumes, the palace was resplendent in the architectural styles of the late sixteen hundreds: square, imposing, symmetrical, and ornate, with arches and pilasters and a splendid cupola.
But there were differences between the palace and the generality of seventeenth-century country house style, chief among them being the minor fact that the entire thing was built out of starstone.
Every last bloody inch of it.
Under the soft light of a rising moon, it positively wallowed in that lovely twilight-blue radiance and I felt sick with something like longing.
Unsure why. Living in a humongous, shiny-blue palace would have its moments, no doubt about that, but it would also get old. Footmen everywhere. Always having to dress for dinner; no slouching about in my old comfies with my hair in a mess. That horrible, echoing sense of loneliness that comes from rattling around in far too much space.
I digress.
They don’t do red carpets in troll country, they do gold. All the gold. In Their Majesties swept, prancing elegantly up the gilded carpet as music swelled. We followed shortly after, and I was bemused to note that Their Majesties’ courtiers seemed as pleased to see Alban as they were to see the king and queen. I’d underestimated his popularity. Again.
I will skip over the next half hour or so, which passed in a blur of silks and jewels and curtseys and titles. I tried to study the interior architecture but the tumult was too distracting; I received fleeting impressions of painted murals and statuary, rich carpets trampled by a great many feet, and other such Baroque fussiness.
Their Majesties looked around for Baron Alban, more than once. The Baron, inexplicably, chose to remain with us. This held true even at dinner, when I was seated on the Baron’s right and Jay upon his left. He talked exclusively to us, which was probably rude of him but I appreciated the thought.
On my other side sat a majestic old troll, his silvery hair elegantly coiffed, his amber velvet coat elaborately decorated.
‘You keep high company,’ he said to me, nodding at Baron Alban.
‘We’ve worked together a time or two,’ I replied, grateful for his kindness in not ignoring me but also wishing he might save the polite chitchat for a bit later. The dining parlour at the palace was twelve miles long and the table several miles longer still, I’d swear. Every inch of it was crowded with dishes, and since one of those nearest to me was a kind of floating pudding consisting of a flock of meringue swans sailing over a lake of sweet cream, my priorities clearly lay elsewhere at that moment.
‘I believe I have heard of you,’ said my talkative neighbour, ignoring his own plate of fragrant delicacies. ‘From the Society for the Preservation of Magickal Heritage, am I correct?’
My mouth being full of cream, I could only nod. It tasted of peaches and rose water.
‘I should not repeat gossip, of course, but it is said that you and the young man got as far as Farringale.’
It was not quite a question, but he was watching me with sharp, intent eyes and I realised he was probing for something.
I swallowed my piece of meringue swan-wing. ‘It is a true story, though may perhaps have been exaggerated. We barely set foot in Farringale, and saw very little of it.’
My companion clearly wanted to ask more, but the Baron claimed my attention and talked determinedly to me for the next few minutes. By the time I had leisure to glance about again, my amber-clad interlocutor was deep in conversation with his other neighbour.
‘Who is that gentleman?’ I murmured to Alban.
The Baron spared him one brief, dismissive glance. ‘The Marquess of Valony.’
‘Surely not,’ I blurted.
‘He most certainly is,’ said Alban, with a raised-eyebrows look at me.
How could I explain my peculiar comment without being insulting? It only struck me as bizarre, that a man enjoying so high a station as marquess should call a mere baron high company. Baron was the lowest rank among the aristocracy, at least in my world; a marquess was second only to a duke.
But this was Mandridore, not England. Perhaps things were different here.
After dinner, there was dancing. Delightful, though as soon as I realised I was to take a turn about the ballroom with the Baron, I began to wish that last almond and orange blossom cheesecake uneaten. A mere, weak Ves should never be turned loose upon a banquet like that. It is hazardous to her health.
Fortunately, when the royal orchestra struck up the first strains of music and Their Majesties took to the floor, they chose a slow, stately minuet and I gave a tiny sigh of relief. I would not be obliged to engage in any strenuous gyrations, at least not at present. The king and queen made a handsome couple, though it occurred to me that they looked a little tired as they swept slowly around the centre of the polished marble floor. They were not dancing for the enjoyment of it; they were performing for their subjects. They went through this routine for a few minutes, and then, upon some unheard cue, the floor filled with other couples and Their Majesties withdrew. I wondered if they were obliged to undergo this parade every night. How exhausting.
‘I give you fair warning,’ I said as the Baron came to claim me. ‘I have no idea how to dance a minuet.’
‘No one can see your feet anyway.’
‘But you can feel them,’ I pointed out as he swept me up, and sailed me away on a tide of harpsichords.
‘There are advantages to dancing with a featherweight. I shan’t even need my steel toe caps.’
I felt a compulsion to correct him on this point, for I am far too fond of food to qualify as the delicate scrap of a thing he described. But compared to him, I suppose I was a mere leaf on the wind.
‘I knew there must be some reason you’re dancing with me.’
He smiled, just at me. ‘Because wit, brains and beauty aren’t nearly inducements enough.’
‘Flattering,’ I murmured, super cool (nobody need know that my heart was turning somersaults). ‘But at least half the people here could be described as such, and they’re all gagging to dance with you.’ Scarcely an exaggeration, that. I was uncomfortably aware that I was attracting a great deal of attention as I whirled about in the Baron’s arms. Some of it was merely curious; some of it was outright envious, or something… else. Something else negative.
Alban looked around, as though he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t look abashed so much as annoyed. ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ he muttered.
I felt stricken. ‘Dancing with me?’
‘No! No. Dancing with you here.’ His stride faltered, and he pulled me a bit more into his arms, as though to shield me from everyone else. ‘Ves, I… ought to tell you something.’
‘Ought?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Then don’t.’
He shook his head. ‘If I don’t, someone else will. The thing is…’ He did not seem to know how to continue, and trailed off.
Jay appeared at my elbow. I’d lost track of him in the ballroom. ‘Ves, can I talk to you for a minute?’ He made as if to pull me bodily out of the Baron’s arms, which was unlike him.
‘No,’ said Alban, and clutched me closer.
‘If you gentlemen think you are going to have a tug of war over me, you are much mistaken,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter, Jay?’
‘He’s been keeping secrets from you.’
Alban sighed.
‘I think he was about to tell me,’ I said to Jay.
‘He should’ve told you about six weeks ago.’
I realised that Jay was very angry about something. He looked as composed as ever, but he had an air of suppressed fury I’d never seen before.
‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’ I said, hating myself for the plaintive note in my voice.
‘Not here,’ said Jay. ‘Come on. Let’s get somewhere quiet.’
But it was not so easy to withdraw from the middle of the dancefloor as all that. Jay tried to escort me out of the thicket of dancers, but they whirled around us in such profusion, we made little progress.
So it was that I was still within hearing distance when a troll matron in a bottle-green gown sang gaily to the Baron as she waltzed past: ‘We miss your lady wife tonight, don’t we, sir? How long she has been away!’
I stopped dead, to the chagrin of a woman who collided with me mid-minuet. I added her hiss of annoyance to my rapidly growing pile of things-to-ignore, together with the look of mild malice the bottle-green woman had directed at me as she danced away.
I looked at Alban, but none of the thousand questions in my mind made it past my lips.
His broad shoulders sagged. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.
‘It’s true?’ I croaked.
‘It— that— I—’ He clamped his lips tightly shut and tugged at his perfect hair, a brief gesture of utter dismay. I’d never seen him speechless before. ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.’
‘It wasn’t? Were you planning to tell me at all?’
‘Yes, I… look, Jay is right, we shouldn’t talk here. Come on.’
He swept me away. He had either the bulk or the rank to do it more successfully than Jay, for people melted out of our path. I caught one last glimpse of Jay’s enraged face as I was borne away to the far side of the ballroom, and out through an arch onto a starry terrace. The mild summer breeze gently lifted my hair, and I was welcomed by the heady aromas of strawberries and wine.
How romantic.
The Baron escorted me to a bench, but while I sank down upon it in gratitude — my knees might have been shaking a bit — he remained standing. He stood looking down at me with an expression of consternation. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘While apologies are nice, I would prefer an explanation.’
He nodded. ‘If only it were not so hard to come up with a reasonable one.’
‘I’d just like a true one.’ I folded my hands together and tried not to stare wistfully at the moonlit sky. I might have been entertaining a few fantasies about being kissed under just such a sky, only quarter of an hour before.
‘Jay is right to be angry,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I never meant to get into this absurd masquerade, only… I never throw rank around when I’m working. It’s neither necessary nor helpful. And then, when I decided I liked you, it… it was hard to know how to tell you the truth. The moment never seemed right.’
‘Never throw rank?’ I repeated. ‘But you were introduced as Baron Alban on day one.’
‘Yes, but… I am not a baron. Or not only a baron. It’s an old title. I am comfortable with it, and it suits the work I generally do for the Court. High enough to open doors, not so high as to be intimidating.’
‘High company,’ I said, as enlightenment began to dawn.
‘What?’
‘Just how high in rank are you?’
He ran a hand over his hair again, messing it up. I’d never seen him with disordered hair either. ‘I’m a prince,’ he said, in the tone a normal person would reserve for something more like I have syphilis.
‘A prince.’
‘The prince, actually. I am the next heir to the throne of Mandridore.’
