Page 12 of The Midnight King
I stare in awe at the staggering height of the ceilings and the air of subdued luxury that suffuses the foyer. Statues loom along a marble staircase ahead, and more stonework frames an immense door to my right. In the room beyond, colorful clusters of people are milling about. The strains of a waltz mingle with the chattering din of the crowd.
“Whom shall I tell them to announce?” murmurs the footman as we cross the glossy floor of the foyer, heading for the ballroom. He reaches for my fluffy wrap, and I yield it to him, knowing that even if he hangs it up in some coatroom, it will disappear at midnight.
“Do they have to announce me?” I ask, but when he gives me a confused look, I say, “Announce me as Celinda Laurier of Eisling House, daughter of Anvedin Laurier.”
My father wasn’t a nobleman, but he did well for himself as the owner of many merchant ships and a couple shipyards. He used to say my birth gave Fate a reason to smile on him, for it was then that his fortunes began to improve and he was able to expand his business and amass the wealth that has kept Eisling House afloat thus far. His name still carries some weight in the social circles of this region, though mine is fairly unknown. I’m rarely introduced to anyone, and when my step-family does acknowledge me in public, they simply call me “Cinders” or “the maid.”
The kind footman passes on my request to the herald at the door, who blows his trumpet to signal my arrival. The soft waltz continues in the background even as he bawls out my introduction.
It’s terrifying to enter that room, to face all those eyes. I’m used to doing my work quietly, unnoticed. The most attention I ever get is on market day, and even then I’m on a strict schedule from Gilda and I’m not allowed to engage in much conversation. The onslaught of so many people, so much attention at once—it’s a torture I didn’t expect.
But I hold my head high and sail into the room in my glorious dress, taking comfort in the fact that even if I’m anxious, at least I look beautiful. My Faerie godfather did his work well. Though my gown is a different style than most, it suits me perfectly. With its graceful silhouette and exquisite material, it outshines every other garment at this gathering.
I spot the Prince immediately, as his portrait usually appears next to his father’s in public buildings. He’s pleasantly handsome, dressed in a cream-colored suit with red and gold trim. A thin circlet of gold nestles amid the waves of his brown hair.
He’s dancing with a young lady, but when the herald announces me, he turns his head and catches my gaze. My heart does a quick flip at the eye contact, and my first instinct is to look away—but I’m here to help my stepsisters ensnare him, and to do that, I need to make a good impression.
So I hold his gaze, and I let a soft smile curve my lips. The blush on my cheeks is real, engendered by my nerves and by the constant awareness of what’s at stake.
The Prince smiles back. He leans toward his companion and murmurs something, at which she looks somewhat disgruntled. Then he leaves her and walks toward me as the crowd parts for him.
The fluttering sensation in my chest intensifies. Surely he can’t be coming over to ask me to dance. Surely it can’t be this easy. Surely there are lovelier, more graceful people with whom he could spend his time.
I’ve seen people dance. I’ve watched waltzes from shadowed doorways and observed merry jigs in the market square. I’ve danced around the kitchen before. But dancing with the Crown Prince, in front of everyone? Terror floods my limbs, turning them weak.
The Prince is in front of me now. He’s about my height, and as I look into his eyes, I see sincere admiration. His warm, easy smile takes a little of the edge off my nerves.
By some miracle, I remember to sink into a deep curtsy.
“Good evening,” he says, with a slight bow. “Miss Laurier, is it?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Call me Brantley. Would you care to dance?”
I’m excruciatingly conscious of everyone in the room looking at us, listening to our conversation. He seems relaxed, but in this moment I realize how difficult it must be for him, having his every move watched, his every sentence dissected and evaluated.
“I’m not the best of dancers, Your Highness,” I reply. “But with your guidance, I’d be willing to try.”
“That’s more than fair.” He extends his hand, and I take it.
He leads me to the center of the immense ballroom, where we join a few dozen other couples. Apparently the Prince also invited many eligible young men to be present tonight, to provide dance partners for the ladies while he is occupied.
Even though everyone here is dressed in their finest, I can spot those with true wealth and dignity. There’s a simplicity and quality to their clothing, whereas those with less money or no titles tend to make themselves garishly noticeable, as if a preponderance of gaudy trimmings or bright colors will make up for their lack of breeding or wealth.
To my mind, noble blood means little, but the education and manners that accompany it do have some value. Since my father’s passing, my education has consisted of whatever scraps I could learn on my own in the precious minutes when I wasn’t immersed in household chores. Nor do I possess the flawless manners of high society. But my dress and my necklace proclaim me as someone of both class and means, and I hope I can fake the rest, just for one night.
The Prince leads the dance well, and I quickly assimilate to the rhythm and the simple paces.
“So many beautiful ladies here tonight,” he says. “And yet I do believe you are the most stunning.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “But you must not have met my sisters yet. They are both quite lovely and have many charming qualities.”
“Indeed? And what might those qualities be?”
“Well, Amisa is… she likes to…”Oh fuck. Here’s my opportunity to begin earning them favor with the Prince, and my mind has gone entirely blank. “And Vashli, she’s quite… um…”
For fuck’s sake, there must besomethinggood about them.