05-05-2016, 02:10 AM
A kiss is not a contract
In her dreams, Besra rides across an empty field. She doesn’t know where she’s going, only that she must get there, and soon. The night is behind her, the day ahead. A sun looms at either end, one wreathed in blue flame, the other resplendent in gold. She gallops but still she seems to go nowhere, running, running to the light. From behind, the dark flames eat the grass, wind up the mounts legs, catch fire to the trail of her cloak …
“Wake up…” She dreams. “Wake up!” She hears, and with a start her eyes fly open and she sits upright in bed. Her senses are slow to return, drowsy head turning around her to make sense of the other girls and the strange furniture. She rubs her face and the memories flood back. “That’s right, girls. Up, up, UP!” A nagging voice calls: it’s the grey-haired madame from the day before, striding down the middle row to nudge a foot here and there. “There’s a very long day in store for you all, lessons and a tour.” Besra sighs and swings out of bed, brushing hair up behind her before stretching to pop the numbness out of her back. Soft beds made for rough sleep. “But for one of you,” The silver lady teases, “there’s a surprise in store. The heir will accompany one lady on her choice of the very first outing!”
The screams are deafening. Besra has to press her palms over her ears, but she chuckles at the wordless flurry of nightgowns. The madame realizes her mistake and with waving arms attempts to quiet the stampede. “LADIES!” She yells, and Besra’s hands fall to her side. “Please! Maintain yourselves … goodness.” She instructs, smoothing her skirts. “Prepare for breakfast, promptly. I will explain the process after you can conduct yourselves with decorum.” She tells them, turning on a heel before gliding through the double doors. With her exit, a murmur of excitement falls over the group and the girls become like a hive of bees: circling about each other, trading shoes and ribbons and knick knacks. Some help braid while others help with powdering. In looking around her, Besra realizes a fault of her own. She’d made no attempt at friendship here yet and that might cost her.
A girl beside her fiddles with her necklace and with a smile, Besra leans across her bed, fingers extended to help grasp the clasp. “Here, let me help you.” She offers, but the other girl leans away quickly from her hands. “Don’t touch me!” The girl shrieks, turning around to pin her down with a cold, honey golden stare. She looks over Besra with petulance, mouth turning down at the edges. “I know you,” She snivels, a smirk evident in the corners of her eyes, “You’re the peasant girl that sells pastries.” Besra’s blood is pounding in her ears and she can feel her cheeks beginning to flame. The other girl stands, dark locks tumbling about her shoulders as she stares down at her. “You’re pretty. In a common sort of way. But you won’t last long here. My father is a bookkeeper for the King, I’ve been brought up around the palace. I’ve already got a foot in the doorway.” She hisses, walking slowly around the foot of her bed to meet Besra face to face.
“You’re a lucky one. But that’ll run out soon enough. People like you don’t belong in places like this.” She warns, letting the words sink in. Besra’s blue eyes harden, face tilting up to meet her enemies stare. “People like me feed people like you.” Besra tells her, the statement dropping from her lips like stones. “Be careful the next time you pick up a pastry. You might not find the taste so sweet.” She warns, holding the girl’s stare for a breath of time. Quietly, she brushes past her, leaning over her trunk to open the case and retrieve a simple, grey gown. It was true; what the girl has said. A girl like her, with so little in possessions and knowledge, was incredibly lucky to be here among them. But she refused to believe something as paltry as pretty fabric and tasteless jewelry would be enough to fool the heir into marrying you. With a huff, she blows back a tendril of pale hair, gathers her things and readies for breakfast.
By the time she’s placed a fair, white hat on her pinned-up hair, the other girls have begun to file out of the massive double doors, heels clicking against marble as they descend the main staircase to the banquet hall. Breakfast is an incredible display, like nothing she’s ever experienced before. But the rich food and the dark haired girl’s words sit heavily on her tongue. Too quickly does her stomach fill, and she finds the food lacks some of the luster it previously held. It’s only as she stabs idly at a bread roll that the mood begins to change. The uptight madame rises from her seat at the head of the servants table, butterknife glancing blows at her clear glass to catch all of their attention. Besra’s head jerks suddenly to the front of the room where the elderly matron’s eyes meet hers. “Beginning in alphabetical order is miss Besra.” She calls, and the collective groan from the various letters who’s digit was more than ten rose around her. Besra’s hands shake, but her body isn’t long in rising from her seat. With a nod to the lady another servant leaves her position at the table, coming ‘round to escort her on her way.
When they arrive in the private chambers, Besra doesn’t have any more time to be nervous. Various other chambermaids have come to help move along the progress: from helping her out of her meager gown, into a soothing bath, and washing her unkempt hair. The only moment she does have to close her eyes is when she’s sunken beneath the water, but even that doesn’t last when she hears the door opening. “Besra.” The voice calls, and the girl in question opens her eyes to the see the madame. “In a gracious manner, the Heir has decided to let his prospective brides choose their style of an outing. In order to prepare fully for his companion’s choice, his grace has requested to know what yours will be.” The woman concludes, hands grasping together with affirmed authority. Besra sits up, hair gliding into the water as she turns about to face the madame. “I was never told that I’d have to choose!” She exclaims, disbelief clouding her face. “I have nothing in mind, m’lady.” Besra pleads.
“His grace will be very disappointed to hear this.” The madame chides, hard eyes looking down over her prominent nose before she turns as if to leave. Besra understands suddenly why her people had begun to resent the higher class. It was a setup, surely. A planned failure in hopes to thin the herd. “A hunt!” Besra declares, palm slapping against the marble tile. The madame turns, confusion twisting her otherwise expressionless face. “Tell the heir I’d like to go on a hunt with him. Around the castle grounds.” She declares, challenging the grey-haired woman to deny her. Unabashed, the madame sniffs, turning once more to exit and mutter under her breath.
A soft-spoken girl she may be, but a weak woman, she was not. Besra would defy the odds. They could play their petty games and try to restrain her, but she would never roll over so easily. The bath ends and they help her into a riding gown: navy blue cotton with black detail, complete with a matching jacket, a soft, pale white silken undershirt, and matching ebony brooch and buttons. Her riding gloves are ermine, colorless as milk with navy blue stitching. Her hair, golden as thread woven by rumpelstiltskin himself, was bunched prettily beneath a sapphire hat, ringlets tumbling free over cheeks that blushed like eden roses. Besra doubts she has ever been so lovely in her life. She fidgets with the tool nervously, nodding once at her reflection before turning around to face the servants. “You all work magic.” Collectively, they laugh, the moment ending sharply with a rap upon the door.
A man in hunting reds stands behind it, waiting with an unsure smile and a fist firmly clenching the lapels of his deep, v-necked coat. “My lady.” He bows, the action stiff and rehearsed. When he rises, Besra can think of nothing to say. It … cannot be. But it is. The Heir apparent stands before her - much more a man than she could have hoped to guess. When last she saw him (a painted rendition in the town hall) he was as young as she had been - nothing more than a healthy child. Every time she returned to that same place though, he’d stayed the same age and she’d grown. No wonder he looked so … different. His hair was the same, thicker perhaps but still a shining bronze. Those cheeks once flushed had now grown sharp, square, shaded by the hint of stubble. His eyes, however, seemed eerily the same. Gazing down at her with molten appreciation. Besra realizes that she may have seen his face a hundred times, but this is his first time seeing hers.
She smiles with that knowledge and visibly he exhales, extending a hand that she eagerly takes. In the hallway, he chuckles. “I’m not going to lie. I’m a bit nervous.” He tells her. Besra grins, winding a hand through his arm to grip the bicep of his jacket. “If you think you’re nervous, imagine what it’s like to be the first on the list.” She tells him, head tilting as she shrugs her shoulders. He gazes sideways at her, smirk lighting on the corners of his mouth. “Probably better than being nearly in the middle, or nearly at the end.” He jokes, leading them out into the back courtyard. “Afraid you’ll forget someone, or that they’ll all blend together?” Besra accuses him, a single brow quirking as he comes to a halt. The Heir gazes down at her, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“Not at all.” He says, taking the reins of a grey horse from a waiting servant to hand them to Besra. “I’m afraid of the monotony. That each one will sing some pretty song about me and honestly take me for a weak-minded, lustful fool.” With a gentle exchange, Besra takes hold of her mount, watching him loosen in stride as he gathers his own horse and rises fluidly into the saddle. She cannot say her ascent is graceful, it’s been some time since she’s ridden, but the servants help and she adjusts quickly, settling into the odd saddle seat and taking a firm grip on the reins. “It’s a good thing we’ve got two hours, your Grace.” Besra tells him, breaking into a fit of laughter as she trots her sooty mount in a circle around him.
“Why the hunt if you’ve got no skill at riding?” The prince wonders aloud, laughing briefly before leaning onto his horse’s withers. “And please, call me Francis.” Besra slows her old gelding, pats him gently on the neck and sighs, blue eyes watching him with a hint of remorse. “Truthfully, I was in a cinch for time. Thinking on it now I’ve always wanted to see the kennels, what kind of dogs you’re raising here. My father breeds the best hunting hounds you’ve ever seen, and I’m curious to know if yours compare.” She says, pale pink lips turning up into a mischievous smile. Francis can only shake his head, a rumbling laugh echoing from his chest at her conniving tease. “The dogs need an off day anyways. How about a trail ride and you can watch them work on the training grounds? He offers, sitting upright once more with a broad smile. “That sounds agreeable.” Besra says, “You give me tips on riding, and in exchange I’ll give you tips that might improve your dogs.”
Francis laughs at her boldness, urging his horse forward with a jolt to pass by Besra’s grey gelding and tap it lightly on the rump with his crop. The old horse plows ahead at a brisk trot, and Besra is thrown back into her seat with a wild grin.
By the end of the ride, the two of them are cantering with ease up the back hillock to the estate, a few dogs bounding at their heels. In the courtyard the madame waits, arms crossed in obvious displeasure as they draw to a halt together, cheeks flush from the activity and tilting chuckles. The dogs wind about and Francis dismounts, dropping the reins into an attendant's hand to come around and help Besra from her saddle. His hands are firm, authoritative without too much pressure. She likes the way he clings for maybe a second too long before turning back to the madame. “Sorry we’re a bit late, Ms. O’Brien.” He says, taking his gloves from his hands so that he might clasp them behind his back. All traces of disdain disappear from O’Brien’s face when he addresses her. “Your Grace, please, no excuse is necessary.” She tells him, curtseying low.
With a nod Francis turns his attention back to Besra, striding back to gather her hands in his own. “It’s really been … “ He begins, but he can’t seem to finish. The dogs gather around him, sensing the change in mood. Francis clears his throat and looks Besra in the eye, dark lips revealing his discomfort at the action of goodbyes. “Keep practising. Your leg needs work.” He tries, and Besra rolls her eyes away before swatting him playfully on the arm. “But please, make yourself at home here and in the kennel. The dogs seem to rather like you.” He finishes, smiling down at the pups whose tails wagged in response. Besra feels at a loss for words. The time had been so short, and seemed to pass so quickly. It hadn’t been terrifying in the least, almost relaxing in fact. “I’m glad I was first.” She tells him, pretty chin tilting up to give him full view of her face - that he might not forget it.
“As am I.” He whispers, releasing the grip on her hands as she breaks free of him, skirts brushing against his legs as she sweeps past, the dogs padding at her heels. Francis whistles for them, and Besra cranes her neck longingly over her shoulder to watch them bound back to their master. The copper prince waves and she smiles, breaking the contact to head up the walkway. The doors open wide for her and on her way in, another girl passes by: mounds of pink lace and a low neckline. Besra can only smile. She meets the others during lessons, gorging on the wealth of knowledge that the royal libraries held captive. Kingdom history, etiquette, duties of the court. It’s not long before night descends, and the girls gather for dinner. Over roast duck some bolder girls ask what he’s like. Is he handsome? Does he seem thick-skulled? What’s the color of his eyes? What did he smell like?
Besra answers them all, enjoying the frivolity of company and timid friendship. One girl strikes her in particular - a pixie-like creature with flaming red hair and bright, green eyes. “My father who’s friends with the cook’s apprentice says that the kennel master here sees more of the Heir than the King himself. Francis must love those dogs.” The wild-haired girl says, forking a potato into her mouth. No wonder the Prince had seemed so at ease with her the whole time … he probably enjoyed the hounds more than Besra. She smiles, happy that she’s not made a total fool of herself but more than glad to think that she’s begun to see not everyone is at each other’s throats.
The next day, during lessons, the red-haired girl takes a seat next to Besra. “Reading gives me headaches.” She tells her, leaning back into the stiff, red cushions. “I don’t see how you sit over here the whole time so quiet and studious.” Besra raises her head, sideways smile pulling at her mouth. “Well I don’t see how you can possibly remember so many steps to so many dances.” She sighs, closing her current read to indulge in the flame-colored girl’s attention. The pointed, delicate face erupts in a grin. “My name is Miriam.” She says, leaning over the armrest in a very unladylike manner. “Besra” The bookworm replies. Miriam seems deep in thought for a moment, pondering on something before sparking up conversation again. “Besra, if you help me master the history of this ancient place, I can teach you all the popular dances.”
Besra doesn’t need to think it over. The two come to an agreement and spend the rest of the afternoon gliding around a spare, empty room in the castle. One girl memorizing steps while another recited foreign dignitaries. Besra’s careful not to trust Miriam so fully, but she’s not willing to lose out at the opportunity to shine rather than look incompetent. If their arrangement worked for now, so be it. Miriam, on the whole, seemed a headstrong sort of girl. She was determined to not seem so air-headed as the other girls, so in a strange way the two made fast friends. Night falls once more across Illea and with well-earned exhaustion Besra and Miriam take supper with the other girls, enjoying the quiet moment before the inevitable.
Another clinking of metal on glass, and a hush of anxiety falls over the room. Ms. O’Brien is standing, lips drawn in a thin line. “As you all know, now is the time for us to bid farewell to some of ladies you’ve come to know. Please, join me in the main entrance so that we may announce those departing.” As if orchestrating a great concert, she raises both hands, the entire assembly (Besra included) rising with the motion. In reverent silence the girls sweep out of the banquet hall and down the twin staircases, congregating together once more like doves in a roost at the front most area of the castle.
Besra, heart thudding eagerly against her chest, waits with clenched fists.
“Wake up…” She dreams. “Wake up!” She hears, and with a start her eyes fly open and she sits upright in bed. Her senses are slow to return, drowsy head turning around her to make sense of the other girls and the strange furniture. She rubs her face and the memories flood back. “That’s right, girls. Up, up, UP!” A nagging voice calls: it’s the grey-haired madame from the day before, striding down the middle row to nudge a foot here and there. “There’s a very long day in store for you all, lessons and a tour.” Besra sighs and swings out of bed, brushing hair up behind her before stretching to pop the numbness out of her back. Soft beds made for rough sleep. “But for one of you,” The silver lady teases, “there’s a surprise in store. The heir will accompany one lady on her choice of the very first outing!”
The screams are deafening. Besra has to press her palms over her ears, but she chuckles at the wordless flurry of nightgowns. The madame realizes her mistake and with waving arms attempts to quiet the stampede. “LADIES!” She yells, and Besra’s hands fall to her side. “Please! Maintain yourselves … goodness.” She instructs, smoothing her skirts. “Prepare for breakfast, promptly. I will explain the process after you can conduct yourselves with decorum.” She tells them, turning on a heel before gliding through the double doors. With her exit, a murmur of excitement falls over the group and the girls become like a hive of bees: circling about each other, trading shoes and ribbons and knick knacks. Some help braid while others help with powdering. In looking around her, Besra realizes a fault of her own. She’d made no attempt at friendship here yet and that might cost her.
A girl beside her fiddles with her necklace and with a smile, Besra leans across her bed, fingers extended to help grasp the clasp. “Here, let me help you.” She offers, but the other girl leans away quickly from her hands. “Don’t touch me!” The girl shrieks, turning around to pin her down with a cold, honey golden stare. She looks over Besra with petulance, mouth turning down at the edges. “I know you,” She snivels, a smirk evident in the corners of her eyes, “You’re the peasant girl that sells pastries.” Besra’s blood is pounding in her ears and she can feel her cheeks beginning to flame. The other girl stands, dark locks tumbling about her shoulders as she stares down at her. “You’re pretty. In a common sort of way. But you won’t last long here. My father is a bookkeeper for the King, I’ve been brought up around the palace. I’ve already got a foot in the doorway.” She hisses, walking slowly around the foot of her bed to meet Besra face to face.
“You’re a lucky one. But that’ll run out soon enough. People like you don’t belong in places like this.” She warns, letting the words sink in. Besra’s blue eyes harden, face tilting up to meet her enemies stare. “People like me feed people like you.” Besra tells her, the statement dropping from her lips like stones. “Be careful the next time you pick up a pastry. You might not find the taste so sweet.” She warns, holding the girl’s stare for a breath of time. Quietly, she brushes past her, leaning over her trunk to open the case and retrieve a simple, grey gown. It was true; what the girl has said. A girl like her, with so little in possessions and knowledge, was incredibly lucky to be here among them. But she refused to believe something as paltry as pretty fabric and tasteless jewelry would be enough to fool the heir into marrying you. With a huff, she blows back a tendril of pale hair, gathers her things and readies for breakfast.
By the time she’s placed a fair, white hat on her pinned-up hair, the other girls have begun to file out of the massive double doors, heels clicking against marble as they descend the main staircase to the banquet hall. Breakfast is an incredible display, like nothing she’s ever experienced before. But the rich food and the dark haired girl’s words sit heavily on her tongue. Too quickly does her stomach fill, and she finds the food lacks some of the luster it previously held. It’s only as she stabs idly at a bread roll that the mood begins to change. The uptight madame rises from her seat at the head of the servants table, butterknife glancing blows at her clear glass to catch all of their attention. Besra’s head jerks suddenly to the front of the room where the elderly matron’s eyes meet hers. “Beginning in alphabetical order is miss Besra.” She calls, and the collective groan from the various letters who’s digit was more than ten rose around her. Besra’s hands shake, but her body isn’t long in rising from her seat. With a nod to the lady another servant leaves her position at the table, coming ‘round to escort her on her way.
When they arrive in the private chambers, Besra doesn’t have any more time to be nervous. Various other chambermaids have come to help move along the progress: from helping her out of her meager gown, into a soothing bath, and washing her unkempt hair. The only moment she does have to close her eyes is when she’s sunken beneath the water, but even that doesn’t last when she hears the door opening. “Besra.” The voice calls, and the girl in question opens her eyes to the see the madame. “In a gracious manner, the Heir has decided to let his prospective brides choose their style of an outing. In order to prepare fully for his companion’s choice, his grace has requested to know what yours will be.” The woman concludes, hands grasping together with affirmed authority. Besra sits up, hair gliding into the water as she turns about to face the madame. “I was never told that I’d have to choose!” She exclaims, disbelief clouding her face. “I have nothing in mind, m’lady.” Besra pleads.
“His grace will be very disappointed to hear this.” The madame chides, hard eyes looking down over her prominent nose before she turns as if to leave. Besra understands suddenly why her people had begun to resent the higher class. It was a setup, surely. A planned failure in hopes to thin the herd. “A hunt!” Besra declares, palm slapping against the marble tile. The madame turns, confusion twisting her otherwise expressionless face. “Tell the heir I’d like to go on a hunt with him. Around the castle grounds.” She declares, challenging the grey-haired woman to deny her. Unabashed, the madame sniffs, turning once more to exit and mutter under her breath.
A soft-spoken girl she may be, but a weak woman, she was not. Besra would defy the odds. They could play their petty games and try to restrain her, but she would never roll over so easily. The bath ends and they help her into a riding gown: navy blue cotton with black detail, complete with a matching jacket, a soft, pale white silken undershirt, and matching ebony brooch and buttons. Her riding gloves are ermine, colorless as milk with navy blue stitching. Her hair, golden as thread woven by rumpelstiltskin himself, was bunched prettily beneath a sapphire hat, ringlets tumbling free over cheeks that blushed like eden roses. Besra doubts she has ever been so lovely in her life. She fidgets with the tool nervously, nodding once at her reflection before turning around to face the servants. “You all work magic.” Collectively, they laugh, the moment ending sharply with a rap upon the door.
A man in hunting reds stands behind it, waiting with an unsure smile and a fist firmly clenching the lapels of his deep, v-necked coat. “My lady.” He bows, the action stiff and rehearsed. When he rises, Besra can think of nothing to say. It … cannot be. But it is. The Heir apparent stands before her - much more a man than she could have hoped to guess. When last she saw him (a painted rendition in the town hall) he was as young as she had been - nothing more than a healthy child. Every time she returned to that same place though, he’d stayed the same age and she’d grown. No wonder he looked so … different. His hair was the same, thicker perhaps but still a shining bronze. Those cheeks once flushed had now grown sharp, square, shaded by the hint of stubble. His eyes, however, seemed eerily the same. Gazing down at her with molten appreciation. Besra realizes that she may have seen his face a hundred times, but this is his first time seeing hers.
She smiles with that knowledge and visibly he exhales, extending a hand that she eagerly takes. In the hallway, he chuckles. “I’m not going to lie. I’m a bit nervous.” He tells her. Besra grins, winding a hand through his arm to grip the bicep of his jacket. “If you think you’re nervous, imagine what it’s like to be the first on the list.” She tells him, head tilting as she shrugs her shoulders. He gazes sideways at her, smirk lighting on the corners of his mouth. “Probably better than being nearly in the middle, or nearly at the end.” He jokes, leading them out into the back courtyard. “Afraid you’ll forget someone, or that they’ll all blend together?” Besra accuses him, a single brow quirking as he comes to a halt. The Heir gazes down at her, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“Not at all.” He says, taking the reins of a grey horse from a waiting servant to hand them to Besra. “I’m afraid of the monotony. That each one will sing some pretty song about me and honestly take me for a weak-minded, lustful fool.” With a gentle exchange, Besra takes hold of her mount, watching him loosen in stride as he gathers his own horse and rises fluidly into the saddle. She cannot say her ascent is graceful, it’s been some time since she’s ridden, but the servants help and she adjusts quickly, settling into the odd saddle seat and taking a firm grip on the reins. “It’s a good thing we’ve got two hours, your Grace.” Besra tells him, breaking into a fit of laughter as she trots her sooty mount in a circle around him.
“Why the hunt if you’ve got no skill at riding?” The prince wonders aloud, laughing briefly before leaning onto his horse’s withers. “And please, call me Francis.” Besra slows her old gelding, pats him gently on the neck and sighs, blue eyes watching him with a hint of remorse. “Truthfully, I was in a cinch for time. Thinking on it now I’ve always wanted to see the kennels, what kind of dogs you’re raising here. My father breeds the best hunting hounds you’ve ever seen, and I’m curious to know if yours compare.” She says, pale pink lips turning up into a mischievous smile. Francis can only shake his head, a rumbling laugh echoing from his chest at her conniving tease. “The dogs need an off day anyways. How about a trail ride and you can watch them work on the training grounds? He offers, sitting upright once more with a broad smile. “That sounds agreeable.” Besra says, “You give me tips on riding, and in exchange I’ll give you tips that might improve your dogs.”
Francis laughs at her boldness, urging his horse forward with a jolt to pass by Besra’s grey gelding and tap it lightly on the rump with his crop. The old horse plows ahead at a brisk trot, and Besra is thrown back into her seat with a wild grin.
By the end of the ride, the two of them are cantering with ease up the back hillock to the estate, a few dogs bounding at their heels. In the courtyard the madame waits, arms crossed in obvious displeasure as they draw to a halt together, cheeks flush from the activity and tilting chuckles. The dogs wind about and Francis dismounts, dropping the reins into an attendant's hand to come around and help Besra from her saddle. His hands are firm, authoritative without too much pressure. She likes the way he clings for maybe a second too long before turning back to the madame. “Sorry we’re a bit late, Ms. O’Brien.” He says, taking his gloves from his hands so that he might clasp them behind his back. All traces of disdain disappear from O’Brien’s face when he addresses her. “Your Grace, please, no excuse is necessary.” She tells him, curtseying low.
With a nod Francis turns his attention back to Besra, striding back to gather her hands in his own. “It’s really been … “ He begins, but he can’t seem to finish. The dogs gather around him, sensing the change in mood. Francis clears his throat and looks Besra in the eye, dark lips revealing his discomfort at the action of goodbyes. “Keep practising. Your leg needs work.” He tries, and Besra rolls her eyes away before swatting him playfully on the arm. “But please, make yourself at home here and in the kennel. The dogs seem to rather like you.” He finishes, smiling down at the pups whose tails wagged in response. Besra feels at a loss for words. The time had been so short, and seemed to pass so quickly. It hadn’t been terrifying in the least, almost relaxing in fact. “I’m glad I was first.” She tells him, pretty chin tilting up to give him full view of her face - that he might not forget it.
“As am I.” He whispers, releasing the grip on her hands as she breaks free of him, skirts brushing against his legs as she sweeps past, the dogs padding at her heels. Francis whistles for them, and Besra cranes her neck longingly over her shoulder to watch them bound back to their master. The copper prince waves and she smiles, breaking the contact to head up the walkway. The doors open wide for her and on her way in, another girl passes by: mounds of pink lace and a low neckline. Besra can only smile. She meets the others during lessons, gorging on the wealth of knowledge that the royal libraries held captive. Kingdom history, etiquette, duties of the court. It’s not long before night descends, and the girls gather for dinner. Over roast duck some bolder girls ask what he’s like. Is he handsome? Does he seem thick-skulled? What’s the color of his eyes? What did he smell like?
Besra answers them all, enjoying the frivolity of company and timid friendship. One girl strikes her in particular - a pixie-like creature with flaming red hair and bright, green eyes. “My father who’s friends with the cook’s apprentice says that the kennel master here sees more of the Heir than the King himself. Francis must love those dogs.” The wild-haired girl says, forking a potato into her mouth. No wonder the Prince had seemed so at ease with her the whole time … he probably enjoyed the hounds more than Besra. She smiles, happy that she’s not made a total fool of herself but more than glad to think that she’s begun to see not everyone is at each other’s throats.
The next day, during lessons, the red-haired girl takes a seat next to Besra. “Reading gives me headaches.” She tells her, leaning back into the stiff, red cushions. “I don’t see how you sit over here the whole time so quiet and studious.” Besra raises her head, sideways smile pulling at her mouth. “Well I don’t see how you can possibly remember so many steps to so many dances.” She sighs, closing her current read to indulge in the flame-colored girl’s attention. The pointed, delicate face erupts in a grin. “My name is Miriam.” She says, leaning over the armrest in a very unladylike manner. “Besra” The bookworm replies. Miriam seems deep in thought for a moment, pondering on something before sparking up conversation again. “Besra, if you help me master the history of this ancient place, I can teach you all the popular dances.”
Besra doesn’t need to think it over. The two come to an agreement and spend the rest of the afternoon gliding around a spare, empty room in the castle. One girl memorizing steps while another recited foreign dignitaries. Besra’s careful not to trust Miriam so fully, but she’s not willing to lose out at the opportunity to shine rather than look incompetent. If their arrangement worked for now, so be it. Miriam, on the whole, seemed a headstrong sort of girl. She was determined to not seem so air-headed as the other girls, so in a strange way the two made fast friends. Night falls once more across Illea and with well-earned exhaustion Besra and Miriam take supper with the other girls, enjoying the quiet moment before the inevitable.
Another clinking of metal on glass, and a hush of anxiety falls over the room. Ms. O’Brien is standing, lips drawn in a thin line. “As you all know, now is the time for us to bid farewell to some of ladies you’ve come to know. Please, join me in the main entrance so that we may announce those departing.” As if orchestrating a great concert, she raises both hands, the entire assembly (Besra included) rising with the motion. In reverent silence the girls sweep out of the banquet hall and down the twin staircases, congregating together once more like doves in a roost at the front most area of the castle.
Besra, heart thudding eagerly against her chest, waits with clenched fists.