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She was his ward and charge - Harrowhark of the Ninth House of His Royal Highness, orphaned by design instead of joined at their tomb -, but her lord, king John Gaius, seemed to not care. In fact, to her eyes, he seemed to enjoy having a baked-in best friend, forced by the crown into the role of guardian.
Which would be disgraceful, weren’t John the king of their country, a princely being with a mind for burgeoning sciences and spirituality alike. Again, very prestigious, very good for Harrowhark, who surely was to rise from her station of descendant from overly religious folk from some countryside hovel on the edge of the empire, a House left to colonize some new region and then promptly abandoned by previous reigns. What was for her to complain? They’d given her one of the best places to grow and thrive, with the monarch himself. Her parents’ suicide had been a blessing, in a way, as much of a tragedy as it was.
It’d help, of course, if her lord was more serious about his place in life. She’d never understand why he took her in.
“You’re…” He snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember either her name or her age, and Harrowhark’s head snapped from the liturgy she was reading. “Your birthday was last week, Harrowhark. Which was it? Seventeen?”
“Eighteen, my lord. I am half your age, if it’ll help with the calculations.” He nodded, throwing himself against a chair. Harrowhark sometimes felt more like he was her ward than the contrary. How many times had she reminded him who were the dignitaries speaking to him? Poor lady Mercymorn had infinite patience to do so, and Harrowhark always commended her strength in dealing with him.
“Yes, yes, eighteen, an important age! We need to find you a husband.” A pause, as if considering her. “Or a wife?”
Her distaste at the prospect of a man in her life (other than her lord, which was already enough) was immediately expressed upon her face, and he gave her an apologetic look.
“Wife, wife, okay. Ball? Fun night with aperitifs?” His tone was hopeful. Harrowhark knew awful things were to come from his hope.
Harrowhark would always adore him for saving her from a disgraced life as a poor scion of a failure of a family, raising her station into almost a princess - or, at least, into a prospective heiress to the throne. Unfortunately, growing up with him had its ways of doing away with fervency. She still remembered her first birthday within his care - the one with a seance that ended up with half the manor on fire.
No, thank you. That had been enough parties for a lifetime, and the lady Mercymorn had forbidden them from doing so, an indignity Harrowhark still bore but that her lord had clearly forgotten.
“Absolutely not.” He visibly deflated. Harrowhark decided to be polite about it, at least. “Perhaps another year, my lord.”
He decided to have a ball anyway. Who could stop a king, after all? Certainly not poor, overworked lady Mercymorn.
Harrowhark did not groan when she heard the news over dinner, a few hours after their original conversation - it was an honor to be offered a coming of age ball by the king himself, especially when she was a mere ward -, but her patience did thin a little, although she’d never admit.
At least he let her wear a suit: lovely tailoring in black, dark gray, and bone-white, three pieces and a cane with a skull to accompany, a top hat to decorate her head.
Her lord may be somewhat of a moron at times, but at least he knew she’d rather join her parents in a cold grave than wear a dress. He didn’t mind her preference for masculine clothing - in fact, when a few society ladies had commented about it and he caught wind of the gossip, he made a statement that as long as he was king, anyone might dress however their heart desired.
When he first saw her in it, on the night of the ball, tailors still working on her, he grinned madly, a proud father of his daughter, who was currently the most eligible bachelor possible. The tailors hastily finished their work, bowed to him, and left; Harrowhark stood in front of a mirror with her guardian alone.
“It’s a masked ball!” He said, handing her a half-mask, shaped like a skull. Harrowhark was quick to set it upon her face, lacing it with practice. “I invited every interesting young lady, and also the not so interesting ones. And a few friends of mine.”
She took a deep breath.
“You invited your latest paramours.” She managed, releasing the air from her lungs, and her lord looked away.
“Well, it’s just Mercymorn and Augustine.”
Worse than previously thought.
“Please avoid getting caught again, my lord. Lady Mercymorn would hate for her visage to be seen in such a disgraceful manner once more in the papers.”
“I promise nothing.” He replied, and Harrowhark wished he’d marry instead of getting seen in compromising positions with his married friends. His hand found her shoulder, and she looked at him through the mirror. “You know, you’re like the daughter I never had.”
May God save the king’s very life and royal heritage, but also God forbid he had raised a kid from birth. Harrowhark had the luxury of being raised by a priest and his severe wife for nearly eleven years before being placed in his care, which granted her moral strength and a lack of taste for the sins of the world.
There was also a strangling sense of pride in being her lord’s daughter. He was the golden child of their proud nation, the light of every party, trendsetter and ruiner of trends, scientist and priest. To be worthy of being his daughter was a prize Harrowhark never thought herself able to have.
She voiced neither lines of thought, although his smile, too fox-like, knew of her struggle.
“Thank you, my lord, although I do not deserve the honor.” She decided, in the end, and her lord said nothing, only offering a tighter grip on her shoulder, as if it were comfort.
Harrowhark, ward, orphan, took it. She had nothing else to take.