Chapter Text
Ortus scribbled something into his flimsy with a level of passion Harrow had never seen in him before. She had the sinking suspicion that in book nineteen of the Noniad, Matthias Nonius would somehow find himself in a ballroom. Harrow’s already thin patience was wearing thinner as she watched Ortus.
"Would you not consider paying attention to something other than your wretched poetry for once?" She hissed.
He didn't even bother looking up. Captain Aiglamene, standing next to Harrow, rolled her eyes, tired of them both. The aloof effect was somewhat lessened by the fact she was holding a small plate of canapes and snacking on them when she thought Harrow was not looking.
"I am paying attention," Ortus replied impassively, his dark, sad eyes still locked on the flimsy. "For instance, I found it particularly interesting how the Captain of the Second House consoled the Third's princess over her cavalier's untimely demise."
Harrow grunted, acknowledging the piece of gossip with some interest. She had only heard of the Third House’s recent good fortune, but what were these events for if not gathering information? The Third House’s recent great fortune manifested itself in the form of their less lovely princess. As she was the first new Lyctor in ten thousand years, her name was on everyone’s lips. Harrow had never spoken to Ianthe the First, but she already hated her.
The ballroom was a terrible jumble of strange music and feigned pleasantries from nobles vying for an absent emperor's favour. At the far end of the gleaming white room sat Her Highness Prince Kiriona Gaia. Harrow used Ortus’ considerable bulk as a cover to take a discreet look at the Prince. She slouched on a throne-like chair and looked decidedly bored. Her blazing red hair contrasted weirdly with her white dress uniform, but Harrow had to admit she was not an unfortunate looking woman. Her strong build suggested that the cohort medals pinned on her lapel were not awarded simply for her parentage.
Behind the Prince stood Ianthe the First, whispering into the prince's ear like a pale shadow. Kiriona tilted her head back to listen to her. Suddenly Ianthe’s blue eyes locked with Harrow’s, and her thin lips curled into a sarcastic smile. She said something to the Prince, who also turned to look at Harrow. Kiriona raised her eyebrows at her. Too late Harrow noticed Ortus had moved from his post, leaving her exposed. Despite his size, Ortus was such a permanent fixture in Harrow’s life she rarely registered his presence or absence. Rudely, Harrow turned her back toward the Prince. She was at least not the only one acting like a chicken, no suitor possessed the audacity to approach the Prince. The rumour had that the real reason for this gathering was that Her Highness was scouting for a bride. As a result, plenty of beautiful, ambitious women circled her like moths, yet kept a respectful distance.
“Perhaps some socialising would be in order, my Lady,” Aiglamene suggested curtly, “this is a party."
As much as she loathed that suggestion, Harrow couldn’t really argue with it. She had not spoken to anyone, and her house’s grim reputation had discouraged people from approaching her. Harrow's eyes roamed the ballroom, searching for the Sixth House. She could picture herself being able to hold a conversation with the grey-clad scholars better than she could with anyone else in this horrible event. Harrow had last seen the Master Warden and his cavalier by the drinks counter, but they had vanished since. Then she noticed someone else missing.
“Where is Ortus?” She asked.
Aiglamene shrugged and then passed her now empty plate to a skeleton servant. It was a wonderful construct, as were all the skeleton servants in the House of the First. Harrow had a strong desire to take apart one and study it, but unfortunately now was not the time for such pursuits.
They didn’t have to search long for Ortus; he was easy to spot. Ortus was engaged in a conversation with a couple dressed in impeccable attire. The clothes told Harrow these were people from the Fifth, and the rapier sheathed at his side marked the man as a cavalier. With these clues Harrow was able to identify Lady Abigail Pent, who was politely smiling at Harrow’s cavalier. The Fifth cavalier spotted Harrow approaching and turned to Ortus.
“Ninth, it seems like your Lady has come to collect you,” he said.
“May I present the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus,” Ortus said with a perfectly sombre voice.
Harrow felt heat rising under her face paint. She hated the attention, and Ortus had the rare talent of making everything, including Harrow’s own name, sound embarrassing. She curtsied briefly to the Fifth.
“I am delighted to meet you,” Lady Pent said with a kindly voice, “I am Abigail Pent, and this is my husband, Magnus Quinn.”
Magnus, the very picture of politeness, bowed deeply at Harrow, but she was too surprised by the idea of a necromancer marrying their cavalier to reply.
"I've heard much about the Ninth House," Magnus said in a jovial tone which might have indicated it was a joke, but Harrow did not have enough experience with jokes to be sure.
"Mostly exaggerated things, I assure you," she replied.
Magnus laughed like Harrow had said something clever. Ortus introduced Captain Aiglamene, and even more awkward pleasantries were exchanged. Harrow discovered that the reason Ortus had been bothering Magnus and Abigail was that they had spotted Ortus writing and asked him about it. For some insane reason, he had actually shown them some drafts of his new work. The Fifth found this all very delightful, Harrow found it mortifying.
With the social skills that no one on the Ninth was blessed with, Pent and Quinn picked up on Harrow’s reluctance to discuss poetry and steered the conversation to other topics. Lady Pent was much more interested in the physicality of the First House and its architecture than she was in the Prince. The discussion about the significance of the skeleton servant’s attire was interrupted by two teens approaching them. Both of them wore cohort uniforms adorned with medals.
“Isaac, Jeannemary,” Abigail smiled at them, “wonderful to see you both.”
The Fourth did not possess the tact of the Fifth, so subsequent introductions were awkward. Harrow decided that this surely was enough socialising. She started to plan her escape, but it was stopped by Magnus. With a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, Magnus leaned toward Harrow, and she had to fight the urge to flinch away. She was already feeling shabby in the ancient finery of her house, and the closeness of the impeccably dressed cavalier primary of the Fifth House made it worse.
"You see," he started, "Isaac and Jeannemary are quite smitten with the Prince. It's all very sweet.”
"Is that so?" Harrow replied, her tone flat.
“Why, if Jeannemary here were but a few years older, I daresay she'd be out there fighting for the Prince’s affections.”
“No, Magnus, don’t say that,” Jeannemary almost yelled.
“And don’t use the word smitten either,” her necromancer supplied, similarly panicked.
Magnus let out a good-natured chuckle as both teens elbowed him in the ribs. Abigail laughed, Harrow found this whole scene horrible.
“Don’t listen to Magnus. He is stupid,” Jeannemary frantically told Harrow.
“Yes,” Isaac agreed. “We just know her, that’s all. I mean, we knew her in the cohort, before it was discovered she was the Prince.”
Prince Kiriona Gaia had lived almost eighteen years of her life without anyone, including herself, knowing who her father was. Harrow supposed it made sense, considering her military background, that she’d have friends from the cohort. Even annoying and young friends, such as these. The Prince had one more friend Harrow found annoying on principle. She glanced toward the Prince’s chair, and surely enough, behind it still stood Ianthe the First, looking pale and sardonic. The Lyctor served as a bitter reminder of Harrow’s own attempt to ascend to such esteemed ranks, only to falter under Mercymorn the First's scrutinising gaze.
Harrow was glad Ianthe was the only Lyctor in attendance, as she was not sure she was ready to meet Saint of Joy again anytime soon. Or ever. Harrow was still not quite sure how she had failed to impress Mercymorn when she visited her in Drearburh to evaluate her for Lyctorhood, but it stung all the same. Her stomach knotted at the memory. It was all a game, one she had played and lost. Now, she was relegated to trying to shamefully beg for the emperor’s favour like everyone else. Her love for her dwindling house was stronger than her pride, but just a bit. A quick but subtle jab to her side from her captain got her attention.
"Stand tall," Aiglamene whispered.
Harrow straightened her spine with the help of a necromantic boost to the bone corset she wore over her dress. She hoped it looked more like a statement piece than a medical necessity. She had used the most beautiful bones for it. Harrow turned to see Prince Kiriona Gaia, in all her holy glory, sauntering toward them. She had the ease of someone who owned the place, which she kind of did. Magnus and Abigail bowed down at her, and so did Harrow and her entourage. Kiriona looked past all of them to the teens in crispy cohort uniforms.
“Tettares, Chautur,” Kiriona said like the names were a greeting.
Isaac and Jeannemary snapped to attention, saluting her. Kiriona returned a sloppy and slow version of the gesture, though she seemed genuinely happy to see them.
“It’s been a while. I’m surprised yet glad to see neither of you has managed to get blown up yet,” She said.
The teens found this comment rude and were not afraid to complain loudly about it. Kiriona just laughed. In the Prince’s company, Harrow felt ill-prepared and out of place. She was going to take the coward's way out and started to discreetly back down. This was a mistake. The Prince’s strange yellow eyes locked up on her.
"And what do we have here?" She asked.
Harrow dipped into a curtsy as low as her rigid dress permitted. It felt strange, as she was used to being the object of reverence, not the one giving it. Aiglamene and Ortus bowed deep as well. Harrow could feel the weight of the room's collective gaze on her.
"Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, at your service, Your Highness,” she said, quite pleased with how steady her voice was.
“A pleasure,” Kiriona said, but her lips twitched into a funny smirk.
Harrow bristled. She had envisioned that if she were to actually be so lucky to encounter the Prince, the meeting would be much more formal. Harrow was not one for a spontaneous chat in front of strangers. She longed for the comforting embrace of shadows, away from the prying eyes and the brightness of the ballroom.
“This ball is lovely,” she said in a valiant yet terrible attempt at small talk.
“You think so?” Kiriona asked, her tone a bit sarcastic, yet not unkind.
“Of course,” Harrow replied.
“Hm,” The Prince said.
The conversation was not going anywhere, and everyone knew it. The Fifth House came to Harrow’s rescue and took the reins of the conversation. They were infuriatingly good at it. With apparent ease, Magnus Quinn facilitated a conversation in which he, his lady wife, the Prince of nine houses, two Cohort teenagers, and Reverend Daughter of the Ninth and her entourage all had something to say. It was not a particularly interesting conversation, but it was a conversation.
Magnus continued to speak despite the loud music, but Harrow had no idea of what he was talking about. She had lost the plot of the conversation several minutes ago and just focused on making the correct facial expressions. She hoped the skull paint camouflaged her imperfect attempts. Everyone else seemed to have a good time. Magnus’ wife kept smiling politely, and the teenagers occasionally begged him to stop talking. Ortus had dug up the flimsy from his pocket again and was scribbling down some dreadful new verse. To Harrow's surprise, she noticed that Prince Kiriona was not watching Magnus, she was looking at Harrow. There was something like amusement or perhaps mischief in her bright eyes.
“Yes?” Harrow asked.
"Care for a dance, Nonagesimus?" Kiriona asked.
Harrow blinked in disbelief. She had two left feet on a good day, and today was far from a good day. She was about to politely refuse, when she got the feeling that that was what Prince Kiriona wanted her to do. Defiance overcame her fear.
"Of course," Harrow said, boldly offering her gloved hand to the Prince.
The Prince offered her a surprised little smile in return. It seemed more genuine than any expression Harrow had seen on her face so far. It suited her. She took Harrow’s hand (the teens shrieked behind Magnus and Abigail) and led her to the dance floor. They began to move in a disjointed attempt at a simple waltz. For all her sporty demeanour and military background, Kiriona was surprisingly graceless when it came to dancing. The Prince took a leading role in their dance because she was a head and shoulders taller than Harrow and, because she indeed was, a Prince.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Kiriona muttered the second time she stepped on Harrow’s toes.
“It is quite alright," Harrow politely lied.
The skeleton construct band in the corner of the ballroom was even more advanced than the other servants. Harrow’s panic about being this close to the Prince took a break to let her admire them. The song they played was beautiful yet too loud for Harrow’s Ninth House sensibilities. Her and Kiriona’s dance was anything but beautiful. They stumbled through the waltz together, and Harrow could feel everyone’s eyes on them.
When the music finally mercifully ended, Harrow nearly sagged with relief. She was ready to get out of the spotlight and into the safety of hiding behind Ortus. The Prince kept holding onto her hand. Her grip was firm, and Harrow knew that she would not be able to escape without making her bone jewellery explode, so she did not fight.
Kiriona led Harrow back to her Cavalier Primary, and her captain, who both failed spectacularly at seeming casual after witnessing their Lady on the dance floor. The Fourth House teens looked at Harrow and Kiriona in similar horror, but the Fifth just smiled jovially. Harrow was so relieved to be returned to somewhat familiar territory, but now that the music had momentarily paused, a low murmur filled the room. Harrow could not hear what exactly was said, but she knew it was about her.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady Nonagesimus. This was great," Kiriona said loud enough that everyone could hear.
"Your Highness is too kind," Harrow replied mechanically.
Then, the Prince did something terrible.
She did not let go of Harrow’s carefully gloved hand. Instead, she slowly and carefully lifted the hand and kissed the back of it.