Chapter Text
Though she was noble by the thin blood and namesakes that connected her to Dominic, Annette knew that she would always be in a precarious life situation.
At three and ten years old, she had been forced to leave her father’s house in the city of Fhirdiad. Her father, Gustave Dominic, had been a knight in service to the king, a position he had always upheld with piety, pride and reverence toward the king whom he’d pledged his life to. And in the winter of Imperial Year 1176, tragedy struck: a coup against the royals occurred in which Gustave, away with his family, failed to protect his majesty. Gustave, blinded by foolish chivalry, thus imposed an exile on himself, feeling unworthy of any and all benefits of honour, happiness or prosperity that he had been privileged to as a knight.
Gustave severed all connections to his wife and daughter, Annette who watched the repercussions of his decision with pain and resentment. Her mother, Agathe, turned into a shell of herself, and soon became unfit to manage the household in which they had lived. At the tender age of thirteen and with a tenacity that far exceeded those short years, Annette became the young lady of household, determined to make the house fit for her father’s return… Whenever that day would be.
Hope soon did wane, and the money Gustave left became not enough to sustain the once-handsome household. At this point, Annette’s uncle, Michel, intervened. On a cold winter’s day, with little warning, he arrived at the doorstep of the small house, and at the sight of him, Annette hurried to make herself presentable.
Michel, a tall, broad man of five and forty years, already had a son—an heir—to take over his house and the duties associated with ruling Dominic. But this heir—Simon—lacked several crucial things: tenacity, ability, interest and a Crest to prove his ruling power. Now, dear reader, if you have followed this author’s stories of a country girl and the count who she enchants, or the fable of an impressionable mind in the delicate art of persuasion, you will have little some knowledge of Crests or in the social season. The latter will be explained shortly, the prior will be explained directly: Crests—in Faerghus at least—carried a much heftier weight than in Leicester or Adrestia. Here, they dictated the lines of succession, most of the time bypassing those children who did not carry them.
For example, Annette’s father, Gustave, the older and did not carry a crest, but her uncle, Michel, did (and the younger)—thus the peerage of Dominic went to Michel. It is all very skewed, but such is the way of the world.
Annette welcomed her uncle to the family home. Her mother, having been hysterical that morning, had cried herself to sleep and was peaceful for the duration of Michel’s visit. Her moods came in two varieties: crying, hysterical for Gustave to return, or numb and blank faced. The moods turned more towards numbness as the years wore on, though Annette did not have a preference to either.
“Where is Lady Dominic?” Asked Michel. His voice was deep and struck fear into Annette’s heart. He was a strict man, as her cousin, Simon warned her in his letters and at every chance when they saw each other.
She blinked rapidly as he spoke and answered, in a tiny voice, “Upstairs, sir.”
“Is she well?”
Annette, for fear of her mother’s wellbeing, had hid her delusions. “She is fine.” Then quickly, taking a lesson from all the etiquette novels she’d read, asked, “S-Shall I call for refreshment?”
“Indeed.” Said Michel.
Annette led them to the drawing room, which had been lately cleaned by herself. She stood and began towards the door. Michel’s voice followed a moment later: “Where are you going, Niece?”
“For the tea.” Annette answered quickly. “Our maid, Mary, is a little slow.”
“Annette,” said her uncle in a cautious tone, “are you the lady of the house?”
Solemnly, and with hesitance, Annette nodded; with great rapidity, she made herself chipper and agreeable. “I like it. It takes some stress of Mamma. And I think the house is in order.”
In that quick moment, Annette’s fate was sealed. Seeing her ability to keep house, manage her emotions and remain positive amidst certain disappointment, Michel decided that she would become his aide, if not his heir. While she was slightly scatter-brained and very obviously overworked, she had potential to be a great asset. And, of course, it would be in her best interest. Annette, carrier of the Crest of Dominic, would be seen as a desirable wife to any man searching, if only for that Crest. In that tiny moment, her Uncle Michel decided that it would be best if she were trained in management of a household and offered protection by himself.
The courtesy, of course, would be extended to Simon, his true heir, but Annette’s positive qualities and spirit far surpassed Simon;s. Happy was the circumstance for Baron Michel Dominic, in gaining a most amiable, kindhearted and able lady to aid him in his duties..
Annette, however, could not accept the plan without a heavy heart. Her mother, only related to the Dominics by marriage, was not welcomed at House Dominic’s private estate, Summerhill. Baron Dominic persuaded Lady Dominic that Annette would receive the best education, the finest upbringing for a lady of her name and would even receive an inheritance from her Uncle upon her marriage. Such an offer was too lucrative and tempting to decline, and after a short, convincing persuasion insistence that Agathe would be happiest to see Annette thrive, Annette accepted. Her tenacity was further propelled with—the most surprising to Baron Dominic—her argument that she would be more comfortable and amiable if her dear mother could keep a small house in the village of Lupita, just outside Dominic’s largest city, by his grace and kindness of course, and allow Annette a short visit every season. Michel found he could not refuse his niece, and thus, agreed to her terms.
Annette’s first viewing of Summerhill was filled with awe and excitement. She had read many stories of hallowed manors and cursed mansion houses, but she had never seen one. Her upbringing, in a modest house in the outskirts of Fhirdiad was filled with light and life, not gloom and decrepitude. After being shown the whole house, Annette was allowed to explore. She wandered the halls, waiting for horrifying monsters to creep out, or a skeleton to appear from behind a black veil kept in an armoire. Instead, the worst Annette found were washing bills for stockings cashed many months before, or false shadows from the outdoors.
Still, this one instance would not quash her excitable nature: for her persistence in finding the good was inextinguishable, unable to be destroyed, as long as she rallied… And rallied she would.
She, as Michel desired, was raised into the model lady: upright, gay, beautiful, and primed to take his place as the leader of Dominic. His son, Simon, paid little care or attention to the matter, instead idling his days away as a wannabe minstrel, strumming his lyre and singing poorly for his drinks… and hurrying back to Summerhill whenever his pockets were empty.
Conversely, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, understood that he would always be in the state of assuredness; assured that he would be well-taken care of, assured that—even as a second son—he would be distinguished as Duke Fraldarius’s son with wealth and abilities and talents… From the moment he drew his first breath, Felix’s entire life was sketched out, measured properly and dressed to perfection for him to take hold of.
His life had been planned from infancy. As a second son, he would not inherit the peerage of Fraldarius and Fleur De Lys Park but instead become a knight, or a lawyer, perhaps a clergyman or a physician—some sort of distinguishment would alight in his britches and crown him as yet another of the famed children of Fraldarius. His older brother, Glenn, would be the heir apparent and lead the Fraldarius family, marrying Ingrid Galatea and joining the lands of Fraldarius and Galatea in matrimony with a prosperous marriage contract. Felix’s only luxury would be allowed in the selection of his own career… Or opting to benefit from Fraldarius’s riches as long as he pleased.
At three and ten, Felix was assured of this fate… Until the carefully-threaded future unwound right before his eyes. In the same tragedy that exiled Miss Dominic’s father, the Honourable Mr Fraldarius’s brother, Glenn, was claimed by it.
His body had been returned home to Fleur de Lys Park, in the heart of Fraldarius, and in accordance with ancient laws of the land, vigil was kept. Felix, who loved his brother most deeply did not part from his brother’s side for a minute. As traditions demanded, Glenn’s room had been cloaked in black, the glaring light of the snow outside all but shut out and a few candles, which Felix periodically rose to tend to as they flickered out.
At last, Rodrigue entered. He had left to attend to business but promised to return to be with them both. After a few long moments of silence, in which Felix kept watch with a small dagger that Glenn had given him as boy, clenched in his hand, Rodrigue began:
“Felix. My son.” His voice was broken and raw. He fell silent shortly after speaking his name.
Rodrigue reached out and setting his hand upon his son’s shoulder, he composed himself, schooled his emotions and said: “He is gone. We cannot change that. No force, heavenly or human may undo what has been done.” Duke Fraldarius said. “But we can take comfort that Glenn died like a true knight.”
Felix stared at the floor and felt the world dissolve around him. His brother died like a knight, like all the other knights that perished in skirmishes around Fleur de Lys or at the borders of Faerghus. All meaningless, all so empty. His beloved brother, who Felix, in that moment was trying to grapple with the understanding that all Glenn’s memories would end in his final moments at Duscur, only understood that Glenn died.
Without another word, Felix quitted his vigil for Glenn. He attended the funeral, though remembered little of it, and passed with a cold numbness through the following weeks.
Quickly, Felix found himself the heir to Fraldarius. All legal documents, wills and deeds and every intention made for the elder were changed from Glenn Govan Fraldarius to Felix Hugo Fraldarius. At the inking of these papers and the whispers around the ton that Felix was now the proper heir to Fraldarius, his education began in earnest: how to honour the king properly, managing the Park, estates and taxes and the manners… The manners and conduct lessons never ended no matter how many oaths or curses he hurled at his tutors. When one was offended, another showed up, and the lines of changing faces all to educate him became never ending.
In mourning his brother, and a twisted testament to his memory, Felix was observed to lose the mild, easy manners in favour of a sharp tongue, coarse charcter and a dedication to his sword. He devoted himself to mastering the blade, forsook Fraldarius as much as he could and bitterly fought against his father.
He, now the heir, would one day accept the rule of Fleur de Lys Park, take up the mantle of Duke Fraldarius… Or, as Felix would always entertain, abandoning his title and throwing all caution—and rationality—to the wind.
In Imperial Year 1180, our hero and heroine were destined to meet. For Annette, this would be for her coming out ball—quickly decided by Baron Dominic to befit her proper education, recently completed in Fhirdiad, and prove her a proper gentlewoman by birth and merits. For Felix, this was a consequence of training too deeply in the Oghma Mountains, a penance to be paid for fleeing Fleur de Lys Park on horseback and tracked to Dominic territory, between Magdred way and the Demesne of Gaspard.
Both our hero and heroine, at the impressionable ages of seventeen, were believed to be for great things: for Annette, the charming aid to distract from Simon’s… Well, being Simon… And for Felix, finally been seen in public as Duke Fraldarius’s heir. At this point, both hero and heroine were distinguished: Felix, a great swordsman and renowned as one of the richest men in all of Faerghus, and Annette, a bright mind, well-read and extremely beautiful in her looks and figure.
As natural as breathing, it was destiny for Felix and Annette to meet. What was not natural, was for them to meet and like each other.
Summerhill Manor, in all the glow and splendour of the seventeenth birthday of its lady apparent, Miss Annette Fantine Dominic, was alive in gaiety and brightness. All those in the neighbourhood had been invited, the honourable young Ashe Ubert was in lively spirits and had a dance for Miss Dominic, as did Margrave Gautier’s flirtatious son, and of course, the prince and his beloved vassal. Even visitors outside the Kingdom made an appearance for Miss Dominic’s birthday. With all the lively company and high spirits, all believed Annette to not have a wish in the world.
Yet she so selfishly did. Her only wish, on this chilly Harpstring Moon night, was the same it had been for the last six years: that her father would return from wherever he went and make their house a home again.
But such was futile wishing… No, Annette, now almost a woman, would be rational and sensible, just as her education had prevailed upon her to be. It was she who remained composed, or as best she could, when assisting her uncle in the upkeep and management of the territory or mastering a spell. She would be a rational creature.
Now, unlike the Alliance and Empire, those within the Kingdom had come to rely on black magic for its practical uses, namely fire spells. Knowing the the movements and chants could keep one from certain death in a frigid winter.
Michel quickly noticed Annette’s talents with these basic spells, self-taught using only tools from his personal library, and thus sent her away. During her time practicing at the Royal School of Sorcery, Annette had become so entranced by magic, so consumed that unconsciously moved like she was casting when she walked.
Even glum as she was, she still did it: her feet moved delicately of their own vocation and her mind was quickly consumed with thoughts of happier circumstances. And though it was her Annette, she remained engaged in the management of Summerhill, with a smile for every guest and a thank you for every servant.
Annette looked very fine, with her fringe curled delicately and her ginger hair secured in a topknot. Her finest dress, an elegant blue gown with long opera gloves, made her the sight to be seen that night.
Summerhill was dressed in all the sightly glow of a house well-kept: the candles all alit, the ballroom flush with young beautiful people who could be coaxed from their homes amid the permafrost and cool spring temperatures. Fine was the night, heavenly were the musicians, and Annette, tender-hearted towards her childish wish, felt all the necessity of seeming like herself
Her uncle and cousin—who of course had returned for the opportunity to sing and play, though his father had begged him to not—greeted everyone, with Annette, politely bowing and bidding everyone a good evening, at their side.
“Nervous?” Asked Simon teasingly. He rested her hand upon his arm and Annette was surprised that he remembered the basics of decorum and manners.
“A little.” Annette whispered back as a family with their two eligible daughters passed by after greeting them.
“Don’t worry, Annie. You’ll be fine. You’re meant for this stuff.”
Annette frowned. “You’re the one meant for this stuff, by birth and age, Si.”
“No, I’m meant for the stage.” Simon replied.
Annette sighed, remembering that her cousin had only returned to be the master of ceremonies, controlling the musicians, introducing people and making the party all the more joyous. Simon was looking indeed handsome that night, with his fingers manly features well-kept. His long, dark ginger hair was braided down his neck, tied with a blue ribbon, and his clothes—stockings and britches—were all starched and ironed in the proper fashion. Had not Simon been so flaky, Annette might have been proud of him.
“Though, if you asked nicely, I might just save a dance for you.” He said in a singsong voice.
Annette frowned again. “According to the ladies guide to etiquette, it is improper for relatives to dance so often.”
“Brothers and sisters,” Simon said. “Nothing about cousins. Besides, this is your ball, Annie. Whatever you wish shall occur.”
Before Annette could argue back, a new slew of guests arrived. They greeted them as proper conduct dictated, with all the correct smiles and curtseys and bows and waves. In between groups, Annette asked, “Did you write to him?”
Simon’s expression turned grave as a couple made their greetings and proceeded to the ballroom.. “Annie…”
“I tried. I sent him three, all to different addresses, but none came back.” She said in a wounded tone.
“Come.” Said Simon with renewed vigour. “You shall dance the first with me, Miss Dominic.”
Annette, conceding—though with a smile upon her face—to her cousin’s wish and took the first dance with him. They jaunted in all the gaiety, all the laughing ardour of happy cousins and both felt that it was too soon over. Following their dance, Simon was called by eligible ladies to be introduced to the very handsome Margrave Gautier’s son, and soon Annette was prevailed upon to make herself agreeable and amiable and all things that a young lady of marrying age ought be.
Felix, and his father, arrived to Summerhill late. Their horses had not thrown shoes, their carriage not attacked in the night, nor did they have any other horror befall them. No, instead they were late to due to a usual cold argument between the two: Felix said he would not go, Rodrigue prevailed upon him to, and once the yelling match ended—with the poor staff all quietly remarking to each other that they had headaches, the father and son Fraldarius packed up into their carriage and began the travel from their inn in the heart of Dominic to Summerhill Manor.
No one greeted them, though when they arrived the crowds parted in surprise: the esteemed and rich Duke Fraldarius had arrived with his eligible and caustic son, rarely seen outside the Duchy of Fraldarius… This was a cause for awe.
Felix, dressed improperly for a ball with riding boots and long trousers—which was a point of contention between him and his father—felt the eyes of every eligible person upon him. He abhorred the feeling of eyes on his back, his hands and heart, and once he had given his curt greetings to Baron Dominic—who had been surprised to see him and remarked that he had grown since they’d last seen each other—promptly slipped from his father’s sight.
Felix had only been to Summerhill once as a young boy. He had few reasons to leave Fraldarius and even fewer to visit Dominic territory, a place known for little else than being the divider between Magdred Way’s mountain pass and the Demesne of Gaspard. If he thought hard, he could bring up few reasons one would want to visit Dominic out of the other regions: Gautier bordered the lands of Sreng and had a great pastoral trade; Galatea, though arid and ruined, was a prime passageway between and held holy spots for the pious, as well as the blessings of winged horses; Fraldarius, a cold meadow-like land on the coast had some of the only fertile lands in the region barring some plateaus and plains, produced most of the food for the region.
The Barony of Dominic, a very small region in all, had few things to distinguish it, save for a small, fashionable society, a budding growth in the printing press and perhaps a warmer climate than anywhere else in the frozen lands of Faerghus.
Felix cared little for the place. After all the son of a duke, with all his connections and expectations had seen as much of the world as it could offer… When one has seen one great house, all the others begin to look the same. He tarried away to a private room, where he might seek some peace before being found by his father, cuffed with an dance card and forced to lead several eligible ladies of good name and esteem and fortunes around the ballroom in a pitiable attempt at dancing.
Finding refuge in the library, Felix paced the dimly lit room. His eyes stopped at titles, far and beyond the run-of-the-mill titles like The Sword of Kyphon or Loog and the Maiden of Wind or any legends of chivalry. True to their claim, they held a few novels that Felix had never heard of, but many titles on practical usage, like White Magic for the Inexperienced, Utilizing Winter Landscapes for Battle and a few texts on tactics, which gave him pause.
He reached out and traced his finger along the titles in the dim light and paused before one titled First Impressions. He pulled it out—it was a romantic novel. Promptly, he shut the book and tucked it back in with a frown as he heard a voice singing so sweetly. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and like any good Faerghan gentleman, Felix hid behind a bookshelf.
From his hiding spot, he watched as a young lady entered. She was finely dressed in a blue gown, with eyes the selfsame colour and her fine ginger hair curled up into a topknot. Seizing a lantern from the wall, she moved, with an elegant unmistakeable step, towards the bookshelves.
Her movements. Felix thought while watching her scan the titles. That’s not just a debutante’s step, that’s fencing footwork.
The young lady moved closer to his hiding spot and, feeling no longer that he could hide, Felix emerged and said, “Fencing footwork?”
“Sir!” She shrieked and quickly recovered herself said, “You should have made yourself known!”
Felix looked unperturbed. He simply shrugged and said, “Apologies. But that was fencing footwork. Wasn’t it?”
The lady balked. “Y-You’re asking me about my feet?” Her face was quite red. “I-In the dark?”
Felix pondered this for a moment and then relented. “Yeah… So?”
She paused and setting the book down took a dignified, elegant look. “It is. Yes.”
“You’re a swordswoman?”
“A little.” She admitted and then quickly said, “What are you doing here? The ball is outside.”
He paused, never one to lie, said, “Hiding from it.”
“Oh,” said the lady. “that’s unfortunate. Do you not like to dance?”
He shook his head. “I just don’t want to be here.”
She looked a little affronted. “Is Summerhill not to your taste?” She asked.
“Not that. I’m not one for balls.” Then adding he said, “I’d rather get to know someone in a duel.”
“But that’s not like a ball at all.” Replied the lady.
“And I assume you like them too?”
She paused and said, “This is my first ball.”
“Lucky you.” Felix grumbled.
The two stood in silence for a moment. Felix studied her face, the soft roundness of her cheeks and the bloom in her figure and person; she was quite pretty, albeit in that basic way that every young woman was. Her cheeks glowed and she said, “Well the least you could do is forget this ever happened!”
Felix stared at her. “What happened?”
“The singing, the footwork, everything!” Annette exclaimed, “I’m just starting out, I don’t need trouble—“
Unable to resist, Felix teased her: “Forget? It’s permanently etched in my memory.”
She actually whimpered before him, and Felix, who had never seen a lady’s expression crack beyond a mild smile and a delicate laugh, was bemused and bewitched. “You’re evil! Evil!” She cried out angrily.
“And you’re shouting. Shouldn’t a lady keep her tone level?” He replied.
She frowned and shoved the book back into its place before turning on her heel. “This never happened. I don’t know you and you don’t know me, understand?”
“Sure.” Felix said passively, bemused and somewhat delighted by such an odd bird. After getting his assurances, she quitted the room—momentarily, before turning back with the lantern, put it back up and claimed some papers, as “something she forgot” and quickly left the room again.
Annette returned to Simon’s side with the necessary documents. He had requested some music, which was located in the library, spurring that embarrassing engagement with the handsome gentleman.
No Annie, don’t think of anyone like that! She thought quickly, her face red as she gave Simon the sheet music and did her best to hide her blush. You don’t even know him! You weren’t introduced!
Simon thanked her before guiding the musicians again in their next piece. Annette soon rejoined her family’s side. She passively watched the splendours of the ball. The warm candlelight illuminated the moderate ballroom of Summerhill, and despite it being close to freezing outside, Annette was warmer than she had ever been before.
Fanning herself almost consistently, she watched as the dancers twirled across the marble dance floor. Her card, which had a few decent names upon it, hung off her wrist and flapped like a young bird with her constant fanning. She was lost to her thoughts—mostly of the gentleman in the library—and barely registered when she was taken by some gentleman or another to dance.
The crowd erupted in a happy applause for the musicians, and Annette absentmindedly clapped along, a strained smile on her face. She was returned to her family just as she saw the elegant silks and cloaks of a well-dressed gentleman.
“Duke Fraldarius, it is a pleasure and an honour.”
Annette snapped out of her mechanical movements and looked to her uncle, who was greeting the tall, dark-haired man who was so finely dressed. She drew up taller, blinked quicker as she stared at Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius, ruler of the Duchy of Fraldarius and apart of one of the wealthiest familes in all of Faerghus.
“Likewise, Baron Dominic.” He wore a brilliant smile and regarded the family. Annette, still struck with the magnanimity of the man before her, dipped into a polite bow. “This is my brother’s wife, Lady Agathe, my son, Simon is the Master of Ceremonies tonight, and this is Annette Fantine Dominic, my niece, whom this party is for.”
Annette curtseyed politely as Rodrigue looked at her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Dominic.” He said. “Your uncle has told me much about your accomplishments in magic and the pianoforte. I do believe you sing too, don’t you?”
Annette paused, blinked twice and nodded. “I do. A little.”
“Perhaps you will sing tonight with your cousin’s direction?” Rodrigue teased politely.
Annette gasped and shook her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t!”
“Young people are always so shy.” Said Rodrigue. “I have a son your age. Felix.” He turned out to scan the crowd. “He is here somewhere, I assure you. May I write his name on your card?“
Annette nodded again and found her voice. “Of course, your grace—it would be a pleasure.”
Rodrigue smiled and took the card from around her wrist. In careful script, he wrote down the name of his son and tied it back over her glove.
The conversation continued, and Annette quickly gathered that the duke’s son was the man who expressed interest in her. Annette, now having a name to ponder, to mull over and to analyze in her head, was occupied for the next two dances, completely deaf to Rodrigue and Gilbert’s questions of where Felix was. Their presumed dance—the allenmande—passed and Annette was unbothered by it. Instead, she excused herself for a turn about the room to refresh herself.
As she circled the dancing couples, Annette wondered what this Felix Fraldarius was like. Was he smiling, pleasing to the eye? Or was he dour and quiet, a reading man? Annette knew very little about him, and her time in the country led her to believe that she was little considered in the ton.
Annette, finally coming to the most obvious conclusion, was overcome with emotion. She stopped walking, suddenly, and paused before the windows that overlooked the sleeping houses of Dominic. How peaceful they were, and for a moment, forgetting everything she should be grateful for, Annette wished she was there. A second later, she snapped from her reverie.
A gentleman in a dark waistcoat stood some distance from her, also looking down at the quiet houses. She coloured, curtseyed politely and began to excuse herself. “P-Pardon me, sir.”
“I know you from somewhere.” He said instantly with a discerning eye.
Annette turned back to him and asked, “Do you?”
He closed the distance between them, studying her like she was an opponent in a duel. Annette stood a little taller, a frown upon her lips.
At last, he said it. “Your footwork.”
Oh Goddess. Annette thought anxiously, recognizing his amber eyes. He’s… The man I bodychecked in the library! He probably hates me.
“You were singing.”
“What?”
“When we bumped into each other in the library. I heard you sing.” Then he said, “And your eyes. I remember them. They’re piercing.”
Annette coloured deeply and frowned. “I am glad I am unmistakeable, but sir, you must forgive me for that interaction.” She said quickly and whispered desparately, “Please, erase it from your memory.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Can’t.”
“Wh-What? You must, I beg you.”
“It’s permanently etched in my memory.” He replied. “To be honest, I plan on returning home to studied my texts on footwork. It was fencing, right?”
Annette hung her head and whined. Her uncle’s protection came with the unnecessary tutelage of swordplay, built on a few years’ of her father’s own lessons. Though Annette had forgotten most of it, she had not forgotten the footwork, which more often than not, matched the words of her silly songs and her magic spells.
“Yes…” She conceded beneath her breath.
“It was good.” He complimented her.
She curtseyed again. “I thank you sir. Now, you must excuse me.”
“Wait.”
She paused again.
“It would be… my duty to walk you back to the ball. I’m guessing that’s where you came from.”
In her mind she was screaming no, but outwardly, she was taking his arm and walking with him towards the ballroom. He teased her, genially: “Do you have music to match the dance?”
“No!” Annette lied loudly. Then composing herself she added, “No, I do not. It’s not… Ladylike.”
He smiled a little at that, and Annette frowned deeply, further inclined to dislike him.
This gentleman was gruff, toeing the border of being rude, and Annette was already displeased with him. Still, it was only a short walk back to the ballroom where they would part.
But he insisted on seeing her back to her party, if not for manners, for seeing her squirm a bit longer. “Well, we may say adieu now.”
“Not quite. Where is your party.”
Annette frowned and let her eyes give her away. He followed her gaze and, taking her arms with a tender hand, led her towards her parents and Duke Fraldarius. The latter brightened in surprise. “So you’ve already met!”
“We have?” Annette murmured beneath her breath.
“What have you gotten me into now, old man?” Her companion asked, narrowing his gaze. She noticed how his arm had tensed when their eyes met.
“Miss Dominic, this is my son, Lord Felix Hugo Fraldarius.” Said Rodrigue to her, and then turning to his son he said, “Felix, this is the Honourable Miss Annette Dominic… The young lady I mentioned to you back in Fraldarius.”
Needless to say, their dance was terrible.
It was a waltz, a very slow one meant for those who were engaged or partners. Annette could barely keep her eyes on Felix, and he, a terrible dancer, stepped on her feet multiple times. There was little conversation, save for a few passing remarks about the weather, and a compliment from Felix on her lightness of foot and more questions about her education in fencing.
She was happy when the crowd erupted in smiles and applause and they returned to their party to be still and silent beside each other. Both Michel and Rodrigue attempted to bring the two into conversations and failed—Annette had simply smiled and agreed, once or twice offering a paltry opinion if necessary, and Felix grunted replies in a terse tone.
Annette was asked for dance a few times with other gentlemen, but owing to her modesty—and respect for those around her—she declined. Instead, glowing and lovely, she remained with her party and the Fraldariuses.
At one point, Felix leaned close and said, “You should go out again.”
Annette blushed and frowned. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Damn appropriateness. You won’t have any fun here with this lot.”
She remained quiet and fanned herself. The two scanned the crowd, watching the couplets of dancers move. “I’m having a fine time.” Annette said. “People-watching is fun in its own way.”
Annette tensed as she said this.
“I agree. You can tell a lot about a person by watching them.”
She eased slightly and met his gaze at last. “I… Suppose you know this well. As a swordsman, of course.” Her eyes flashed to his side, where a long sword was attached to his hip. “Army? Private military? Mercenary?”
“None of those. I swear myself to no king.”
She studied his face. “But… Haven’t the Fraldarius and Blaiddyd families been… intimately connected for years?”
“Historically, yes, but I give my blade to no one but myself.” He turned his gaze from her to the dance floor, where the prince was engaged, dancing with a beautiful young woman.
“I’m surprised you’re not going after the prince.” He mused.
Annette shook her head. “I know my rank well.” She explained. “A knight’s daughter has little chance to make a match with a prince.” She coloured warmly. “Besides, I’ve work to do: I am much too young to marry yet.”
His eyes flickered to her. “Not your type?”
“N-Not that.” Annette insisted. “I am sure he is a kind young man but… Everyone has their level, so to speak. I am not at his level.”
Felix pondered this for a long moment. A knowing eye from her mother made Annette change the subject quickly. Such talk was inappropriate for a gentlemen and lady. “So, Mr Fraldarius, where did you study?”
“Garreg Mach Monastery. Two years.” He said. “And you?”
“I received my education here and Fhirdiad.” She explained. “I attended a finishing school in Gaspard territory… As I’m sure you know that, if his grace did speak of that...”
He studied her for a long moment. “Yes, I’m aware.” He said. “I’ve never been to Gaspard. It must be much warmer than Fhridiad.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Which must tax you terribly.”
“Um…”
He pointed to her fan. “You’ve been fanning yourself throughout the night. And your face is red. Your blood must run hot.”
Annette snapped her fan shut at this, drawing it away from herself and her face coloured a deeper shade of crimson.
Quickly, Annette asked, “Is the duchy very cold? I imagine it would be, with the coastline so close, very cold, yes!” She erupted in nervous laughter. She continued on this manner throughout the rest of the night, talking, talking, talking to fill the space while Felix looked at her, part amused, part annoyed.
When the night was over, and Baron Dominic made their closing remarks, there was one final dance, another waltz, which Felix begrudgingly asked her for after a glare from Rodrigue.
“Will you join me, Miss Dominic?”
Annette gave momentary pause and finally nodded. If this would please her family, she would do it.
This final dance was not much better than the first. However, both gentlemen were markedly pleased with the result of their wards dancing with another. Many envious and curious eyes were upon Annette, wondering which saint she had prayed to for the blessing of two dances with Lord Felix Fraldarius… It was well-known that Felix was not a dancer, nor was he quite engaged to dance with those outside his personal acquaintance, and as such, Annette’s feet paid the price.
As they regarded each other, his eyes met hers with such intensity that made her flush. She quickly thanked him for the dance as Felix requested that they call the carriage. They said heir adieus, and both Duke Fraldarius and Baron Dominic were much assured that Felix and Annette would request to see each other again after this evening… Such was the meeting of our hero and heroine. Delicious as it was, there would be five years time before they would meet again, under much different circumstances.