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“And may I say, Your Highness, how lovely you look this evening,” Lord Ravenswood murmurs, raising his champagne glass and beaming at Hao as if he’s uttered something truly revolutionary. The other lords and dukes assembled round him like hungry ravens quickly join in, complimenting him and toasting him, clucking praise he’s heard before.
It’s so tiresome.
“Yes, thank you,” Hao murmurs, picking at a stray thread on his silk gloves. He can hardly breathe with all the suitors crushing him, flattering him with tired compliments and jockeying for his favor.
If they were skilled at verbal battle Hao might pay them a thought, but his suitors care for nothing more than the weather and horses and wine. Not one of them can match his wit or make him laugh and so he languishes against the wall, at his own ball, suffocated by coattails and polite murmurings about how accomplished he is, how lovely.
“We are having particularly fine weather this spring,” Duke Thornhill announces, his mustache wagging. “It will make for a lovely wedding season, I think. Do you not agree, Highness?”
They peer at Hao, believing themselves subtle, but he stares staunchly at the crystal chandeliers illuminating the ballroom instead. “Perhaps,” he agrees vaguely, “though I far prefer a winter wedding.”
“Ah, yes, as do I,” Lord Basilthwaite scrambles to say, cutting in. “Snow is so romantic. And of course you will be lovely in white no matter the season, Highness.”
“So lovely,” his suitors echo, raising their glasses once more and drinking deeply of the sparkling champagne which Hao has yet to even taste. It’s all so, so boring.
Hao sighs and leans more firmly against the mirrored wall, resigning himself to yet another evening of insincere conversation and shifting, beady eyes trained on his every movement. All these suitors dressed in their best silks and yet none of them dare to ask him to dance, too busy snipping at each other to remember he’s a person too.
On the dance floor ladies and their suitors swirl in dizzying patterns, skirts of taffeta and velvet sweeping across the intricately chalked marble. Candles shine from the chandeliers, making each cut crystal sparkle like dewdrops, and the colorful radiance of the ball is reflected in enormous gilt mirrors lining the hall. Even Hao’s sour expression is reflected in the silvery glass, his lovely periwinkle suit wasted as he’s swallowed up by a crowd of black.
The dancers slow, bowing and curtsying to one another, and as the floor clears for new partners to match with each other, a shadow appears in the mirrors across the room.
Hao thinks nothing of it at first yet as the dancers organize into lines the figure draws closer, striding across the floor with purpose. The man is young and beautiful, his finely chiseled features unfamiliar to Hao, but he wears a suit of midnight blue silk and there is laughter in his dark eyes, a dimple pressed into one cheek like a secret meant only for the prince to find.
Hao straightens, his interest piqued, and does not shy away from the stranger’s gaze. The man joins their circle, effortlessly slipping through the crows, and dips into a neat bow.
“Prince Hao.”
Hao tips his head, trying to tuck his smile away as the other suitors ruffle their coats and begrudgingly make way for the intruder. “Have we met, Lord-- ?”
“Lord Sung,” the man replies smoothly, kissing Hao’s extended hand and sliding him a wink as he rises. A wink! How scandalous. How interesting. “And now we’ve become acquainted with one another.”
“Yes,” Hao agrees, his hopes soaring. “How perfectly polite you are.”
“As all good lords should be,” the man replies. “It is in our nature.”
“Strange,” Hao muses, “I rather thought it was in the nature of lords to be fussy. Like babies, you know.”
“Oh yes,” Lord Sung acquiesces, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “That is true, though not all of us are born this way. Some must work earnestly at it, you see, practicing in the mirror and huffing air into their own egos. It’s rather tricky business.”
Hao bites back a laugh, pursing his mouth. “And are you born to it, Lord Sung, or have you toiled honestly?”
Lord Sung grins at him, candlelight flashing off his sharp teeth. “I fear I was born with the highest opinion of my own worth. I think myself very grand.”
Lord Ravenswood loudly clears his throat, frowning. “What nonsense, good sir!”
Lord Sung barely spares the ruffled suitors a glance, his dark eyes sharpening. “My fellow lords, I must yield to your experience. Clearly you have worked diligently for many years to perfect your natures.”
Hao laughs aloud before he can clap a hand over his mouth, too noisy for a prince.
“Your Highness,” Lord Sung requests, holding out his arm. “May I beg a dance?”
“Only because you are so humbly aware of your terrible nature,” Hao agrees, taking the Lord’s arm and gladly sweeping away from the clucking suitors, who are only just beginning to realize they have been insulted.
They reach the center of the hall as the musicians begin a new song, sweet as honey, and Hao turns easily into the Lord’s arms, a crimson flame ignited between them. Violins sing notes clear as water, tripping lightly, and with a bow the dance begins. Round and round they circle, arms raised and palms almost meeting, a dizzying waltz of push and pull, of rising tension as they gaze only at one another and yet never touch.
All around them dancers swirl in their own orbits, golden light gleaming from mirrored wall to mirrored wall, the night sparkling as a flawless diamond. Candlelight flickers, limning ruffled dresses and pressed suits in warm radiance, gilding the tiara atop Hao’s head.
“Prince Hao,” Lord Sung murmurs, eyes alight. “My name is Hanbin.”
Hao smiles, finally pressing their palms together as the music crescendos. “I am enchanted to meet you, Hanbin.”