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There was a ball at the Imperial Palace tonight, and Dorothea was absolutely not allowed to attend. She wondered if her father and his vapid wife would be there, rubbing elbows with his betters, while Dorothea languished in a scrappy dress and shoes that were a size too small.
Rumors said it was a masquerade, which was a word she hadn't heard before, but the older woman who sometimes told stories to Dorothea and the other streetwise children, orphans and beggars alike, informed her and the gaggle gathered around that it meant everyone at the ball would be wearing masks. When the other kids heard her explanation, a palpable air of excitement hovered over them. One boy wanted a demonic beast’s mask, which made a little girl stick her tongue out at him, while another claimed he’d seen what the masks really looked like, and that he thought the diamonds and feathers pressed into them were really pretty. This caused another surge of excitement.
Dorothea clapped her hands to gather their attention. “Since we aren’t invited to the hoity-toity palace party,” she said, “I think it’s fair we hold our own. Boys, see what you can get for parchment. Thrown out scrolls or old decrees. Girls, I need color! I need beads! Feathers! Whatever you can get your hands on. Meet at the big fountain, I’ll be waiting! Let’s make some masks!”
An old, wizened hand fell on her shoulder. “You’ll need a little something else if you want to do all that by tonight,” said the storyteller, digging through her patchwork pockets. She withdrew a spindle of undyed thread and a sharp, thin needle. Pressing them into Dorothea’s hands, she warned, “Be wary of pricking yourself, dear.”
As if she’d been gifted golden jewelry, Dorothea cradled the needle and thread carefully. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Thank you!”
With a grandmother’s smile, the woman sent her on her way, and Dorothea finally let the children’s infectious excitement balloon in her chest.
Father said Ferdinand had to be careful with the drinks. Wine was a little too strong for boys his age, he informed, so he could only have a little. Ferdinand had no complaints; it tasted like a dozen bee stings on his tongue. No, he’d never tasted a bee or its sting, but he imagined they tasted much the same as wine.
Unfortunately, Ferdinand had been marooned by the drinks table after he’d greeted anyone Father thought mattered. It was a little better than being surrounded by adults who drank bee-sting-wine, but he felt out of place. Like at most aristocratic events, he came as an accessory to his father, who introduced him to people that were a little intimidating. Once Father was done parading him around he shooed him away to discuss adult matters, go have a cup and no more, and Ferdinand was left to while the hours away by himself.
The music was nice, and the decorations were beautiful, but Ferdinand was ashamed to admit he was bored and a little overwhelmed by the wine’s pungent smell. He’d known parties weren’t supposed to be fun, but this one was getting under his skin in a way he couldn’t remember the others doing. He wanted to go home. There was a book he’d marked around the halfway point he’d like to get back to. Even though it wasn’t a very good book, anything was better than this, surely.
An adult stumbled clumsily up to the table, a minor nobleman in a green mask Father hadn’t cared enough to bother with. He giggled until he saw Ferdinand standing there, then let out a full guffaw and leaned down to pinch his cheeks below the edge of his mask, threatening to dislodge it. Ferdinand recoiled and stepped back, and the man dazedly tried to follow. Whatever this ungainly nobleman tripped over, Ferdinand couldn’t see, but he bumped into the table gracelessly, knocking crystal goblets to the floor with a horrendous crash. When he tried to right himself, he planted his hand into the wine bowl, tipping it to stain the tablecloth and spill onto the floor.
Father arrived quicker than Ferdinand had ever seen him move, corralling him away to look him over.
“Did that drunken churl ruin your clothes?” he asked, the question more of a bark than anything else. The pointed ears of his decorated wolf mask only seemed appropriate.
“No,” he replied. Then, stretching the truth a little, Ferdinand said, “I think some got on my boots?”
Father waved a servant over, commanding, “Take him somewhere to clean up.”
“Of course, my lord,” they replied, fastidiously leading Ferdinand out of the bustling hall and to a side room with a wash basin. Like a ghost that was never there, they returned to their business at the ball, and Ferdinand was alone.
He had an idea. It was a terrible idea, and terribly enticing. Father would tan his hide, but what if Ferdinand just… left?
It was late, but if he was fast, maybe nobody would notice if he took a scenic jaunt around the city square? Just for a reprieve. Just for a moment.
With no eyes on him, Ferdinand took his leave.
Dorothea sat on the lip of the fountain, watching the children laugh and dance to a percussive beat as others slapped their palms against the boards of a box or barrel. The storytelling woman made some interesting music with a pair of spoons and her leg. Dorothea’s fingers were sore from fastening odds and ends to the paper masks and stringing the backs of them, but it was all worth it to hear the kids shriek with delight.
She adjusted her own, which was a little too plain for Dorothea’s liking, but she saved the best parts for the others. White owl feathers tickled at her ears, and she’d tried bending a corner into a beak to hook over her nose. No one had mentioned the birdlike resemblance thus far. It was fine, she told herself, because it was.
“O-oh,” a voice uttered from just behind the fountain, nearly lost in its burbling.
Dorothea turned, peering across falling waters to find another boy there, one around her age, dressed in fancy nobleman’s attire and donning a ruby red mask. It was ornate, lined with velvet and embossed with silver curls. That poor kid was going to be pickpocketed blind wandering the streets at night, and he would deserve it, maybe, for crashing their masquerade ball. That is, unless Dorothea took him under her wing. As one of the older kids, none of the children messed with her or risked a pinched ear and a dressing down.
“You’re overdressed, aren’t you?” she asked lightly, unsure if she was mocking him or not.
“Maybe so,” he replied, smiling. “You are having a party, Miss Owl?”
Oh, a nobleman’s son with a good sense of humor, she noticed. If he was being mocked, he was willing to take it in stride. Dorothea was distantly impressed.
“No grown ups allowed,” Dorothea confirmed, inordinately pleased to have her mask acknowledged, “unless you’re the best storyteller in the streets, of course.”
“Oh,” the boy said again, his voice full of wonder. “No grown ups… That sounds…”
“Fun? That’s the idea! Come over here and join us, my lord,” she teased.
The strange boy hesitated for a moment longer, then walked around the fountain to her side. His voice was much clearer when he asked, “Is there a reason you are sitting out on the sidelines instead of dancing with the others?”
“I was just a little tired.” And a little put out because my efforts weren’t noticed, she thought. “I’m feeling better now, though. Don’t worry about me!”
“That is good to hear! Then, if it isn’t—is not—too bold of me to ask, maybe I could share a dance with you, Miss Owl?”
Dorothea laughed, just a little. If he wanted to call her that, she was hardly going to stop him. Two could play this game. “Of course, Lord Velvet,” she agreed, holding her hand out imperiously like she’d seen the highborn ladies do.
Lord Velvet took it like it was second nature, sliding white-gloved hands into her bare ones and helping her from her seat. He led Dorothea through the wild crowd of children to where the party’s energy centered like a star, circled by small dancers. Their position shifted, his right hand resting on her hip and the left holding her right. Boldly, he took her hand in his and placed it onto his shoulder. Dorothea raised her eyebrows when they started to move and immediately fumbled their feet.
“This is one of your fancy court dances, isn’t it?” Dorothea asked. “Something a tutor taught you.”
Flustered, he replied, “I—yes, it appears dance is less universal than I thought.”
“Oh, please,” she said, “everyone dances, we’re just not all taught the same way. Also, you want to ballroom dance to this?” Dorothea nodded her chin to the makeshift band, who took the chance to play a particularly off-tempo beat before laughing and returning to their previous rhythm. “All your perfect steps? Just forget ‘em! Tonight, you’re dancing with us, which means you go with the flow.”
“With the flo—oh!”
Dorothea grinned as she pulled him in, then spun him out like an unrolling ribbon.
“C’mon, blueblood, move your feet a little!” cheered Dorothea. “Loosen up! First rule of commoner parties: have fun!”
“I do not think I have been to a party that was fun,” he admitted, baffled, and slowly he started grinning as his feet shuffled beneath him to better match the tempo.
“Second rule: relax!” she prattled. “Lower your shoulders, slump a little! And you don't have to speak like that, either! Repeat after me: don't.”
“D-don't,” Lord Velvet reiterated. “My, these rules are certainly easier than the ones Father taught me.”
“Ugh, fathers.” Dorothea grimaced. She was sure her masquerade ball was better than his, especially if one of its guests had abandoned it for hers.
“Ah…”
“Enough about party poopers. Let's dance, and who cares about form!”
This time, she slowly guided him through the motions as she reeled him in again, watching excitement build up in the honey-brown eyes gleaming behind his mask. He was ready when she flung him out, and his laughter joined the chorus around them.
“R-right!” he agreed breathlessly when he returned to his starting position. There was a boyish eagerness to his tone when he jabbered, “Who cares about form? I do not. I mean, I don't!”
Watching Lord Velvet loosen up was almost comical with how much effort he was putting into it, but he was smiling, and that was what Dorothea thought the night should be about. It was fun, the kind the stuffy nobles in the palace couldn't have. Although, she didn't mind sparing some for this kid who didn't mind dancing in a ring of unwashed street children. He was different, grounded in a way high society wasn't, and she liked him so much more than the other noble children she'd seen parade through Enbarr like the masses should kiss their feet. Tonight, behind their masks, she could pretend he was just like her, and she would never have to know his true face. She would never have to watch him grow up and look down on her once the way of the world settled on his shoulders like a mantle.
The children's ball crept through the night, and eventually Dorothea had to call it quits, her too-small shoes paining her feet. Lord Velvet led her back to her seat on the fountain's edge. This time, he sat beside her.
“Your feet hurt?” he asked, peering down at them.
“Mm-hmm. It happens. My shoes aren't big enough.”
“You have no other pairs?”
“No,” she answered, imagining this boy opening a closet floor-to-ceiling full of new shoes. Of course he would assume. She was foolish to think Lord Velvet would understand just how different their lives were, and just how much better he had it. “We're your local street trash. Some of us don't have shoes at all. I'm lucky.”
“I see,” said Lord Velvet, and it sounded like he meant it.
Dorothea wondered, though. Yes, tonight he saw a peek into what it was like to be destitute. But he’d likely never witness it again. Would he remember when he was all grown up? If so, would he do something about it?
“I could take them off, I guess,” Dorothea interrupted, unwilling to hear his opinions on a situation she'd long grown used to. “But if I let them out of my sight, they could be considered up for grabs. I'll just deal with it for now.”
For a long moment, Lord Velvet said nothing at all, and then he hoisted one of his feet up onto the fountain's edge. He plucked at his boot buckles until they came loose and then slid a socked foot out of its leather confines. He repeated the action with his other boot, then placed it and its match side by side at Dorothea's hip.
“I am looking elsewhere,” he said, sliding off the fountain and turning away. “I had a very pleasant night, Miss Owl, but I am afraid I must retire.”
“W-wait!” Dorothea demanded, reaching out for him and nearly dumping his boots into the fountain. “You can't just—”
“Oh, the fountain is so loud, I could not quite hear you. I’m going to assume you wished me farewell, so I must return the gesture! Good night, Miss Owl!”
She watched as the velvet-masked boy walked into the dark city streets toward the Imperial Palace, clad in the finest socks a boy could wear. Hands shaking, Dorothea picked up his boots and placed them on the cobblestones. Comparing them to her shoes, she saw they were a little larger than she needed, which meant she could grow into them. The craftsmanship on them meant they would last long enough for her to grow into them.
Behind her plain owl mask, Dorothea felt her eyes well up with grateful tears. Just as she said when she was given the needle and thread, she said to a boy already gone, “Thank you.”
“Where have you been?” Father roared at the bottom of the Palace’s steps, spooking the carriage’s horses. “Where are your boots?”
“I dropped them in the fountain by accident,” Ferdinand stated despite his dry socks and legs. “I did not wish to soak my entire outfit in order to get them back.”
“Goddess, help me,” beseeched Father. “Boy, it is fortunate we are in Enbarr. Some of the best cobblers in the Empire have shops here. We shall get you a new pair tomorrow, and then you will be writing lines for your carelessness until I tell you to stop. Do you understand, Ferdinand?”
“I do, Father. I apologize.”
Father, exasperated and very clearly trying not to snap, thrust his chin toward the carriage. “Get in, boy.”
“Yes, Father.”
Outside the cobbler's in a servant’s spare boots, Ferdinand saw the edge of one of Enbarr's many decadent fountains. Although, when he ventured near, it was hardly as splendorous as the one where he met Miss Owl at. It was a little smaller, a little more out of the way.
More surprisingly, a girl sat in its sparkling waters, disrobed and rubbing a fraying cloth over her skin. As she bathed, she sang, leaping through scales and lyrics he'd never heard before. It was mesmerizing, her voice as clear as glass, and he could not look away.
Until she caught him staring and ducked beneath the water. Embarrassed and overwhelmed, Ferdinand ran back the way he came, disappearing into the cobbler's shop and inhaling the scent of shoe polish.
He should apologize. For peeping. For running. He would, Ferdinand told himself, once he had the courage.
Eventually, his new boots were done. However, when he returned to the fountain, the girl had disappeared. Perhaps she had been a water nymph, vanishing into her element after being disturbed. Perhaps he would never get to apologize for his indecency.
“Ferdinand!” Father called from the carriage. “What are you doing, boy?”
“Coming, Father!” Ferdinand called, and reluctantly turned away from the fountain, feeling the loss greater than when he abandoned his boots.