i. Maiden

It is Ariella's presentation day, and the sun has arisen, sending brilliant waves of gold down the slopes of the valley. A good omen, Father Dendred calls it when she and her sisters go to morning prayer in the temple.

Ariella does not believe in omens, nor does she much like the aged old priest, too fond of sermons to give much good advice, but she has to admit, seen from the crystal windows of the temple hall, it is quite dazzling.

Her sisters are deep in prayer. Golden-haired Liannon's head is bowed as she faced the Seventh Angel's statue, its black stone face twisted and androgynous. Black-haired Valarys holds fragrant incense in a chalice as she sweeps it around the temple, bowing her head to each angel as she passes, from the carnelian Second Angel to the moonstone Fifth Angel. Red-headed Miriel is listening attentively to the droning of Father Dendred.

"First Angel, bringer of light, we pray to you. Illuminate the path you have set for us, and watch over us in the dark places where the ordinary dim. Second Angel, bringer of fire, we pray to you. Set a flare of righteousness in each of our souls..."

Ariella bows her head respectfully, hoping her averted eyes will not betray the fact that she is not listening at all. But then, Father Dendred always avoids looking Ariella straight in the eye, preferring to admire one of the comelier princesses. Priests are supposed to be holy, free of all lusts, but at sixteen, Ariella knows better. She has watched the so-called righteous men at court and knows that, despite their pretensions of grace, they are no more virtuous than any others.

Having the bleachbone helps with that. Even the most lustful of men lose their appetites when it comes to Ariella's eerily pale skin and long, coarse white hair, her sharp, vulture's beak of a nose. It doesn't help that she lacks her sisters' tall, slender figure, instead having a a painfully short stature and thick arms and legs, large, ungainly breasts and a tree trunk of a waist. Only her eyes, steel grey, are considered passable, but nobody looks at those. They are too busy avoiding her unnatural coloring to notice, too busy worrying she'll curse them, as the stories say bleachbone victims are wont to do.

It is doubly horrible how her sisters are so beautiful. Nineteen-year-old Liannon is possessed of a tall lush body, bronzed and lovely, unusual golden-brown eyes, and flowing golden locks. She glitters like the sun herself, and everywhere men pause to gaze at her, regardless of the fact that she is vapid and empty-headed as a scullery maid. Her second oldest sister, eighteen-year-old Valarys, is even more sought after than Liannon. A classic Centauriian beauty, Valarys's smooth pale skin, rich black tresses, vivid scarlet lips, and wicked black eyes are the envy of all the court. She is hounded by a constant stream of suitors, not only for her perfect body but also for her razor-sharp wit. Ariella knows-she has been the butt of her sister's cruel japes for most of her life. Even little Miriel, not yet eleven, has grown into a child-woman of enchanting beauty. She has flowing red curls and deep emerald eyes, a smooth oval face, and the barest beginnings of breasts. Even from a glance, Ariella can tell Miriel will be as long-limbed, slender as a reed, and small-breasted as Liannon and Valarys. The thought makes her sad. Miriel is the only one who treats her well. But in truth, Miriel has always been a little odd. She excels at everything from painting to mathematics, and even at the age of two or three had spoken in full sentences like an adult. And she has the disturbing trait of being able to discern your feelings, no matter the pains you took to conceal them. Like now.

"Good luck on your presentation, sister." Miriel says gravely. After morning prostrations, they are now in the lesson room behind the shrines, waiting for Father Dendred to bring the catechism. Ariella jumps. She has not noticed the younger princess was there. "You shouldn't be so worried, you know. A sensible man looks at traits other than beauty before he picks a wife."

"Oh, what do you know, Monkey?" Valarys says disdainfully. Even messy, with her curls piled on top of her head and a loose grey temple robe about her graceful shoulders, she looks beautiful. Monkey was her pet name for Miriel, when the girl was being too clever for her liking. "Besides," she smirks. "one look at our dear sister's face will send the suitors scuttling from the room in fright. No one can be that desperate to get married."

Liannon laughs. "Ha! Can you imagine Ariella married?"

"No more than I can imagine you married, sister." Ariella shoots back, then for good measure adds, "You little slut."

Liannon's face reddens. "What did you just call me?"

Ariella ignores her. "We all know it's impossible for you to stick with one man at a time. Tell me, does sweet Lord Axel know that you're also fucking the cook's boy?"

Liannon raises a hand as if to slap her, but Valarys laughs. "Well said, sister. Of course, we all know why you're jealous. With a body like that, you're not likely to get any. Whereas we...we use our assets."

Valarys is not a virgin either, despite the warnings that young ladies were expected to go to their marriage bed untouched. However, she is cleverer about her couplings than Liannon. In truth, Ariella doesn't know which young court dandy Vala is seeing now, though she has a few ideas. She is forced to bite back her retort after the priest re-enters the room. Valarys smirks at her. She glares back.

"Princess Ariella," Father Dendred sharply reprimands. "Your sister may be pretty, but there's no need to stare at her with such force, unless you fancy her. And that-" he smirks. "would be irregular indeed." Valarys and Liannon chuckle. Miriel, lost in thought, says nothing. Scowling, Ariella returns her gaze to the catechism.

It isn't fair. Lia and Vala could be as rude and disgusting as ever, and the priest would still take their side. Because they're pretty and I'm not. And being pretty is the only way a woman can be powerful.

After the lesson, Liannon leaves the temple in haste, probably to see that cook's boy, and Valarys follows. Miriel wanders off to her quarters, probably to paint, or play her aria. But Ariella heads for the lonely palace observatory. Practically no one ever goes there, so she is left alone with her thoughts.

The observatory is falling apart. The telescopes have a thin layer of dust on them, and the iron railing, the one that separates her from falling to her death off the cliff, is rickety and covered with rust. It might have been grand once, perhaps in the days of the Silver Kings, who, it is said, derived great passion from the cycles of the stars, but disuse and apathy among the new courtiers have led to its decay. But it does offer the best view of the Grand Centaurii City, better than anywhere in the palace of Lyria. It is Ariella's childhood hideaway, when the taunts and the endless rejection were too painful to endure. There, for a fleeting moment, she could forget she was a child of the bleachbone, a curse on society. She could revel in the majesty of her empire, and no one could take that from her.

From the observatory, you can see the tall dome of the City Palace, hardly ever used, except for state functions, the light of the pyramid-shaped Gate of God, home of the Krelex, a religious sect that has become popular in the area. The city, laid out in a neat grid, looks best from above. Even the grimiest slums and the dirtiest taverns look pristine when the morning light hits them. And the tall, elegant buildings radiate a majesty to rival white marble Lyria itself, built into the stone of the mountain and surrounded by soft flowing falls. The white of the spring mountain water rolls into the Centaurii River, which flows through the city in a glistening spray of silver-blue.

Four generations of kings have laid claim to Lyria, walked its secluded halls, cavorted in its bedchambers and ballrooms, looked from this observatory. Four generations of kings have united the planet of Centaurii before her father, Julius, came to be called Emperor. First there were the Iron Kings of old, who swept in on horseback, who took the world and gave it a name in their tongue, Centaurii, which meant "first home." They raised Lyria atop the highest mountain range in the area-the Lapineals, so it could look down upon the valley and the city. They wrote no songs and told fewer tales, and when they died, they soon faded into semi-legend. After them came the Golden Kings. The Golden Kings were not like the Iron Kings, no, not at all. The Golden Kings loved music and painting and poetry. From the Golden Kings came the Centauriian's most iconic instrument-the aria. But they were callous in managing their wealth, and they spent too much and brought in too little, so they fell as well. Next came the Silver Kings, clever, discerning scholars. They turned the world on its head, and looked to the stars for answers. Under them, the temples declined and the laboratories flourished. But the last Silver King embroiled himself in intrigue and civil war, leaving the throne open for the last set of kings, the Bronze Kings, who had all of the worst traits of the other three dynasties and none of the best.

The rest was history. Her father, then a young, dynamic university student, led the outcry against the corruption within the state. Aided by his closest friends, Alastair Cielaré and Rythicaen Ruble, he set out to finally reform the system. He ended up an emperor, and now Ariella was a princess.

Although that's hard to remember sometimes. I mean, what am I, really? A glorified prize, for my father to hand out to some sycophant.

Oh, damn, why couldn't I have been born a boy? If I was a boy, I'd be in line for the throne like my brothers, and no one would care whether I'm pretty or not, because no one wants to offend a future emperor. I would fight wars and fence, and I could have a thousand women. And Lia and Vala would have to call me "brother," and I'd marry them off to the most odious lords I could find. I would be powerful, and respected, and everyone would call me "my lord" and no one would ever, ever, mock me to my face again.

--

Evening falls, slowly at first, then faster, the sunset's iridescent cloak yielding to the black night, sparked with cold, lonely stars.

Ariella's black stuff gown blends in with the night, lending a ghostly quality to her skin and hair. It's high-necked, with long sleeves and a full skirt, the better to conceal.

"You look like an old woman," Valarys sniffs. She and Liannon are wearing fashionable dresses, strapless wisps of silk that cling in all the right places, demure, yet suggestive at the same time. The only difference between them is that Liannon is in rich gold and Valarys pale blue. They look as radiant as the sun and the moons themselves.

"She's set on going straight to matron-hood," Liannon giggles. She is holding a glass of white wine in her hand, and from the swaying of her hips, Ariella can tell it is not her first.

"Oh, grow up," Ariella snarls. "You're nineteen, for the love of the angels, and you still haven't been betrothed, for all your pretensions. Not every man wants a skinny whore for a bride." She suddenly wishes she had Miriel, but the youngest princess is asleep, not old enough for galas just yet.

"Better a skinny whore than a fat, bleached prude who guards her body like a nun." Valarys retorts.

Temper flaring, Ariella takes a step toward Valarys. Valarys's cold black eyes meet her own. "Do you have something to say, sister? In truth, I am honestly surprised that Father and Mother want to put you through all this-" her eyes glitter with malice. "humiliation."

Confused, Ariella takes a step back. "Humiliation?"

"Dear, dear sister. So naive." Vala chuckles. "You don't seriously think that just because you're going to be presented, a handsome, wealthy man is going to come out of the blue and ask for your hand? Everyone knows about your...irregularities. Who would risk it? If I was Mother, I'd spare you the sorrow when no one proposes."

"And you still don't have a husband," Ariella retorts. "so what would you know?" The taunt still stings, but she will be damned if she lets Valarys ever see it.

Because the truth is, that is how presentations were supposed to go. The princess or lady or duchess or countess or baroness would wear a fine new gown, and she would dance with all the eligible bachelors, and by the end of the night, she should have a few proposals-maybe two or three for a duchess or a countess, a few more for a baroness or anything higher. The girl would thank all of her suitors for their interest, and promise to consider all their proposals (though in reality, her parents would do the actual deciding) and then she would be married. That was how it was always done.

Frankly, Ariella thought it was disgusting, a meat-market scheme that just reinforced the concept that she was property, to be bought and sold at whim. Didn't anyone have any say in the matter? What about love, or lust, or happiness, or any of those things that were supposed to be part of a meaningful relationship?

A maid enters, with a deep bow in Lia and Vala's directions, and a nervous little bob for Ariella. "Princesses, you have been summoned."

Liannon and Valarys brush past the maid as if she isn't even there, already chattering about Lord So-and-so and did you see Lady O'Shellit's hat, and some count's engagement to a woman from the provinces, which was apparently quite a scandal. Ariella remains, seated on the slender golden fainting couch. She has no stomach for gossip, even at the best of times.

The maid remains, staring, but trying to look as though she is not. When she catches Ariella looking, she blurts out "Best wishes on your presentation, milady."

"Thank you." Ariella says, surprised that the maid would take notice, much less have the guts to speak to the accursed princess. Ariella studies her thoughtfully. She is pretty in the fresh way only a girl from the outlying villages can be-her smooth tanned skin dotted with freckles, soft brown hair that falls in thick curls, and vivid green eyes. "What's your name?"

The maid jumps. "C-Clarys, milady."

An Eastern name, interesting. I didn't know we had Eastern girls here. She smiles reassuringly. "Thank you for your kindness, Clarys."

The girl appears to be struggling with herself. Finally her mouth twitches, and she says in a rush. "I don't think you're evil, milady. Or going to hell or anything like that. I was just looking is all. I-" She hesitated. "Where I come from, we say people...like you, they're to be pitied, not feared, on account of their souls will never rest, not in heaven nor hell neither. I just-" She flushes and buries her face in her hands. "Mistress Yula says I talk too much. Beg pardon, lady."

What a charming fate, for a fault I can't cure.

She forces a smile anyway."Thank you. Who's Mistress Yula?" she asks, to put the girl at ease.

"She runs the hall-maids, lady. She says-" Clarys pauses for breath. "She says you're always kind to us servant girls. Always speak us fair and never do no harm."

Do I? She knows she is politer to them than her elder sisters, who basically regard them as furniture. But she has never thought of it as an outstanding factor. Perhaps that is because I know how to be ignored.

"I'm pleased to hear that." A flash of inspiration seizes her and she adds. "I'll be sure to put in a good word for you with Mistress Yula."

"Oh, thank you!" cries Clarys. "She works in the upstairs halls, lady."

"You're most welcome, Clarys. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must present myself to the court."

"Of course. Best of luck, milady."

Buoyed by this knowledge, she makes her way to the grand ballroom with a lighter step than before. Someone has noticed that she has a few virtues. Even if that someone is a mere serving girl.

The ballroom is lavish as always, a banquet table set out by the ornately framed windows, the high ceilings made higher by the elegant bronze scrollwork on the columns. Atop the balcony, couples linger, stealing private moments away from prying eyes, or spying the dancers twirling on the inlaid marble floor below.

As she enters, she feels a familiar hand on her shoulder. Flinching, she turns to meet an angelic face atop a slender, muscular body, lithe and tanned, soft, white-gold hair, and eyes that made every girl at court clench their thighs and sigh, the right sky blue, the left liquid gold. Lyris Andelion, currently considered the most beautiful young man at court.

"Princess Ariella," he purrs in a tone he no doubt considers seductive. "All grown up and ready to be presented. Who would have known the beautiful young princess you'd become?"

"Lyris." Everything about the man irritates her, from the fact that he plays the father when he is a mere two years older than her, to his soft hands that reach out to fondle her when she is least desiring it, to his insincere compliments that sound like they were pulled straight from the worst of anthologies. "I thought I told you not to touch me like that."

"My princess. So beautiful, and so cold." He mimed stabbing a dagger into his heart. "I doubt, even if I seized the Fifteen Pearls of Elba from Aelon the Reaper's bloody grasp, you would not deign me with so much as a smile. Perhaps I will dance with you this eve, and then I shall evoke the gesture from your cruel lips." He himself smiles, a smile that could break your heart, the ladies say.

She does not respond in kind. "Perhaps. Good evening, Lyris." While some may find him charming, all she sees is a snake, poised and ready to strike. The Andelions are an old, but poor family. Lyris, as their only son, is desperately trying to make a good match, one that will restore them to their once-proud state. As a result, no lower-ranked duchess or countess, no matter how comely, receives his affections. But Ariella, Liannon, and especially Valarys, his favorite, are lavished with his affections. Insincere as they are, Lia and Vala seem to find them charming. Angels only know why.

An orchestra is playing a lively waltz. And in the center of the room sits a raised golden dais. Framed by a rich red tapestry hanging from the ceiling below, the figures on the five elegant thrones are almost dwarfed in the shadow of the magnificent crystal chandelier. The emperor and empress, and their sons, the heirs to the throne.

Ariella's stomach constricts as she moves further into the ornate room; the eyes of all the guests are drawn towards her, than all at once averted. Wards against evil are traced in the air by hundreds of superstitious hands, and her face burns as she wishes the dais was located in a less central place. As soon as she is two feet away from the first step of the pedestal, she kneels. "Your Highnesses."

Emperor Julius I is a tall man, powerfully built, with broad shoulders that need no epaulets to command respect. His face is long and attractive, pale, with a pointed chin and severe cheekbones. Sharp green eyes and a long nose are his only faults, but he is more than handsome, especially with the fall of straight black hair caught in a warrior's que, untouched by any grey. He is regal and elegant, the epitome of an emperor.

If possible, the empress is even more breathtaking. Empress Serinya is perhaps half her husband's dizzying height, but she is by no means a short woman. Her long, languid limbs seem to flow with an incredible grace, her skin is porcelain perfection, her eyes are a gentle brown, her lips are two pale roses. And her hair is a remarkable silver color, not grey, but shimmering shimmering silver, brilliant as Ariella's sterling pendant. It is pinned up in an elegant long braid that all the noblewomen will try to copy at the next ball, but it will never look as effortless on them as it does on her.

They say that her parents are deeply in love, that in a world where marriages are arranged for convenience, this is the one exception. They say that her mother heard her father speak at the university, that she fell under his spell, that she defied her parents and fled to marry this strange young urchin boy, with magic in his kiss and poetry on his tongue. How ironic, then, is it, that I am expected to marry the old way, without any say at all in who I spend the rest of my life with.

Her brothers sit on the thrones behind their parents, looking bored as usual with the proceedings. Broad-shouldered and morose, black-haired Teinorus, the eighteen-year-old crown prince, slumps miserably in his ornate seat. He doesn't want to be here-he would rather be playing his high harp and writing his poetry. Next to him looms tall, thin Aeroch, whose raven hair is already growing to a length to rival his father's. She winces at the cruel, hard lines of his face. Aeroch is only seventeen, but he is already growing quite a reputation among the serving girls. Interactions with the prince often result in livid bruises on soft skin, or unwanted, unspoken-of pregnancies that send the girls fleeing back to their villages. Finally, there's the youngest prince, slack-jawed rat-faced Marcellus, with a mop of greasy brown hair. Marcellus is fifteen, near enough to her age to be her twin-ugh, as if!-but instead he has become her especial tormentor, as bad as Valarys. None of them are fit to rule a pigsty, much less the whole empire.

She swallows as the full weight of her parents' disapproving eyes fall on her. "You're late," her father rumbles. Her mother purses her lips, says nothing. "I was expecting you fifteen minutes ago. Where have you been?"

Ariella swallows, tries to think of an explanation, but she is saved by a cheery, if slightly inebriated, voice. "Calm down, Julius, the girl's here at least; that's all that matters." She turns toward the voice, seeing the flamboyant clothes of High Lord Rythicaen Ruble, one of her father's closest advisors. With skin the color of polished bronze, a fall of rich copper curls, and a strong-jawed face with sharp dark eyes, he is rakishly handsome. And his sharp wit and genial personality have made the energetic lord one of the most eligible bachelors at court.

"But late to her own presentation! Can you imagine?" Her mother's musical voice fills the air. "With a face like that, girl, you're lucky we had a presentation at all. The least you could do is try to act a little more invested in your future."

My future, what a depressing thought.

But Ruble laughs. "Oh, hie off the young lady, Lady Serinya. She came, didn't she? Let's not spoil the night with coulds and maybes." He gestures emphatically with his wine glass, splattering a little on the costly marble floor.

The emperor chuckles. "Well, I suppose Rythicaen does have a point. Let's get on with it."

"Yes, of course." Ruble taps his foot impatiently.

"You may present her, since you seem so eager," says her father, his eyes fixed on a point above her.

Ariella is stung. Her father, who has both presented Liannon and Valarys himself, will not present her, will not extend the barest courtesy, will not even look at her. Of all the humiliations, this is the worst.

Well, what did you expect? that voice in Ariella's head, the one that always tells her that she'll never be good enough for her perfect family, for herself, even, admonishes her. A hundred proposals and a father's kiss? You're lucky you didn't get the back of his hand. She clings to this thought, tells herself she was expecting this to happen, but that still doesn't banish the tears that flood her eyes, the heat that fills her cheeks and makes them as brilliant red as blood on winter frost.

"What say you, Rythicaen?" her father calls. "For the love you bear me?"

For a terrible moment, Ariella is afraid he will refuse, and then she will be even more humiliated than she already is. But the High Lord only hesitates a moment before saying. "Certainly. Shall we?" He offers his arm to Ariella.

She spends a few minutes gaping at it like an idiot, before realizing what he wants her to do. Of course! Shaking with anticipation, she clutches his arm, forcing the most regal smile she can to her face, though her heart is pounding and her knees could go weak any moment now. She blinks the tears from her eyes, pretending that she is as beautiful as Liannon and Valarys, and stands up straight.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Esteemed guests! Your attention, please!" At the sound of Ruble's shout, heads turned in the direction of the dais, eyes fixated on her in fascinated horror. "It is my great honor to present to you Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ariella!"

There is a dramatic silence and then lukewarm applause fills the room. Ruble seizes her hand and lifts it upward with his own, a gesture of victory.

There are so many faces, all with their eyes fixed on her, that she feels an overwhelming urge to run and hide somewhere. But then her eyes seize upon the figure in the first row, and she is rooted to the spot.

High Lord Alastair Cielaré. Cold grey eyes the same shade as her own, moon-pale skin, shoulder length ebony straight hair, a long face all planes and angles and hard lines. Her father's other advisor, and the love of her life.

For years, she has tried to work up the courage to speak to him, but to no avail. When he is in the room, her eyes are drawn to him like a magnet-he has that aura about him, an untouchable aura, an unbreakable aura, a force of presence that just draws you to him. But whenever they are together-and she sees a lot of him, as he is always around her father-her tongue freezes, her mouth goes dry, and her wit flees from her like rats deserting a sinking ship, leaving her mute as a piece of furniture.

He's always kind to her, however. In truth, he's one of the few people who doesn't seem repulsed by her existence. He speaks to her in the same measured, even cadences he uses with everyone else. And while jealous nobles often whisper malicious things of him-that he's an atheist, that he's as weak as a woman, that he's scheming to drive a wedge between her parents so he can exert even more control over the emperor-the rumors stop when he enters the room. His reputation is one that brooks no slander, and powerful men tremble when he enters a room.

Her blood boils suddenly as she sees Valarys edge closer to the High Lord, a flirtatious smile playing around the corners of her lips. Valarys has always known, with that damned awful knack she has for reading people, Ariella's desire for the High Lord. Ever since she found out, she has continually flirted with him whenever Ariella is around. She cares nothing for him, just wants to irritate Ariella, as if to say, I'm beautiful, and perfect, and desirable, and I can steal any man from you, sister, no matter how much your dear heart aches.

This time, Vala is edging closer and closer to him, until her hand rests in the crook of his elbow. He says something to her. She laughs, a high-pitched, musical sound, throwing her head back in laughter that is obviously false. Ariella can't tell if he can see it. Her fists tighten, her throat trembles, and before she can think what to do, she hears her voice saying, "High Lord, will you do me the honor of being my first partner this evening?"

Oh, Seven Angels above, why did I just say that?

His lips part in surprise, and she is certain he will give her a heartbreakingly polite rejection, but instead, he says, "Certainly. That is, if the lady has no objection?"

Valarys's smile freezes on her face, but she has to agree. "Of course. Perhaps some other time?" she says, her tone conspiratorial, her fingers lingering on his arm for just a casual moment longer, before she relinquishes him to her.

"I shall await that day with bated breath," he says smoothly, and with that, she whirls away in a swish of silver-blue skirts.

The High Lord ascends to the dais, and bows to

the empress and emperor, who favor him with warm, but confused smiles. The smirks of the gathered crowd slowly melt away, followed by confusion.

Ha! She takes his arm, following him down the steps of the dais. In this moment, she feels as elegant as her mother, more beautiful than Liannon or Valarys.

When they arrive amid the swarm of dancing couples, his hand finds her waist, and he begins, masterfully guiding her into a traditional waltz. Heart hammering, she focuses on her steps, trying to ease her breath into its regular cadence.

There is nothing but silence between them, just them and the music. She has never been much of a dancer, but she feels like a master when she's with him. He moves effortlessly, guiding her through the more complex steps and letting her body be the center. She expects that everyone watching must be terribly surprised by her supposed dancing skill. He's making me look like a better dancer than I am. But why?

He is steering her toward a corner now, where few people are lingering, and her heartbeat resumes its erratic rhythm. She follows, barely able to contain her delight.

Once they have reached the secluded corner, he lets go of her hand rapidly, then just as fast, seizes it again. Picking up on the motion, she whirls, then copies him, dropping his hand, then grabbing it. She has never learned this dance before, but with such an excellent master, she feels not the least bit uneasy.

Around the ballroom, she sees the other couples follow their lead, and without further ado, the musicians strike up a devilishly fast tune. The dance is equally fast, but-either due to her concentration or his leading-she does not miss a step. She finds herself enjoying this, relaxing into the music and him, and, during a particularly hard part, flashes him a coquettish grin, cocks her head, and asks, "Where is this dance from, lord? I've not heard of it."

Angels, I'm as bad as Vala.

He raises an eyebrow. "It's a dance from the villages, up north. They call it the firewhip."

She laughs. "I can see why."

"Yes, it's rather fast, isn't it?" Ariella smiles, a real one this time, but then he says, in a more serious tone, "Can I ask you a question, Princess?"

Her heart pounds against her chest, but she says smoothly, "Of course."

"Why did you ask me to dance?"

Her body freezes. What does he expect me to say? "Forgive me, milord, I did not realize the offer offended you!" she says with a laugh, but just the right narrowing of the eyes to put him on the defensive.

It works. "No, no, not at all. I simply wonder why? There are many other men here, some handsomer than me and closer to your own age." he says quickly.

None handsomer, my dear. But you're not going to gauge my feelings with a simple question. I'm not that easy. "I believe a simple explanation will suffice, milord. You see, when it came time to call a partner, you just happened to be in my line of eyesight. Rather than deliberate unnecessarily over a tree that would bear no fruit, so to speak, I thought to seize the opportunity in front of me." So don't flatter yourself. Oh my, where am I getting all this courage?

"A tree? And here I was, thinking we were talking of dances."

She forces a laugh. "Compared to my elder sisters, how can I compete?"

"Yet you stole me from Lady Valarys with hardly an effort. I think you're competing quite well."

Her face glows at the praise. "You are too kind, milord."

"I only speak the truth, Princess Ariella. But you still haven't answered the question."

Damn, he is insatiable! "Perhaps I never will, just to vex you."

"Then I will stay by your side until you do." he offers in riposte, spinning her sideways, until she catches his waist.

Is he...flirting with me? Besides the occasional interaction with her brothers, Ariella had never spent time around men. However, she had read enough fashionable novels to get an idea, and the very thought sent her heart racing and her pulse pounding. Do I like this? He certainly wasn't oily, like Lyris Andelion. And damn, was he handsome, with that long face framed by those elegant locks. "All the more reason for me to refuse." she parries jokingly, hoping her ardor doesn't show on her face.

"Ha. Let's return to you, Princess. The evening is, after all, in your honor."

"Would that my lord father thought the same," she quips, though with a bitterness that surprises even her.

He stops abruptly. "What do you mean by that?"

Ariella shrugs it off. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

Her heart trembles with anticipation, and she replays those words in her head over and over. It does to me...No one has ever, ever asked her what she thinks, why she thinks what she thinks. No one has ever thought that what she thinks matters.

But as flattered as she is, as attracted as she is, she is not certain she likes it very much. She does not want to be held accountable for the clumsy fumbling of her tongue, especially where her father is concerned. Criticizing the emperor, in this political climate, could be dangerous.

The High Lord persists. "Your father loves you, Princess. You can't possibly mean that."

She laughs. "And you can't possibly believe that. If he loves me so, why didn't he present me as he presented my sisters? He is a good emperor, my lord...but it would take a kinder man than he to love a weak deformity such as myself."

"You are no deformity, lady." He appears concerned. She drops his hand, makes to move for the wineglasses arrayed on the long table, but he catches her wrist, seizes it with surprising strength.

"That's kind, but-"

"It's true. You are not, nor have you ever been, deformed. I have seen the deformed, and you, milady, do not number among them. Nor are you weak."

"But I'm not beautiful."

He says nothing to this. She knows she has won, but cannot hold back a touch of melancholy. Oh, how she would love to hear his compliments and revel in his praise, but she would know them for lies, pathetic attempts to curry favor, and reject them as she rejects Lyris. He is too honest, too brutal for that. Instead, he does something that thrills her, not only whittles her raw feelings into a point of ambition, but makes the hair stand up on the back of her neck, as he whispers, harshly secretive. "There are other means to power."

What does it mean? What can it mean? She meets his eyes, the same stone-grey color as her own, and, dropping her voice, murmurs, "Tell me more."