story - part 21 - party two - 1099 words

There is one of those moments of dead, flat silence. Then chittering whispers, darkly amused, begin to spread like wildfire. The Queen drags herself up to stand, sweeping her skirts elegantly about her, and makes a dignified exit. Who can blame her?

The music kicks into something lighter and more decidedly cheerful. Gradually, conversations kick back into action and people slip out to dance. I can taste tension in the air, people forcing upbeat attitudes and energy. Their minds are racing, they take a petty kind of delight in the King's discomfort, the fact that he is glowering at the head of his table.

"Dance with me." An order, as opposed to a request. Calidris's hand has settled upon my arm; the young man she has been conversing with is gone, disappearing out onto the floor with a rosy-cheeked young woman in tow.

I want to refuse her. I have not danced in over a decade, and I am not sure I can pull it off without losing my cloak and spilling my secrets. And I do not like the fact that I am her final resort, that I am giving her something to do, that she comes to me when all other options have wandered away. She does not give me a choice, however - she tugs insistently on my arm, dragging me out into the careful line dance, settling into place opposite me.

Once again, I am the stranger and the outsider. I feel awkward on the floor, standing out in simple black clothing. I am not as carefully done up as the rest of the nobles, I feel drab in comparison. A crow nested in among the peacocks.

"You look like you are at a funeral. At least pretend to enjoy yourself. For my sake?" A murmur in my ear, as the line moves into synchronized motion and she steps in close against me. I must be frowning intently, trying to mask nerves with indifference and struggling to figure out why I suddenly care what all these strangers think.

I try to smile and relax, for her if nothing else, but it is hard. Especially when I glance up and catch a number of eyes on us, when I blink over and meet a steady, angry stare from Tumaire. I wonder if that is directed at me, but why should it be? It is more likely a lingering reaction to Amazilia's scene, it is spill over from his father's bad humor.

The dance is long and lingering. It continues, after I am tired of it and ready to sit down. A dull ache has settled into the small of my back, and the cloak feels far too heavy over the dead weight of ruined wings. The stares from the sidelines make it feel heavier still. I realize now that, while I was careful to give the Prince his potion, I forgot to down one of my own.

I feel like an invalid, limping to a halt and wincing as I bow the end of the dance. Her expression shifts to something I think is concern, she makes it worse by reaching out to support me and lead my back away toward our table, our seats. I can tell she feels guilty, responsible, and I want to explain that I know it is not her fault, but I do not know how.

We settle down into our chairs and I attempt to ignore the stab of pain and at lea st look comfortable. Her hand is still settled gently against my arm, and it helps. The touch is oddly electric, I imagine I can feel every swirl in her fingertips. People do not touch me often.

"Do they always hurt? Yours seem to, and the Prince's, and you said your mother..." Tone soft, fading out into nothing. There is no one near enough to listen in, but she still keeps her voice soft and this a quiet secret between us.

"Healthy wings do not hurt. Our bone structure is supposed to be different, our muscles develop differently," I hate how pained I still sound, how gritty my voice has become. I do not want to seem this weak in front of her. Clearing my throat, hoping to drive it back into something solid and steady, I shake my head and lift one shoulder in a tiny shrug.

"Mine are not healthy, nor were my mother's." A flat laugh, shuddering, escapes between my teeth and I immediately look away from her, toward the door. I consider getting up and retreating to the comfort of my rooms and a sleeping drought. When I turn back to face her, an apology and a request to be excused on my lips, I realize she is staring at the Prince in thought and confusion.

"And him? They are stunning, they look healthy, but everyone knows that there is something wrong with him." I follower her eyes to blink at Tumaire, and it takes me a moment to realize that he is watching us out of the corner of his eye, he has noticed our attentions. It is too late to pretend we have been watching something else, now, so I do not bother trying.

I let her question hang in the air for a moment, struggling to find some answer that will not break the oaths of secrecy I have taken, the promises made to my King and country. Those wings were designed to be stunning and flawless, to keep people from noticing that they sprouted a full two years later than they should have, that they grew in too fast and too large.

"He...he is built the same way you are. His bones are not arranged properly to support them." Vague enough that it does not give away the secret. Years of designing, of leafing through forbidden texts. Wings build from feather and bone, given life through blood and magic. The process itself is treason on a high level, even when performed by a King; the incantations used are punishable by exile, or worse. It took months to graft them to the Prince's spine and shoulders, but it was worth the effort.

"Ask me later, I will explain as much as I am allowed. For now, go dance, I will be fine on my own." Her mouth is opened, prepared to ask another question, but she can read my expression well enough to realize that I can take care of myself. I just need some time to breath, or an opportunity to escape, and she allows me to have it.