Chapter 69: The Twilight Before The Crown (4)
Lucien barely had time to flinch before both his shoulders were seized with unexpected firmness.
He was flipped around in one swift motion, and found himself staring, more accurately, gawking, at a man whose entire face seemed built around a single, glorious monument of facial hair.
A moustache.
A thick, pristine, imperial swirl of silvery gray that curled at the ends with mathematical precision, standing out like a ceremonial banner on an otherwise severe face.
The man peered at Lucien over the curve of that moustache with narrowed eyes, immaculate monocle glinting under the chandelier’s light.
He tutted.
“Late,” the man said, moustache quivering with each syllable.
“And dressed like a beggar recently rescued from a chimney.”
Lucien opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He tried again.
“I think there’s been a-”
“-Mistake?” the man cut in, nostrils flaring.
“Indeed. The mistake is you appearing at the Grand Ascendancy Ball looking like you rolled through a field and then lost a duel with a rabid coat rack.”
Lucien blinked.
“Ball?”
But the man wasn’t listening.
With a huff and the roll of an exasperated shoulder, he spun Lucien around and began marching him down a narrow side hallway adjacent to the floral corridor.
Lucien staggered after him, shoes skidding slightly on the polished floor.
“Wait, wait, where are we-?”
“Young men these days,” the moustached man muttered.
“No sense of timing. No sense of fashion. No sense of self-respect.”
They stopped before a pair of intricately carved mahogany doors, etched with winged serpents entwined in what might have been embroidery patterns or arcane runes.
With a wave of his hand, the man opened them without touch.
Light flooded out.
Dozens of mannequins stood silently inside.
Racks of fine clothing lined the walls, velvets, silks, satins, brocades in every shade of royal decadence.
Gold thread glinted under floating crystal orbs that circled the ceiling like watchful eyes.
Lucien’s mouth opened again.
“This is-”
“Wardrobe Room No. 2,” the man declared, shoving Lucien forward.
“You’ll be fitted. Quickly. The appetizer course is nearly over.”
“Appeti- no, listen- wait!” Lucien stumbled into the room.
“I think I’m in the wrong place-”
“Do not embarrass yourself further,” the man interrupted, raising a single gloved finger in warning.
“You’re already late.”
Before Lucien could object again, three other attendants emerged from the walls, or at least it felt that way.
Young men and women in dark uniforms, each carrying measuring tapes, pins, shoes, and folded cloth, all converging on Lucien like a pack of well-mannered predators.
“Wait- what are you-!?”
Cold fingers tugged at his tunic.
“Hey- personal space!”
A belt was unfastened.
“Alright! Okay! I can undress myself- whoa- HEY!”
His protests dissolved into a flurry of panicked gasps and half-formed complaints as layer after layer was removed, replaced, tucked, pressed, and fastened in rapid succession.
The older man stood to the side, arms folded, nodding approvingly as Lucien was spun around like a mannequin.
From somewhere near his knees, a voice chirped, “Lift your leg.”
“I don’t even know you!”
There was a collective tug, then a small yelp.
Somewhere in the room, a distant scream echoed.
Maybe Lucien’s. Hard to tell anymore.
Time blurred.
Cloth rustled.
Pins clicked. Someone polished his shoes while another combed back his hair.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.
Lucien stood before a mirror, blinking at the stranger in his reflection.
A black formal tailcoat of midnight velvet hugged his frame, trimmed in silver embroidery that shimmered faintly under the light.
His trousers were pressed, his boots polished so thoroughly he could see his own stunned face staring back.
A pale cravat, fastened with a moonstone pin, sat neatly at his collar.
His hair had been tamed.
His bandages artfully hidden beneath layers of fitted cloth.
He looked like a noble heir from a storybook.
“Better,” the man with the moustache said with a grunt of satisfaction.
Then he reached over and, without warning, shoved Lucien out through another set of double doors.
“Try not to drool on the carpets,” the man added as the doors closed behind him.
***
Lucien stumbled forward two steps, then froze.
The scene before him nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
The ballroom was a cathedral of elegance.
Vaulted ceilings rose high overhead, carved from white marble and etched with constellations that shimmered like real stars.
Floating lanterns drifted lazily beneath the dome, trailing golden light like fireflies trapped in moonbeams.
The walls were lined with opulent drapes, rich blues and silvers, and massive stained-glass panels depicting historical events Lucien had only ever skimmed in textbooks.
Crystal chandeliers glittered above, catching every glint of light and fracturing it into a thousand dancing fragments.
And the people, stars, the people.
Men and women in suits and gowns that seemed spun from starlight and seafoam, velvet and dream.
Silks that caught the wind, jewelry that sparkled like dew on morning petals, masks worn by some in delicate porcelain or feathered gold.
They spoke in soft laughter, raised glasses of champagne, and moved in slow spirals across the dance floor to the sound of a full orchestra tucked beneath a marble arch.
Perfume and spice hung thick in the air, mingling with the sweet, cloying scent of wine.
But Lucien’s eyes drifted toward only one thing.
The tables.
Stretching across the sides of the ballroom like gleaming oaths of decadence.
Glazed roasts on silver platters.
Baskets of fresh bread.
Cheeses in a dozen varieties.
Crystal bowls of ruby-red berries.
Pastries layered with cream and fruit.
Whole fish baked with herbs and citrus.
Pies so perfect they looked like sculpture.
Waiters drifted through the crowd with silver trays, each balancing thin glasses of colored liqueur or delicate amuse-bouches arranged like artwork.
Lucien’s stomach growled.
He didn’t care if this was a dream, a prank, or a mistake made by a half-sentient wardrobe.
He made a beeline for the buffet.
He didn’t run, but it was a near thing.
Eyes wide.
Limbs shaky.
Heart pounding not from nerves, but from hunger finally given permission.
He reached the long table.
Picked up a porcelain plate gilded at the rim.
Hands trembling slightly, Lucien reached out, and finally, gloriously, began to pile it with food.
One roast slice.
Two.
A spoonful of honey-glazed carrots.
A wedge of golden-brown pie.
A hunk of bread still warm to the touch.
His senses blurred into scent and texture and heat and need.
He didn’t know where he was.
He didn’t know why he was here.
He only knew one thing:
He was going to eat.
***
Elsewhere, under the golden glow of the chandeliers and the weight of a thousand whispered expectations, Vaelira wore her smile like armor.
It was the practiced kind.
Polished.
Sharp around the edges.
She tilted her head just so, let her eyes crinkle at all the right moments, and laughed, precisely once every three or four sentences, depending on the pomp of her current conversational opponent.
It was a dance, this whole thing.
A waltz of veiled questions and shallow compliments, of carefully veiled insults and desperate courtship masked as casual interest.
Every person who approached her, be it a simpering noble heir, an overly decorated military cadet, or the daughter of some minor baron, seemed to carry the same pitch: “Look how impressive I am. Look how connected. Look how eligible.”
And gods, were they all so incredibly dull.
“Yes, my father’s estate extends to the western coastline, oh, the sea breeze is simply divine this time of year.”
“I’ve recently been appointed sub-prefect of the disciplinary committee. Between us, I expect the title to be made official at the next board meeting.”
“Oh, Lady Vaelira, you simply must visit our summer villa. We host the most charming poetry recitals, exclusively original works, of course.”
Vaelira’s smile never faltered.
Inside, she was slowly dying.
Another toast, another small nod of polite interest, another sip of wine to mask the desire to scream.
Her gloved hand clutched the glass like a lifeline.
‘How is no one here worth talking to?’
Where were the real people?
The ones who had opinions that weren’t inherited or rehearsed?
Who didn’t treat every conversation like a prelude to a marriage proposal or a political alliance?
Another young noble with perfectly combed hair and the personality of a tea coaster leaned in and tried to make a comment about the cut of her gown, something about how the embroidery must’ve taken dozens of hours.
She barely registered it.
Her smile twitched.
She murmured something agreeable and excused herself with the grace of a diplomat dodging war.
She glided through the crowd like a knife through silk, smooth, practiced, lethal in her intent to escape.
The air thinned as she reached the edge of the ballroom, her heels clicking against marble, her wine glass half-empty.
The gilded doors leading to the side terrace stood ajar, and she seized the chance like a starving woman lunging for bread.
She stepped out.
Cool air kissed her cheeks.
The scent of lavender hedges and dewed stone replaced the suffocating blend of perfume, champagne, and powdered egos.
Vaelira exhaled.
Gods, she needed that.
She leaned against the balustrade, one arm crossed under her chest, the other raising her glass for a small, bitter sip.
“Just a little longer,” she murmured to herself.
“Smile a little longer. Laugh at one more pathetic joke. Bat away one more gloved hand.”
She let her head fall back against the pillar, eyes half-lidded, the wind tousling the loose strands of her hair.
“They all talk the same. Politics, inheritance, glory, old money. It’s like listening to the same three operas on repeat, but badly sung.”
She rolled her eyes at the stars.
“Not one conversation worth remembering. Not one mind worth arguing with. How do they all manage to have so much to say, and still say nothing?”
The glass clinked softly as she finished her wine and set it down on the ledge.
Somewhere inside, a string quartet began their next piece, more pompous than the last.
Laughter erupted in delicate bursts, the sound of ambition dressed in silk.
Vaelira rubbed her temple and sighed.
“The next person who tries to ‘accidentally’ brush their hand against mine is getting a fork in the thigh.”
She let that fantasy linger.
And then, after one final breath of the chill night air, she straightened.
Poise returned to her spine.
Cool detachment returned to her eyes.
The mask settled back into place.
Time to go back in.
Back into the fire of facades and fakery.
She turned on her heel, unaware that fate, in the form of a very hungry boy in a suit too expensive for him, was about to crash violently into her carefully balanced world.
