Ivory is convinced there is no better torture than putting someone in a pair of heels, in the middle of a crowd, where everything is stuffy and she is expected to dance.

It's been at least a good hour. Even though the party wasn't too bad when it only consisted of feasting on foreign plates her stomach will never forget, Ivory realizes now that the later they are getting into the night, the worse the events that ensue are getting.

Men have no manners. They try to grope her hip. They want to lead her outside. The women aren't as intimidating, though she cannot say they are any better, for it seems what most of them wish to do here is gossip about where certain other rivals, as they call them, found their robes. And Ivory does not think she is made for this. She has no interest in spitting venom on the back of others, sleeping with strangers to feel better for a temporary moment; nor does getting absolutely drunk to forget her woes sound like a good idea.

It’ll never works, she thinks.

If they drown out their feelings like this, they will be bound to face their neglected monsters one day.

As another song starts—as people clap, and cheer on an orchestra whose stamina impresses Ivory—the young woman slips away from one of the men, who had managed to steal two dances from her.

By the time he has noticed she is gone, it is too late for him to catch up, for the crowd has engulfed his figure, and another young man has locked their elbows together.

Ivory wonders if such things are possible. Men with men. Women with other women. She had never seen it until today—someone who enjoyed the company of both. Yet, with the way her temporary-and-now-forgotten dance partner smiles at his new date, she hasn't a bout of doubt left in heart that what they had taught her when young, about what love and attraction could or could not be, was false.

She leaves the two men together.

There is still no sign of the prince. The hope of running into him that she'd kept in her mind all night long slowly withers as she travels back and forth across the ballroom again, without any catching sight of the man who saved her that fateful night.

Ivory’s feet are swollen in these ridiculous shoes. Her legs hurt. Everything hurts. She's tired, and she wants to go home, but she does not know where home is anymore.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

She sighs.

She grabs at the skirt of her dress and thinks of Robin, all the while hoping he is okay. Perhaps she should go back. Perhaps this party was in honor of the Prince, and is not actually for the Prince himself. It would make sense, Ivory thinks. After all, he is a prince. What was she even thinking by coming here?

Someone bumps into her shoulder. They do not bother apologizing, for they are apparently too lost in conversation with a friend to care about harming and being harmed. Ivory turns in the direction of the entrance and considers it. The exit is still a ways back, and the blisters that stick to the soles of her feet— her ankles—like leeches, pulse with an ache she finds difficult to ignore.

She eyes a different part of the party—a door that was left open, where it seems not many have decided to stay. Ivory takes a peek inside. The weakly lit hallway is decorated in paintings of people whose faces she is sure she would recognize had she not been raised in a closet. Vases stand erect on lovely pristine marble-made stands, but aside from that, the space is empty of souls, and much colder than the other rooms she’d gotten well acquainted with during the past few hours. And as Ivory nears the end of the hallway, it soon becomes clear to her that this place is surely off-limits to the mere commoner.

Before her figure, a marble staircase, made to match the stands around her, is risen—one that, surely, leads to the rest of the palace's facilities. Of course they would want no one here. But then, why have they not stationed a guard by the edge of these steps?

She frowns. It is quite careless.

Unless... the royals are not home?

Ivory gulps. As intriguing as this rather empty part of the castle may be, she figures it is best to go back. Being caught would certainly not help the state of her affairs. She doubts they would believe her, if she claimed she’d only been trying to find a place to rest her feet, so that she could leave soon after.

She huffs. She starts making her trip back to the hallway, where sounds of laughter can be heard. A slit of golden light cuts the face of the woman—who is trapped within a bronze frame—in two. Ivory freezes upon reaching the painting. “I don't remember leaving this open…” a guard mutters, next to the door whose knob Ivory had been on the verge of nudging open.

“Well,” another clears his throat. “Winds are strong tonight,” he says. “Shit happens.”

And then, the world goes dark once more.

Ivory shivers.

There's no way she can head back outside now. They would definitely see her, and it's already a miracle they didn't decide to check to see if someone had come inside.

She takes a deep breath and turns back towards the staircase she’d come from. If memory serves her right, there was a space beneath where one could hide.

All right, Ivory—the young woman huffs as she marches forth, into the black—it's just going to be a little detour, nothing more.

Everything's fine.

You'll be out of here and giving a bag of seeds to Robin in no time.