Isolde leaned on the edge of the balcony railing. She’d managed the queue of guests who’d arrived on time or close enough to join the queue before it could be cleared, greeting each of them personally after a stentorian announcement from Aildag, the ducal bellman.
Once the queue cleared, she’d sent the hoarse old man off to bed with a well-earned flask of warmed honeyed wine to rest his throat, deciding that anyone who was more than a quarter of a bell late didn’t deserve the honor of an announcement. Then she ordered the musicians into action, opened up the dance floor by dancing the first dance with Marcus (who was too busy to tie her down in conversation afterward), and quietly slipped away to the balcony to take a minute’s rest.
There she had found Gregor. The new master of hounds had set himself up in the balcony of the great hall, watching the festivities from above.
“Is Avery coming yet?”
Gregor shrugged. “His Grace is still in the inner keep. I think he’s worried about his appearance.”
Isolde rolled her eyes. “At times, it is as if he still thinks himself twelve years old, with little silver pimples and constantly surrounded by the smell of burnt toast.”
Gregor made a noncommittal noise.
Isolde settled in to watch the dancers, taking mental notes on who seemed to be a good partner and who she would prefer to avoid. Not for the first time, she wished she’d inherited her mother’s elven ears instead of her father’s normal round human ears; supposedly, elven hearing was keener, and Isolde felt like she could almost parse out some of the conversations drifting up from below.
The upper gallery of the great hall hadn’t been closed off to the guests, so a few other people slowly trickled up to the balcony, some with more interest in watching than dancing, some with an interest in avoiding someone in particular.
Then there was a sudden stir of the dancers of the floor, and a woman wearing a purple gown with rich gold threading spun out of her partner’s arms, dress rippling behind her from the speed with which she bolted across the dance floor. Sabine, grandniece of the Duke of Lancaster, seventh in line for a ducal throne and breathtakingly beautiful.
“His Grace has arrived,” Gregor said.
“I see.” Isolde watched as her foster brother stepped into view. Sabine bent into a deep curtsy at his feet; Avery simply stood there, blatantly gawking down at the woman’s bosom.
Hi! Metalface, nice of you to finally show up. Her face is a little higher than that. Don't drool, it's unseemly. Isolde crossed her arms in annoyance as she stared down at her tall silver cousin. Tell her to get up and then go dance with her.
A few minutes later, she and Gregor watched Sabine walk away from Avery with an exaggerated sway to her hips and a smile pulling up the corners of her lips. Avery walked underneath the balcony.
“Excuse me,” Isolde said. “I should get back down there and dance.”
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“So she’s the daughter of an earl?” Ivette swallowed nervously, watching the petite woman in the bright orange dress dancing with the duke. “My stepmother will be furious if I don’t get at least three dances with eligible titled men tonight. But the duke… he’s so… maybe you could introduce me to one of your other cousins?”
“Don’t be intimidated,” Isolde said. “Look, I know she ranks you, but you’re the daughter of a prosperous baron. And your dress puts hers to shame.” She watched Elizabeth twirl close to Avery, groaning as her foster brother’s gaze turned downward, catching only briefly on the petite woman’s face before lodging lower on a neckline decorated with white ribbons.
Then she glanced over at Ivette, looking down at the daringly cut feeder neckline edged in goldwork and the crescent of cleavage revealed therein. “I think you’d do just fine at catching the duke’s attention on your own, you look delectable,” Isolde said, patting Ivette’s arm in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “But I’ll introduce you to him and make him ask you to dance. Then you’ll have danced with the duke – surely every other titled man here will be lining up for your attention.”
Ivette smiled shyly. “I hope so,” she said.
The couple danced partly out of view, the top of Avery’s head visible among the crowd. Then there was a feminine shriek, and the music suddenly stopped. Avery’s head bobbed down out of view. Isolde opened her mental connection to her foster brother. What’s going on?
Uh, just a little accident, nothing to be worried about. Avery’s mental voice sounded embarrassed. I tripped near the edge of the dance floor.
With a frown and a sense of urgency, Isolde pushed her way through the confused couples stopped in the middle of the dance floor, Ivette trailing slowly in her wake. Halfway across, she passed Beatrice carrying an empty goblet in the other direction. A blonde woman wearing a dark maroon dress edged with black embroidery, cut very similarly to Ivette’s dress if slightly more conservatively, was dabbing at Avery’s arm with a handkerchief – Gelle. Off the side, a woman in a sea-green gown with long flowing red hair and gently-pointed ears was talking with Elizabeth, tugging at the white ribbons on her dress.
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“Right. You’re Sir Simon’s sister, then? Do I remember that correctly?” Avery asked. The girl nodded.
Isolde pushed forward gamely. “Is everything alright?”
Avery nodded. “No harm, no foul. Except maybe to Elizabeth’s dress, but that wizard girl was here.”
Isolde looked back over at the redhead. “Fiona,” she said automatically. The journeyman wizard looked completely different in a dress with her hair down.
“Right, that’s her name,” Avery said. He cocked his head, listening to an unseen voice. “I should ask her to dance next,” he said, then turned to wave at the musicians.
“Wait,” Isolde said, giving her own signal to the musicians as two of them started playing. “I have someone to introduce to you. This is Ivette.”
“Delighted to meet you, Ivette,” Avery said. He paused, eyes unfocusing for a moment. “We should dance later, Ivette,” he said, then looked down at the blonde woman holding his arm. “But Gelle is waiting, and I think so are other couples.”
As the music started up and the couple danced, Ivette turned to Isolde with concern. “She’s from mere landed gentry,” Ivette said, a sense of vague offense creeping into her voice. “A knight’s daughter. Her father is going to be one of my father’s junior business partners, I think.”
“If he’s danced with a knight’s daughter and an earl’s daughter, surely he has no objection to dancing with a baron’s daughter,” Isolde said. “But you’ll have to catch him again later. Let’s try Sir Giles. He’s the son and heir of the Earl of Northumbria – the big lunk trying to fade into the stonework on the pillar over there. Just watch your feet when you dance with him, he’s not quite sure of his steps.”
“Son and heir… that should be good enough for my stepmother.” Ivette unconsciously lifted a hand to her cheek, rubbing it thoughtfully.
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Isolde held her hand out. “I would be delighted to dance, Sir Osric.”
The very pale man with hair so blonde it was nearly white offered a closed smile that didn’t reveal his teeth. “Thank you,” he said quietly as they stepped together to the music. “Neither Laudine nor Emeline have managed to catch the eye of your illustrious cousin. Could you perhaps assist?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Isolde said, then closed her eyes to focus as she spun in place. Metalface, you haven’t danced with either of the d’Ivry sisters yet? That’s one of the wealthiest families in the duchy!
“Thank you,” Osric said, pulling her into a side-by-side promenade. “You are a lovely woman both inside and out.”
Avery’s voice sounded in her skull. They’re not on the list.
What list? Isolde smiled at Osric brightly before he twirled her away.
List of suitable suitors. Avery’s voice sounded embarrassed. Look, can we talk about this another time? It’s complicated.
“I should warn you,” Isolde said aloud to Osric. “He doesn’t always listen to me.” What can possibly be wrong with the d’Ivry sisters? They’re rich, beautiful, and granddaughters of one of your most important barons.
Ask your mother, Avery sent curtly.
Osric rolled Isolde in close, holding her tightly, and then dipped her, showing her the ceiling for a brief exhilarating moment. Her heart pounded with excitement as the two of them stepped apart.
“All I ask is that you try,” Osric said with a shrug. “I understand. Laudine barely listens to me at all.”
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“Isolde! You would know!” Fiona’s eyes lit up as she spotted Isolde. “During my last dance, I kept smelling bread or pastries or something, fresh out of the oven. But where are they?”
Isolde rubbed her nose in thought. “Were you just dancing with Avery?”
“Yes,” Fiona said. Self-consciously, she felt at the pointed tip of her left ear. “Did you see us together? Is that alright? Was I dancing the wrong way?”
Isolde shook her head. “No, no, no… well, I wouldn’t know if you were dancing wrong or not, I was stuck in conversation with Earl Ricard and couldn’t see the dance floor past him at all. But nobody is going to tell a ruling duke he can’t dance with a cute elfblood of humble breeding in his own duchy at his cousin’s ball. Especially not me. My mother is half-blooded, I just didn’t get the ears.”
“Oh! Lady Maude is your mother!” Fiona covered her mouth and smiled sheepishly. “I guess I should have known that already, sorry. Master Warin didn’t tell me. All I knew when I wrote you is that you were the one who sent the invitation to the ball, and that you were some kind of cousin of his.”
Isolde shrugged. “You’re not the first,” she said.
Fiona’s stomach growled. The journeyman wizard shifted from foot to foot. “Um. So, is there a basket of rolls around here or something? I do feel hungry.”
“No,” Isolde said. Conscientiously, she signaled a servant. She was about to say more, but stopped herself, smirking instead. Metalface, she sent. Are you booked for your next dance?
No, not yet. A pause. Did you find someone?
Dance with Fiona again, then. Isolde’s smirk broke into a grin.
I thought I wasn’t supposed to dance with anyone more than once. Avery’s mental voice sounded distracted and confused.
Usually, yes, but this is for me, Isolde sent back.
Fiona glared. “What’s so funny? I could smell the food, and you’re telling me there isn’t any.”
Isolde schooled her expression. “My apologies. I didn’t mean there wasn’t any food at all, just that it wasn’t what you were smelling. I’ll have a servant bring something for you after the next dance.”
“The next dance?” Fiona’s eyebrows furrowed. The music slowed, and after a moment Avery approached, a heavily-breathing Ivette trailing behind.
“Journeyman Fiona, may I have this dance?” Avery extended his hand, the wooden caps over his talons clicking together as he uncurled his fingers.
Fiona hastily smoothed her sea-green gown, taken off-guard. Then she extended her hand. “Yes?”
Ivette gave the pair an alarmed look as she dabbed at her forehead with her sleeve, then turned to Isolde. “That’s not the Lady Maude, is it?”
“No, no, Maude is a lot older,” Isolde said, gesturing at the woman with the flowing red hair. “Gray hair and everything, elf blood or not.”
“Her gown looks a little old-fashioned, but it suits her figure well,” Ivette said, self-consciously adjusting her crimson dress. “It’s a nice color, too, sea green matches her eyes and complements her hair. No wonder he favors her with a second dance. I must have looked like a gaudy strumpet next to her.”
“Ivette, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Isolde said. “Him dancing twice with her means nothing. It’s just a dance. And while your dress is daring, you don’t look the least bit cheap in it. It’s glorious, and with that deep feeder neckline, you look downright edible.”
Ivette sighed heavily. “Thanks.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment and adjusted her bodice. “Do you know where Sir Giles went?”