He tossed the empty bottle of poison away, the deadly liquid he had just imbibed that would have killed any other man within seconds was only making his stomach hurt. In fury, the large man, dressed in regal finery, tore down a rich damask curtain, and toppled an expensive bust of his own likeness, shouting with rage, before falling to his knees. He had had it. Lordship of one of the greatest and richest empires in the whole world, commanded navies and armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands of men and women, the wealth to buy the friendship of any enemy. Except those within, those he had considered family and loyal companions. Now, the only one left to him was his trusty bodyguard, a tall man of foreign culture that barely grasped the language. Yet this foreigner was the last person he could count on. His wife had left in the dark of night with most of his treasure, and most of their children to boot. His eldest son had betrayed him to their eternal enemy, the same enemy he had fought incessantly for close to thirty years, and he had paid the price for it, his head no longer connected to his body. Now, his younger son had raised his flag in rebellion as well, and the soldiers of the old enemy were literally at the palace’s gates. Smoke slowly crawled its way underneath the doors to the room, both the king and the bodyguard looking at it before their concerned and understanding eyes met. With a weary sigh, the king once again lamented his fate, took off his richly adorned vest and with a sad smile, asked his old friend for one last favour. Teary-eyed, the bodyguard unsheathed his sword, with a heavy accent bade his king farewell and thanking him for all the years of companionship. The cold iron of the blade sank into soft flesh.

Two-thousand people stood up from their seats and applauded enthusiastically as the music stopped, some with accompanying shouts of encouragement. Edward leaned down over the tangents and flashed an exhausted grin at Arvind, who responded with a weary smile of his own. The cast of the Queen Marie Metropolitan University Student Opera Society lined up on the stage and bowed to the audience’s show of appreciation, and the conductor signalled for the members of the QMMU Student Baroque Orchestra to stand up and take a bow as well. Mind numbed from playing a full three hour opera (admittedly with a half-hour intermission), Edward simply went through the motions, too exhausted to think about how his own performance had been and what grades the professors among the audience had given his form and playing. Instead he was contemplating finding whichever idiot had insisted on performing the modern libretto variant of Mitridate, re di Ponto, and toss them into the Goneril River. At least he had been playing the grand piano; Arvind had been given the unenviable task of playing the fortepiano, and it just so happened that the only set available to the orchestra on short notice capable of hitting six octaves required by the composition was an uncomfortably cranky piece of musical machinery. Every musician knew perfectly well that their instruments weren’t alive, but they still attributed them human-like emotions and personalities, and that fortepiano was definitely irascible.

The applause ended and the lights came on as the stage curtains came down, and the audience started to file out of the hall. It wasn’t nearly as grand as the Royal Cordelia Opera, but someone somewhere had managed to pull some major strings and managed to land them an opportunity to play at the Regent’s Theatre Hall, a pretty nice venue located in the Lower Inner City that had been constructed about three-hundred years back to serve as a major theatre scene to compete with King Henry Hall and the old Royal Globe. Not as grandly furnished as the other venues of comparable size, it was said to have better acoustics and had a lot of extra stage devices (such as the smoke machines and image screens used in the final throne room aria) since it was primarily a play stage. Edward groaned as he realised the night for him was not yet over; they had to pack up their instruments and in his case move the piano back to the storeroom backstage, and then help the opera troupe get their costumes and effects stored as well. Such was the fate of student orchestras and troupes, they had but a handful of the number of support staff their professional counterparts had. As the last of the audience left the hall, the stage hands and volunteers came out and started to pack the stuff down, starting with the percussion section, chatting excitedly with the orchestra members.

“Tight shit tonight, mate,” Arvind said as Edward closed the lid on the piano and unsecured the wheels, “those last few arias and especially the semi-finale chorale were a true pain. I swear to all the Gods that if that idiot who was in charge of loaning instruments makes me drop a grade because of the shitty fortepiano, I will… Well, I don’t know what’ll I do, but someone will be sorry.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Edward half-heartedly tried to placate his friend, “even the most vindictive of the professors, like Hofmann for instance, know that we’re not specifically taught the fortepiano as piano majors, and it’s only because of membership in the Student Baroque Orchestra that we’ve even touched the damn things.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Arvind conceded, a stage hand helping him move the ungainly offending instrument onto a cart, “but it’s not like I have as much to lose in terms of giving a poor performance compared to someone like you, Mr Honours Grade.”

Hadn’t Edward been so drained, he would have risen to the challenge –or chomped down on the obvious bait, depending on one’s point of view–, but his primary concern was simply to get his duties done and get home as quickly as possible. It had been a spectacular Year End performance, the celebratory “thank you” from the classical music students to any students or staff who wanted to watch held at the very last day of the second semester of each academic year. Over time, this tradition had morphed into a formal event that was also graded by each performer’s professor, a last chance to boost one’s grades before they were put to paper. It was considered quite an honour among music, opera, and ballet students to be allowed to partake, and the shows attracted scouts from orchestras and troupes from even off-world. But right now, Edward wasn’t thinking about that. Not even the customary post-performance pub-crawl by the members of the orchestra was in any way tempting, all he could think of was having a hot cup of tea and the only crawl he was interested in was into his bed.

“You headed back to Amaranth now that its summer holidays then?” Arvind was apparently still not done talking, and Edward had to stifle a sigh.

“No, probably not, the trip to Amaranth is both long and expensive, plus my parents don’t have a piano, and since we’re going into our third year, I need to keep up with my practicing if I’m going to stand a chance come final examination next summer.”

“You’re just inventing excuses to stay in Cordelia where your precious noblewoman girlfriend is,” Arvind cooed, “I can see right through you, lover boy.”

That last comment broke the proverbial camel’s back. Edward was not a young man with a propensity for anger, and it usually took a lot for him to get worked up, but being exhausted, hungry, not a little bit stressed, and more to the point, extremely fed up with his friend’s ribbing about this particular subject, he finally lashed out.

“First off,” Edward said in a flinty tone, stopping preparing the grand piano for transport, “she’s not my damn ‘girlfriend’, that’s insulting to both her and me. We’ve met a total of three times, and nothing apart from talking has happened between us. I would, at best mind you, consider us friends, but more like acquaintances at this point. I know Sandy ten times better than Lady Sélincourt, and you don’t go around making jokes about me meeting up with her, do you? Second, if you were even remotely aware of the social calendar of the nobility, you’d know June, July, and August is the peak of the Season for the upper classes, and Lady Sélincourt won’t have the time to deal with the hoi polloi like myself during that time, because she’ll be rubbing shoulders with her equals, as well as literal royalty. I fucking doubt she’ll have the time to think about a gangly Amaranthine piano student when she’s hanging out with the handsome and rich son of the Earl of Whateverthefuck during the Duchess of New Forest’s Ball, or while taking in the spectacle at the Royal Findias Derby, so I’d appreciate it if you tone down the insinuations, check your fucking facts, and mind your own bloody business.”

Arvind’s face had lost some of its usual colour during Edward’s rant and his teasing smile had quickly congealed into a stiff mask, and as Edward finished half-shouting, he simply put his head down, mumbled something, and started pushing the cart with the fortepiano on backstage.

Fuck, I’m going to have to apologise to him later on, don’t I? Edward thought bitterly. Well, it’s not like this is our first disagreement, but it might have been the first time I’ve actually lost my temper in front of him.

He ran a hand through his dark hair in anger, and took his glasses off to rub the corners of his eyes. When he put them back on again, he saw a pair of pale legs playfully dangling over the wall of the orchestra pit, black high-heels almost slipping off the dainty feet at the end of said legs. He looked up, and his emerald eyes met a set of nearly pink ones in return.

“Tough night, Master Heatherland? Do you want to talk about it?”

Oh no.

Sir Edward was on the best of days a very busy man, but recently he had become like a dervish of feverish activity, his secretaries and aides having trouble keeping up with him, and the lack of sleep was making him snappy and easy to ire. Sir Edward considered himself a lucky man; he was happily married, had three healthy and studious children, and was affluent enough to keep a nice Cordelia house and simultaneously not have any particular economic worries. However, these past few days he found he cursed his lot the moment he woke up, had to make himself presentable, put on a suit and take a skycar down to either the sprawling Foreign Office complex in the Quarters, or to Cabinet in Providence House in the Upper Inner City. Being the Foreign Secretary of the Kingdom of Aurora was a job Sir Edward Ranganekary wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy at this point in time. He tipped his office chair back and allowed himself a moment of self-pity as the last batch of Foreign Office senior staffers had just exited his office after being given their marching orders. He ran his hands across his face and contemplated letting out the loud shout of frustration that had been bubbling inside for the past few hours, but decided against it.

Sir Edward was tall, dark haired- and skinned courtesy of his second generation Telangana parents, although these past few years had produced more than a few silver lines in his dark manicured beard and carefully combed hair. Unlike most of his colleagues in the Cabinet, Sir Edward was not an elected representative serving as Member of Parliament; he was that rare beast of being a dedicated expert elevated into the illustrious company of government. While going against the grain when it came to Parliamentary tradition, it was not unconstitutional, and when Sir Alfred Carmichael had been asked by King Nicholas to form a government five years back, following a very convincing electoral victory for the Social Liberals and Royalists, Sir Edward had been approached as the first candidate for the position as Foreign Secretary. At one-hundred and seventy-two years old, Sir Edward had spent almost his entire career at the Foreign Office. Following graduating QMMU with an Honours Master’s Degree in political science, he had gone on to get a PhD in interstellar politics at the University of New Exeter, before being picked up by the FO, where he had spent the majority of the next century. After a two-decade tenure as senior lecturer at the University of New Victoria Institute of Comparative & Interstellar Politics, he was picked up again by the FO, and served for a brief time as the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs before Sir Alfred came a-calling. And now, five years later, he was seriously starting to regret the choices that had led him to saying yes when the proposal from the prime minister-elect came through.

A ping emanating from his desktop computer notified him that his personal secretary had just deemed another missive as important enough to notify the Foreign Secretary directly and he groaned. At this point, he was getting letters every waking hour from every imaginable ambassador, consul, government official, Foreign Office analyst, journalist, member of the Foreign Affairs Committee in Parliament, military brass, and only the Gods knew who else. He gave his computer a venomous glare that the piece of electronics blissfully ignored, before leaning back into his chair again, not bothering to open the e-letter. A strawberry blonde haired head suddenly appeared in his office’s doorway and cocked an eyebrow quizzically.

“You look like you need a friend,” Dame Fiona Spyros, Chancellor of the Exchequer, said and flashed the tired Foreign Secretary a bright smile. Dame Fiona was principally known to the public for her biting and sarcastic tone on the floor of the House of Commons, along with her uncompromising attitude towards fiscal management and in particular social- and defence spending. She was a true Social Liberal idealist, who fundamentally believed in only three things: The true objective of the State was to ensure equal rights, opportunity, and fundamental fiscal security for every member of society, the Royal Navy was the bulwark upon which the State ultimately relied on to safeguard those equal rights, opportunities and securities from hostile powers, and that a monarchy serving the will of the commoners and not the nobility or itself was the only morally acceptable argument to still keep it around. Luckily, the de Roze dynasty had yet to disappoint in their six-and-a-half century long history in that regard, which was why the Social Liberals had not followed their Labour brothers and sisters in declaring themselves ardently republican four centuries and change back.

“You don’t know the half of it, Dame Fiona,” Sir Edward said with a certain sense of exasperation colouring his tone. “I keep reaching down underneath my chair to check if there’s an ejection lever I can pull. To my dismay, I can’t seem to find any.”

Dame Fiona chuckled mildly and stepped into the Foreign Secretary’s Providence House office. Well, the inner part of it anyway, it had an outer office manned by his personal secretary, his chief of staff, and his personal advisor, but Spyros had simply walked through that without anyone daring to protest. The inner office hadn’t been furnished on Sir Edward’s orders, way too much rich, dark blood-oak and gilded Neo-Regency furniture and detailing for his taste, but at least he had been allowed to choose the paintings that decorated the walls, which was a collection of impressionistic colourscapes that challenged the viewer’s perception depending on their current mood and mental headspace. Like most cabinet minister’s offices, it had a sizable corner for relaxation, featuring chaise longue chairs, a small coffee table, and a window view towards the Goneril that was practically mesmerising during the afternoon, and the large windows behind Sir Edward’s desk looked out over the posh part of the Upper Inner City, despite being only four floors up.

Hazel-eyed and dirty blonde-haired Dame Fiona Spyros was not directly a physically impressive female specimen, but she carried herself with energy and confidence that made her appear physically larger, and she had a certain aura around her that made everyone pay just a bit more attention whenever she opened her mouth. At fifty-three, she was Sir Edward’s junior by over a century, but that didn’t matter much when considering the meteoric career Dame Fiona had had, and the experience she had accumulated along the way. She was an academic as well, with a PhD in Economics from Earth’s Sorbonne University, but had immediately stepped into politics upon returning home to Aurora following her disputation, and made a name for herself as a firebrand within the at the time stagnant Social Liberal party. She had been instrumental in recreating a fundamental political platform the Social Liberals could run from, and had been rewarded with what was widely regarded as the second-most important ministry post after the election victory five years back, much to the chagrin of the Conservatives and Democrats, who absolutely detested her insistence on social security spending. Now, the so-called “Red Dragon” (a terrifyingly dumb nickname penned by Conservative newspapers) sat down in one of the chaise lounge chairs, crossed her legs and beckoned for Sir Edward to join her, which the Foreign Secretary did with an accompanying sigh.

“So,” she said after Sir Edward had safely deposited himself in one of the comfortable chairs and loosened the buttons of his suit jacket, “how are you holding on?”

“Holding on?” he repeated with what might have been the first smile he had produced in a week. “Well, let’s see, the past week I’ve been positively swamped by letters of diplomatic protest or support or completely ambiguous ones, wholly dependent on whom crafted them in the first place, having to talk to a select choice of ambassadors of the ISA on three occasions, inviting Dr Thomas Grubauer, the Elysian plenipotentiary, to my personal office twice, and still getting nowhere in terms of resolving this particular bloody crisis.”

Sir Edward rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a groan he didn’t know he was holding in.

“I guess we should thank our lucky stars, and direct our appreciation to the Heavens considering the support we’ve received from our allies in the Royal Union, despite the fact that the Alliance has been running the conspiracy theory of the Royal Navy planting these buoys as hard as they have been, and that it hasn’t found soil to grow in amongst the vast majority of the Royal Union.”

“The fact that you have to specify ‘vast majority’, doesn’t sit very well with me,” Dame Fiona said, and crossed her arms across her chest. She wore a very tasteful deep green three-piece suit, not unlike in cut and design like Sir Edward’s own black one, apart from being more flexible in the obvious places due to differing anatomy. Even in the 29th century, the overall design of suits and formal-wear hadn’t really changed much from its inception in the 19th century. What isn’t broken and all that, Sir Edward mused briefly.

“Well, what can I say, Dame Fiona,” he said with an accompanying shrug, “there are some influential voices within parts of the Royal Union who would like to see the Kingdom brought down a few notches, and they’re not picky where their political ammunition comes from, even if it originates from the far-right in the bloody Alliance. I’m not naming names though, and they’re thankfully fringe elements in the overall politics of the Union. Suffice it to say, the major players are very much with us, me and His Majesty has received missives of support from the Queen of Dionysia, the Council of Princes of New Malta, after a bit of deliberating and internal discussion, the Graces of the United Duchies of Valerian, the Despot of Antioch, the Gerousia of Corinth, the Twin Majesties of Mithras, the Chancellor of New Babylon, and, lastly, the President of Azurea. That accounts for all the heads of state of the Royal Union. In addition, His Imperial Majesty of Myndowen, the Caliph of New Asqalān, and the Groß-Ältermann of the Neuhansa Sternbund have also publically declared their support for our version of events, as in, our Navy found this example of clear breach of interstellar law in the backyard of our own trusted ally, and that the self-same Navy putting it there makes absolutely no sense.”

Dame Fiona blew air out of her nostrils.

“So, every civilised star nation to the galactic ‘east’ of Elysium apart from the Valhallans and the Hydrans are with us?”

“Don’t forget the Dual Republics of Arcturus and Tartarus, but basically yes, if by ‘with us’, you mean that they find our version of events more believable than the Greens’.”

“That the Coma Berenice Federation and the Grand Republic of Fusō are staying mum, that’s not surprising at all, they’re practically in the pay of the ISA already.”

“Come now,” Sir Edward said in a mildly chastising tone, “that’s just a rumour, and not yet substantiated by any actual facts on the ground, and certainly not in any official diplomatic correspondence.”

Dame Fiona snorted in derision.

“Oh come off it, Sir Edward, you’re much more in touch with the interstellar political actualities than I am, and even I am perfectly aware that the Berenicans and Fusoans are busy gobbling down the swill they’re being served at the Elysian trough, and have been for the better part of a decade now.”

Sir Edward cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was taking. While not elected, Ranganekary was a member of the Royalist Party, and Dame Fiona was a member of the leadership core of the Social Liberals; sixty years ago this casual chat would have been unthinkable, and the idea of the two parties creating a coalition in Parliament had been beyond preposterous. There were six political parties currently represented in the Auroran Parliament; Labour, the Social Liberals, the Royalists, Democratic Coalition, the Conservative Party (often referred to as “Tories”), and the Homeland Party (sometimes called "Unionists" due to their fiery support of the Royal Union and maintaining that alliance), with varying distribution between the two Houses. The Royalists were, as the name implied, firm supporters of the Crown as the third branch of government and protector of the rights of the commoners, and while more fiscally conservative than the Social Liberals, they were a far cry from the Tories in that regard, and also believed fervently in a strong Royal Navy to protect commerce and maintain interstellar standing and prestige. The Royal Navy was generally known as a pro-Royalist institution, which wasn’t all that surprising given their direct connection with the monarchy, and that every serving member swore a solemn oath to serve the Crown and its citizens. The Royalists also, more surprisingly, had wide support among the “upper” aristocracy and esquires, those in social competition with the jeune noblesse, as well as the commoners.

While the Social Liberals and Royalists disagreed on a lot of points –colonial expansion, social policies, and the political rights of the Crown and the aristocracy the most profound–, but they were in total agreement that the Royal Union was the lynchpin in the Kingdom’s foreign policy, and the core of this commonwealth was the ability of the Royal Navy to serve as a credible defensive force that extended to all its members’ sphere of influence. They also agreed that the largest threat to interstellar peace and prosperity was the Independent Systems Alliance, and the official policy of the Kingdom would be to actively impede the expansion of the ISA through diplomacy. As the interstellar situation and relations between the Union and the Alliance had worsened over the past decades, the two parties had come to an understanding that they were stronger together, and had started to cooperate in order to combat the Conservatives’ and Labour’s isolationism and proposed slashed defence budgets. And according to the polls, at least the ones Sir Edward had last seen, the two parties were more or less guaranteed to add dozens of MPs in the Commons come next general election, which would again translate to more seats in the Lords as well.

“No matter,” Sir Edward said after his short mental pause, “the approval of the Fusoans and Berenicans isn’t terribly important to our foreign relations right now. I believe the Admiralty has reached the same conclusion as the Foreign Office regarding the importance of the discovery of these buoys.”

“Which is?” Spyros asked and cocked her head quizzically, to which Ranganekary shrugged.

“That they represent a nasty surprise in terms of the strategic reach of the Alliance Space Navy and the ISA intelligence services, but that their discovery means that their usefulness is at an end, considering that system pickets will be that much more on the lookout now for ISA-flagged ships acting abnormally. The political fallout domestically has generally, as evidenced by the avalanche of support of e-letters of support from allied heads of state, gone resolutely in our favour. There has been no dip in the polls regarding public support for neither the Cabinet nor the Navy, and while a very interesting talking point in the newspapers and news- and panel discussion streams, the buoys haven’t altered our foreign policy or naval strategy in any meaningful way.”

“I still think we could have handled it much better than we did, however. It was damn sloppy handling by Lord Hartcastle to go straight to the Council of Princes, days before the physical evidence was available to Admiralty.”

“Yes, that was a blunder,” Sir Edward nodded in agreement, “and I think had it been anyone but Lord Hartcastle –or one of the other damn correct and polite aristocratic fleet admirals, like Goldspyre or Sélincourt–, I think this would have played out differently. Poor Lord Jeremiah carried out his duties perfectly as a King’s Officer, and clandestinely secured and sent the buoy back to Aurora, but then he answered the obligations required of him as a peer and dutifully and courteously informed the Maltese political and military leaders of what he had tripped over. Yes, it is the done thing, but t’was completely at odds with operational security procedures, and it leaked immediately, putting the Royal Navy in a poor light. But, again, the damage has been negligible.”

“I must admit,” Dame Fiona said, pursing her lips in thought, “that I wonder what the ISA answer to this will be. Speaking as the Exchequer for a moment, the absolute worst thing I think, in the short term, would be to impose some sort of sanction on trade between the Union and the Alliance; it hits us where it hurts the hardest, in our wallet, and it is diplomatically not an overtly hostile act in response to allegations of interstellar breach of sovereign space and espionage. I guess they could tell a few of our diplomats to pack their bags and go home, but while that would no doubt make the Liberal Progressives and their hardliners feel all good and fuzzy inside, we would simply do the same thing to them in protest. A shipping sanction makes the most sense, and while they cannot keep it up for long without appearing disproportionately petty and callow to the rest of the galactic community, it would still be a small win for them to see the numbers on our stock exchanges dip.”

“Eh,” Sir Edward said, crossing his legs, “I’m not so sure that they go down that route just yet, but for the simple fact that would hurt them more than it would hurt us, given our internal market is larger than theirs, since the Royal Union represents a self-contained export/import economy with actual currency exchange, while the ISA is a unitary currency area, and we’re in a better position geographically to conduct trade with large economies like the Sternbund, the Myrdowen Empire, and Valhalla.”

“They still have the United Colonies of Sol as one of their closest neighbours you know,” Spyros countered, “and are making a pretty penny of export to the Old Core, including the Coma Berenice Federation and the independent regions to the ‘north’ and ‘west’. But I see your point, and I guess the only thing we can do is wait and see.”

The two looked out the windows at the sun setting over the Cordelian cityscape, orange, scarlet, and garnet cascades reflecting off the waters of the Goneril, which was again repeated in the millions of windows and shiny surfaces of the highrises, towers, and terraces of downtown Cordelia.

“So, any plans for the holiday?” Fiona asked after a few moments of comfortable silence. “Parliament is officially out for the summer as of this afternoon, and there’s a short window of peace and quiet before the election campaigns start.”

“Me and Benjamin was planning on taking the kids to the Hypatia Islands on Amaranth for a few weeks, to see the coral forests and just soak up some sun and saltwater at the amber beaches there. Justin, our eldest, has just completed his first year as a full partner at his solicitor’s firm, and we thought that was worth celebrating.”

He winced as his infernal computer emitted another bloody ping, and he smiled lopsidedly.

“And as regards the election campaign, I can thankfully put my legs up and enjoy a slightly longer time off, considering I am not actually an MP, unlike your unfortunate self.”

Spyros chuckled.

“Unfortunate indeed, although I believe you could have cut a nice figure as a Commons regular; we hardly see enough of you since you’re only available to the floor when called during the Cabinet Question Time. As for me, I think I’ll actually find the time to attend some of the events of the Season this year. My niece is a debutante this year and is practically bouncing off the walls in excitement at the thought of being presented to the Queen, so I’ll use the opportunity as her chaperone to take in the spectacle of the well-to-do.”

“Oh that sounds absolutely horrible,” Edward said with an accompanying laugh, “I wouldn’t want to go through that hell even if I was paid for it.”

“Speaking of pay,” Fiona said with a grin, “we’re not getting any overtime pay as Cabinet ministers, and it’s well past time we closed up shop.”

Edward glanced at his old-fashioned wristwatch and grimaced.

“Oh Heavens, look at the time, Benjamin is going to complain that I’m late for dinner again.”

The black skycar cut through the warm Cordelian summer evening, the setting sun glinting off the exquisitely polished surfaces of the lithe vehicle. While called a “skycar”, there was little with this particular vehicle that resembled its wheeled cousin, and it looked more like a flying wing with a large central passenger and driving compartment, all of which was angled to be as aerodynamic as possible. This particular skycar however, was as heavily armoured as one of the Royal Army’s infantry fighting vehicles, and had a sensor package that would put any reconnaissance drone to shame. The interior of the passenger compartment –separated from the cockpit by both a wall and a privacy shield–, was tastefully opulent, with faux-leather seats, a small bar, fluffy pillows, and a multimedia system.

“So which one in the orchestra is your beau, the chiselled one by the concertmaster, or the tall one on piano?” the girl asked playfully while twirling a string of her jet-black hair around a finger, her amethyst eyes glinting mischievously.

“Oh my God, Valerie, stop it, I don’t know whom you have been talking to, but I can assure you I don’t have a ‘beau’, ‘cavalier’, ‘sweetheart’ or any other noun that is synonymous with ‘boyfriend’.”

Adea formed an ‘O’ with the thumb and index finger of her right hand, held it up to the other girl’s forehead, and flicked hard. Princess Royal Valerie Alexandra Louise de Roze made a yelp most unbecoming for the fourth in line to the throne of the Kingdom of Aurora and Her Dominions, and rubbed the quickly reddening spot in her normally porcelain white skin. The pilot’s cabin of the skycar contained, in addition to the pilot, two bodyguards from the Royalty Protection Unit, a special task group of the Household Division of the Royal Army, who were trained in all manners of martial arts, were top marksmen with both rifles and sidearms, and were prepared to sacrifice their life at any given moment to protect any member of the royal family. The cabin had several camera feeds into the passenger compartment, so Adea’s physical assault on the sacrosanct body of the Princess Royal did not go unnoticed. The bodyguards and pilot simply grinned and chuckled.

“Unnecessary, Lady Sélincourt,” Valerie pouted, “I was only asking an innocent question, there’s no need to react with violence.”

“Oh, I think you’ll live,” Adea replied with a lopsided smile, before turning to look out the darkened window at the city below. “I’m just getting tired by that question is all. It’s bad enough that Sandy keeps pestering me about it, but even Artemisia de Vere made the same assumption about me and him about a month back, and even demure Nimue Hastings has been shyly asking if it’s true that we’re an item.”

“And by him, you mean…?” Valerie fished, her grievous injury forgotten already, and Adea looked back at her with a stern look.

“Oh come on,” the princess moaned, “you can’t just tease me like that without following up with the name of the gentleman in question.”

“Fine,” Adea conceded, her tone betraying her annoyance, though not directed at Valerie per se, more at the tediousness, and ridiculousness and baseless banality of the topic. “His name is Edward Heatherland, and yes, he was the tall one behind the grand piano tonight, and no, we’re not ‘an item’ or anything like that. We’ve met a grand total of three times outside of school, once in the company of Sandy, Greco and a few others at the Pale Peacock, and twice for tea in Crozier Park. But we haven’t spoken for three weeks now, because he has been busy with examinations and preparing for the Year End Performance.”

“Speaking of the performance,” Valerie said, realising her friend was really not interested in expounding on the subject, “I didn’t know that Mitridate, re di Ponto had a tragic ending. Actually, that whole last act was very different from how I remember it.”

“That’s because,” Adea replied, more than ready to talk about anything else, “that was an adapted libretto from the original Mozart one. 85% of the music is the same, but more than a third of the recitativos and arias were changed to fit more closely in with the real historical events surrounding Mithradates VI of Pontos, back in Earth’s Antiquity.”

“That’s why I couldn’t recognise it,” Valerie nodded in understanding, “it was completely unlike the streamed performance at the Royal Opera Festival last Season.” An excited smile crept into the princess’ face at her mention of the Season. “Oh, what events are you attending this year? I plan on be at the Royal Findias Derby, and I have a spot open for you in the royal box if you want it. And then there’s the Home Fleet Review, you have to come with me up for that one, and then of course the Big Three Balls, New Forest’s, Duke of Camlann’s, and the Queen’s, I’m just dying to see what you’ll wear to those.”

Adea smiled sweetly at the princess, bubbling over with childish enthusiasm for the coming revelry. Truth was, Valerie had been born with an immunodeficiency that had made her physically frail and prone to protracted illness, and even during good periods she needed inordinate amount of rest compared to other nineteen year old girls. Modern medicine could only do so much, and despite her attempts to stay physically fit, especially through exercising equine sports, she only had the energy to attend so many functions and appearances each year. And she had missed out on her first Season last year, which had been tough for her mentally, which explained her giddiness for the coming one. Adea, on the other hand, had been allowed to attend her first Season as a sixteen year old, albeit in a limited fashion (“No sordid liaisons in the ballroom for you until you’re a woman, young lady,” Iphigenia St.Eiron had declared), a veritable Season veteran in Valerie’s eyes.

“I’ll be at the Big Three, do not worry, Your Highness,” Adea said with a humorous glint in her glacier-coloured eyes, “but I don’t know about the rest I am afraid. My brother is coming in from Angevin for the holiday, so I want to spend at least some time with him before he has to go back to finish his degree in mathematics.”

“Oh pish, just drag him along,” Valerie said with an accompanying wave of her hand, “he’s as noble as you, he has an obligation to show his blueblooded arse out in the public if he wants to inherit the Sélincourt title one day, it really isn’t the done thing to omit the Season several years running.”

Her mind produced a mental image of her brother standing uncomfortably in a formal court suit on a ballroom floor, and she giggled.

“Oh my, he would absolutely hate that.”

“Kostya has been asking about you as well, and he expressed his wish to see you in the coming months,” Valerie said, her playful eyes becoming mischievous slits, and Adea groaned.

“Convey my well wishes to Prince Constantine, and tell him ‘up yours’.”

Both girls giggled heartily at that, imagining the look on the second in line to the throne, who they both regarded was a bit too fond of his own reflection in the mirror and had an inflated impression of his own effect on the opposite sex.

“Fair enough,” Valerie said after wiping away a few tears of mirth, “I wouldn’t want to spend an entire evening with my brother either, I see him way too much already.”

Her eyes sparkled just for a moment and she smiled broadly.

“I know, bring along your friend Edward to an event or two. He’s surely never attended the Season, it’ll probably be the experience of a lifetime for him, especially if he can go with a beauty like yourself!”

Adea both blushed and stiffened at the same time, and opened her mouth in protest, but Valerie put a thin finger to her lips.

“No, shush, this is an order from your Princess. I want to meet your friend, because you don’t befriend people without good reason and I have yet to dislike any of the people in your circle.”

“Valerio Greco is a person that exists,” Adea said in a deadpan voice, still a bit flustered, to which Valerie nodded sagely.

“That is true, but there is always the one exception to every rule.”

The internal comms system in the skycar came to life at that exact moment, and the voice of one of the bodyguards disturbed the two girls.

“I’m very sorry, Your Highness, My Lady, but we’re about to touch down at St. Andrew Palace.”

“Are you staying the night, Aditsa?” Valerie asked, putting on her seatbelt in preparation for landing, but the redhead shook her head.

“No, thank you, I promised Papa and Mama we’d have brunch with the Mortimers tomorrow, but I appreciate the invitation.”

“Unfortunate,” Valerie said, “Mommy would have been so happy to have you over for supper. Promise you’ll come over soon though.”

Adea made a mock-bow. “Of course, Your Royal Highness, by your decree.”

The two giggled again as the skycar settled down on the pad in the inner court of St. Andrew’s Palace.