“You should have asked us,” Adea said somewhat icily, sipping her drink, “I know of a certain lodger I’d much rather have tossed out in favour of you.”

“Speaking of which,” Aubrey cut in, “where is the good Lady Spencer? I thought for sure she was going to be here.”

“She is,” Adea answered in the same tone, “she’s doing the rounds in the gardens I believe. No doubt you’ll have your chance to meet her when the dancing starts.”

“Lady Spencer?” One of Valerie’s black eyebrows hiked up quizzically. “Is Marchioness Fiona here? I thought she had retired from social life long time ago.”

“No,” Horace shot in, now having helped himself to a glass of the namesake whisky of their hostess’ title, “this is her niece’s youngest, the daughter of Duchess Grey Hill’s younger sister, Alice de la Croix-Spencer.”

“She insists on being called ‘Lady Grey Hill’,” Adea continued vehemently, “and I irritate her by calling her ‘Lady Spencer’, even though she doesn’t even have the rights to that title either…”

“She sounds like a right old party,” Constantine said with a smirk, “can’t wait to meet her, her aunt is like the patron saint of the Navy, so I hope at least some of her has rubbed off.”

“Who was rubbed off, Your Highness?”

Alexandra Barham, wearing a muted green dress not unlike the walls of the ballroom, and her hair in an elaborate braid, smiled lopsidedly as Valerie demurely hid her throaty giggle behind her fan, a giggle which Adea and Horace joined as well. Sandy sobered when she saw Aubrey though, and made a little curtsy.

“I didn’t know you were back from Angevin, Lord Darkmoor,” she said with a completely different tone of voice from a moment ago, and Adea hid a knowing smile behind her own fan. Aubrey smiled and nodded politely back at her.

“I only arrived last week, Miss Barham, and with everything going on in the capital, there’s little wonder you weren’t aware. I’m only staying for another eight days before going back, barely just popping in to say hello to Mama, Papa, and little Aditsa here.”

“You must come with us out to Lake Erin before you go,” Valerie suggested, “there is to be a picnic and games hosted by the New Arundels, you simply must come, Aubrey.”

“I’ll think about it, Your Grace.” His tone said he would not, but the princess nodded appreciatively regardless.

“Welcoming, the Duke of Trewellynshire.”

“Ugh,” Horace made a face, “do you smell that? It’s the stench of commerce.”

“Where even is that little cretin of his,” Sandy asked, her voice the same disgusted one as Horace’s, “you’d think she’d be here by now, the dancing is about to begin. If you miss out on the first dance, you might as well not attend.”

Constantine couldn’t help himself.

“Lord Horace, you are aware that everyone in this circle is pretty filthy stinking rich, right? The two Sélincourts here have allowances that make small business owners’ net worth look like mere pittances. Even Lady Nimue from small old Nova Caledonia is absolutely loaded.”

“You exaggerate for effect, Kostya,” Valerie chided mildly, before Adea took up the baton.

“There is difference between wealth and wealth, Constantine. Most of the jeune noblesse are new money, or they come originally from new money, and many of them forsake a career of service to the Kingdom to pursue even more money.”

“Just look at the children of the Duke and Duchess of Calvert’s Land,” Sandy supplemented, “the eldest became an investment banker, the second a commercial business realtor, and the third a bloody tourist agency manager.”

“They could at least,” Horace continued, “have had the decency of doing a couple of years at the Royal Military Academy, get a commission, spend a decade or so in the bloody Army at the very least. You’re going to live to your three-hundreds anyway, a decade in uniform or as a medical practitioner, or something useful for society would be infinitely better than spend your entire life in the pursuit of personal enrichment.”

He almost spat that last word out, and Sandy, Adea, and Aubrey nodded in agreement. This wasn’t snobbery on their part, all of them descended from either the first or second enfranchisement of nobility, but more the result of a deeply ingrained cultural identity among parts of the Auroran nobility. The so-called high nobility had –for the most part– a very real sense of duty to the Kingdom, which the jeune noblesse didn’t necessarily share, but which the gentry and esquires very much did. The high nobility intrinsically understood they were a societal oxymoron; no proper democracy could confidently defend having an entire class of citizens constitutionally elevated above the rest, it simply made no sense. As a result, the high nobility (more of a collective term of those who accepted this reality rather than based on any sort of pedigree) nourished a sense of patriotism, duty, and responsibility to the rest of society. That was why such an extremely large percentage of them entered the armed forces, went into the bureaucracy, the Foreign Office, politics, or made careers as academics in pursuit of furthering society as a whole. They accepted the high tax rate on the rich, as it was only fair that those that had a lot would pay a lot, and they accepted that spending at least part of your hopefully long life in the service to the rest of the Kingdom was the price to pay to keep their elevated position in society, or else they would have been relegated to the dustbin of history already. The royal family understood this perhaps even better than the high nobility, and the ones knocking on the door of aristocracy, the gentry and esquires, admired and emulated this trait.

The so-called jeune noblesse on the other hand, those who generally had been enfranchised in the tertiary round or on a family-to-family basis, often did not share this sentiment. They grumbled about the heavy taxation on their fortunes and estates, generally avoided serving in the armed forces, and made their fortunes in the booming high-tech trade or the lucrative orbital and shipping industries. It was this latter group which had formed the core of the Conservative Party when it had been formed, and still did to this day centuries later. Many commoners (and quite a few of the gentry as well) idealised them as they saw them as something of a goal to aspire to; being so successful as to be elevated into the ranks of the socially and financially privileged.

“You know,” Nimue spoke up for the first time in a while, her voice having a slightly trembling quality to it, “there are a lot of nobles not financially well-off in the kingdom.”

“Oh, that is also absolutely true.” Aubrey said, having emptied a second glass of whisky by now and put it on a footman’s tray before retrieving another, how am I not noticing that we’re ordering drinks left and right? Adea vocalised mentally, I think this is my second cognac already. Are New Forest’s footmen literal ghosts?

“You have the, and you must excuse the term, your royal highnesses, the pauper princes of Novorosyia; nobles in name but commoners in means. That’s not due to poor economics or a widespread spendthrift nature, but simply because their nobility enfranchisement was by chance rather than already existing status. Democratic in thought and action, yes, but quite erratic.”

“Speaking of which,” Horace interjected, “isn’t Count Kerengrad one of your close friends? What is Lord Aikov up to these days?”

“Well, if he isn’t here, then he’s probably buried in some book somewhere. The man has an absolutely unquenchable thirst for knowledge of Earth’s old mythology, and it would be just like him to forget tonight’s ball in favour for a re-reading of the Theogony for the three-hundredth and fifty-ninth time.”

Before the conversation could proceed further, the music died down, and the Duchess of New Forest strode to the centre of the room and politely clapped to get everyone’s attention. Georgina Allencourt was getting up in the years, celebrating her two-hundredth and forty-first birthday in November, but she still carried herself ramrod straight, with the grace and elegance you would expect from the female head of one of the kingdom’s most celebrated noble families. Her dress was chiffon-coloured with inlaid rows of very small bouquets of thistles and pink roses along the waist, and she wore a silver tiara inlaid with polished gemstones of emeralds and aventurine that held back her long, paling blonde hair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a polite but confident voice that had no problems reaching the ears of everyone in the large ballroom, “and of course, your royal highnesses,” she added with a polite nod towards Valerie and Constantine, “I believe it is time for the dancing to begin.”

A chorus of polite applause and tinging of rings or fans on glasses made it clear that the guests were very much in agreement.

“Since we have the honour of having both the Princess Royal and the Prince of Arcadia amidst us tonight, I feel it is only right and proper that they will be leading us all into the first dance. I trust no one will object to that?”

The assembled guests again applauded, with some voicing their agreement with cheers of hear hear, or, quite so. A couple of God save the King came from somewhere as well. Constantine and Valerie lifted their glasses in polite recognition of the call-out, but Adea could see the tips of Valerie’s ear turn noticeably pink. The conversational huddles cleared the centre of the room, leaving space for the dancing to commence, most of the older guests pulling back towards the walls, there to watch the spectacle rather than participate. And of course, to launch their own progeny in the general direction of any potentially suitable future mate.

“I bloody hate this,” Aubrey commented once again through gritted teeth as their group moved back, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Oh pish,” his sister chided as they both emptied their glasses in one swig, as the footmen made the rounds to collect empty snifters and high-stems, “you’re capable enough at the waltz and I’ve seen you perform a quadrille somewhat handsomely on at least four occasions.”

“Dear sister, I will strangle you if you do not keep your voice down.”

Adea saw in the corner of her eye Sandy straighten her skirts and make sure her braid was resting perfectly over her left shoulder before taking a deep breath. She could also see Lady Bernadetta, daughter of the New Brabants look in their… no, in Aubrey’s direction, the same with Lady Romola of Garnier, Miss Dorothea Skálová, Lord Auguste of New Dumbarton, and… Lady Evelyn Delafontaine? No, she was looking at Horace, that did indeed make much more sense. She knew her brother was physically attractive, on the same level that one could admire a statue or a painting to be objectively handsome, but Adea wasn’t aware that he had this many obvious admirers. Just when she was about to turn around and give Sandy an encouraging nudge to get her to ask Aubrey for a dance, the usually reserved princess turned around and held out her pristinely white gloved hand towards Lord Darkmoor.

“May I,” she said somewhat haltingly, her ears turning ever pinker, “have the honour of the first dance, My Lord Darkmoor?”

It took Aubrey a few seconds to regain his faculties for speaking, his flabber well and truly gasted at the unforeseen invitation, but after Horace hissed something in his ear that Adea assumed was concerning the lèse-majesté it would be to deny the bloody Princess Royal the opening dance in her inaugural Season, he took Valerie’s proffered hand in his own and planted a polite kiss on the top of it.

“It would be my honour, Your Royal Highness.”

The look that he sent back to Adea could have pierced Grade-A titanium battle plate, but his sibling simply suppressed an amused giggle and fanned her face like everything was alright with the world. Sandy, however, looked crestfallen, her shoulders visibly sagging a bit before she picked herself up and opened her own fan. Adea turned to her, fan covering the lower half of her face, and mouthed I am sorry, to which Sandy shrugged, though Adea could tell she was genuinely disappointed. But before Adea had the opportunity to commiserate with her friend further, a white-gloved hand of another kind materialised before her.

“May I have the honour of this dance, Lady Sélincourt?” Prince Constantine asked, his voice doing some sort of velvety impression that Adea was sure would have worked wonders on anyone who didn’t know him personally. Now it was Aubrey’s turn to grin at his sister and Adea was glad she had the fan ready to hide any expression she made, but she knew her place, and curtsied politely –without a spoken confirmation that is– and held out her hand for the prince to politely kiss it and lead her unto the dance floor. Horace made the same proposition to Nimue, who started to mumble something about being a horrendous dancer, really, you shouldn’t bother with me, but Horace simply kissed her hand and led her out onto the floor anyway.

Sandy watched them all go, her heart sinking in her chest, especially as more and more couples made their way out there, many of them she knew personally. A small piece of her started to seethe and bubble with anger and resentment. Bloody nobles, who do they think they are? Just because they have a title and I don’t doesn’t make you inherently better than me, you absolute cretins. She became alarmed for a moment at this undiscovered petty and jealous side of her psyche, and took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. That was when a tall figure materialised in front of her.

“May I have this dance, Lady..?” The man was about Aubrey’s height, his hair the same half-curly dark hue of Edward Heatherland, but this one’s skin was much paler than that particular Amaranthine. His eyes were shining sea-green, and he wore the brilliantly embroidered and gilded scarlet tunic and white trousers of the Queen Amelia’s Own Chevalier-Guards Regiment, complete with a scabbarded cavalry sabre inlaid with pink gemstones in the hilt, and the golden epaulettes and insignia upon his shoulders that betrayed him as a cornet of that esteemed cavalry regiment.

“It’s ‘Miss’, actually,” Sandy heard herself say while also reflectively holding out her hand, “Miss Alexandra Barham.” At the mention of her last name, the young subaltern’s eyes widened, before his already polite smile became even wider.

“Well then, Miss Barham, may I have the honour of asking for this dance?”

“I suppose so,” Sandy said in a teasing tone, “but only if I can have your name, sir.”

“Claude O’Shaughnessy, Miss Alexandra, first son of the O’Shaughnessys of Linehan in Kilthrim.”

Sandy must unwittingly have done her best impression of impersonating a question mark, because he laughed politely.

“I am not surprised, Miss, that you haven’t heard of us. It is a small estate in Angevin, and the family still hasn’t been elevated to esquire status.” My God his accent was aggressively Wetlands Angevin in origin, now that Sandy thought about it, hurriedly making a mental note of researching this family’s history as soon as she had the time. Which she realised she was not right now, because the good cornet had been holding her hand for some time with the intention of leading her to the dance floor, but she hadn’t moved. Blushing for a moment at her own inattentiveness, she allowed the handsome cavalry officer to take her onto the floor. She was a fair ways down from the leading couples of Aubrey-Valerie and Constantine-Adea, but that suited her just fine, she didn’t want the limelight anyway. Footmen collected the ceremonial swords of the officers who wore them, safekeeping them while their owners danced for obvious reasons.

The musicians, apparently on order from their mistress, the Duchess of New Forest, started playing a lively tune, the sinfonia (its full title was Sinfonia di stromenti militari) from Act II of Cleofide by Johann Adolf Hasse, a very martial marcia that the dancers immediately recognised and formed groups of four. As the rhythmic tunes of the marcia played out they faux-marched and curtsied/bowed to the partner they ended up next to, all the while holding their right hands together. When the tune lifted (it kept repeating), they spun on their heels and retreated down to the next group, repeating the same motions. It was a relatively simple quadrille, one practised at most dancing clubs in the kingdom, though not necessarily to this tune. When Princess Valerie and Lord Darkmoor connected hands again, having gone the full twelve-couple circle, the music finally died down, with the onlookers applauding politely.

As soon as the dancing couple caught their breaths, the band started to play a few test bars of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade in C Major’s second movement, the Walzer. As soon they found their places, the music started proper, and the individual dances could commence. It was a comfortable Viennese waltz, which all present were familiar with. Aubrey and Valerie moved elegantly around the very top of the ballroom floor, the princess’ skirts swirling around as they turned and switched. Horace and Nimue made a surprisingly good couple since Horace was able to lead with all of his customary Sciacca confidence, while Nimue was perfectly comfortable with being led along, their dancing energies complementing each other’s perfectly. Adea couldn’t help but to admire Prince Constantine’s skill at the nimble art of the dance either; it really shouldn’t have surprised her that the bloody second in line to the throne was more than an acceptable dance partner. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was the soothing, dulcet tones of the music and the way she was being led by the prince, or if it was the alcohol she had imbibed, but suddenly she found herself curtsying to the applauding onlookers as the waltz ended, and they melted back into the throng in preparation for the next group of dancing couples to take the stage.

“I think,” she said out loud before she had even contemplated what she was about to say, “that I will go look for Lady Spencer. I didn’t see her during the first dance, and I believe Papa will have some choice words for me if I allow her to get drunk in a corner somewhere in Goldstag Hall.”

Sandy laughed out loud, something she didn’t actually do very often, how odd, and Aubrey nodded knowingly, perfectly aware how their father could get. Not that you’ve met Alice, Adea thought, otherwise you would join me in cursing her very existence. She couldn’t see the Princess, Horace, or Nimue anywhere, but she did have the (dis)pleasure of receiving another kiss on her gloved hand from Prince Constantine before she managed extricate herself from the nearby crowd. Wait, where did that cavalry officer come from, is he a friend of Sandy?

Politely nodding to the footmen who manned the nearby doors, Adea snuck down a hallway adorned with portraits of the extended Allencourt family and some she recognised were painted pictures of historical figures of Earth whom the Allencourts claimed to have common ancestry with. She scoffed as she passed an idealised portrait of Sir Isaac Newton, and pushed open a door made partially of glass which she assumed led into the Goldstag Hall inner court gardens. She wasn’t disappointed as she was suddenly bombarded with the smell of carnations, Auroran black-violets, and lilies of the valley in full bloom, combined with the very particular sensation of summer rain. At some point after Adea’s arrival, a slight drizzle had begun, and she could feel the cool and almost regenerative effect it had on her as raindrops almost carefully descended upon her bared skin and dress. Adea stood in the entrance to the inner court for about a minute, just enjoying the refreshing sensation of the downpour, before she realised she was not alone.