Six glittering chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, each one suspended by Written Iron wrapped around Etched Crystal glowing from the delicate words spiraling around their exteriors. They spun slowly under the power of the Iron Words. The spinning lights illuminated the roof, demonstrating the work of the Paint Writers. A mural of the history of the Empire lit up across the sky, the colors popping in the way only Writing could manage.

Sweeping my eyes down, I surveilled the rest of the room. It certainly matched the Paint Written murals of the ceiling. Stained glass windows depicting images of Emperors long since deceased ran the height of the room framed the ballroom. In between them, delicately carved pillars of marble and granite supported the arches. At the center of it all was the staircase.

The main staircase was of pearl and gold sporting carved Writing spirals flickering with power. From the railing, pure construct stairs sprouted. It met the floor without pomp, but then the floor was impressive enough by itself. It was underWritten glass floating atop a chasm, held up purely by the power radiating from the carefully shaved letters fused delicately into the glass. It was breathtaking.

I could have stood there observing and studying it all night if not for Lord Wairth. He gave me a gentle shake and murmured, “Darling, it’s gauche to stare.” Mutely I let him move me forward into the ballroom. Irritated at losing my attention, he complained, “It’s impressive certainly but nothing next to the Palaces of the Low Countries. Why you should see the Filigree Rooms of the Duke von Amsteriche’s Estate!”

He continued grousing to himself as we entered the room. All too soon, the room filled with scions of the noble houses who immediately began dancing, drinking, and gossiping without a moment of appreciation for the miraculous feat of Writing they stood upon or gazed up at. The sight of so many nobles ignoring the beauty all around them brought me crashing back to reality with a sudden rush of disgust so fierce it caused me to stumble.

At the last moment, I braced myself against Lord Wairth almost tipping him over in the process. I then exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! Lord Wairth you must excuse me I seem to have lost myself for a moment.”

“Quite all right my dear, I too find myself overcome when I see the mural.” He then added in a forlorn voice, “That corner,” he pointed up at a section depicting a horde of aristocrats mercilessly putting unwashed Republican Scribes to the pen, “depicts the Battles of the War of the Quintuple Alliance.” Sighing theatrically he added, “Ah, the reminder of good comrades lost in the line of duty! It’s enough to bring a tear to my eye.”

He then placed his hand around my waist clearly looking for some measure of sympathy. Before I had to find a way to extricate myself, an elderly Lord stepped close to the pair of us and said, “Indeed, I too find myself overcome with patriotism seeing the bravery of my fellow soldiers depicted with such consummate skill.”

Lord Wairth was at a loss. It evidently did not cross his mind that he might run into a fellow war veteran at an event like this. A pregnant pause developed between the two for a few seconds until I interjected, “Lord Wairth is always talking about the bravery of the Empire’s Lords! Which front did you serve upon?”

“The northern campaign,” he answered as he continued to stare passionately at the mural. Wiping away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye he added, “The mural shows the Battle of New Amstriche. I fought there you know.”

Lord Wairth cringed. Clearly, the prospect of speaking to another ‘veteran’ took him aback. I assumed it was because such a conversation would expose his lack of any real combat experience.

Politely intending to dismiss the sudden competitor for my attention he said, “Ah, well that was quite the bloody combat indeed. I imagine you’ve quite the more entertaining stories than I.”

Before he could escape, the other Lord took him by the shoulder. He then steered him toward a nearby servant holding drinks saying, “Nonsense! I can tell from your attire and accent that you come from the Low Countries, please allow me and some other fellows from the war to toast your countrymen and yourself for your brave aid of the Empire in our hour of need.”

Taking the proffered drink Lord Wairth glanced at me with longing in his eyes as he demurred saying, “Ah, my dear fellow I would of course be delighted to accept such a toast. Yet on an occasion such as this I feel we ought to be merry not melancholy.”

Guffawing, the other Lord handed him a drink and replied, “Drinking with comrades in arms, what could be merrier than that?” In a swift motion, he downed his entire drink, forcing Lord Wairth to sample his own out of politeness. It was then that I noticed the slight sway in the Lord’s step and owlish blinking. He was drunk.

Leaping at the opportunity to foist off Lord Wairth I affected an impressed voice and said, “Oh how exciting! Lord Wairth we simply must share a drink with your noble compatriots!” I then took another set of drinks from the servant’s tray and toasted, “To the Empire!”

The Lord looked at me as if he’d just noticed my presence. Running his eyes up and down my figure, he made it impossible to mistake his interest for anything other than boorish appreciation. Seeing Lord Wairth’s uncomfortable expression, I feigned ignorance of the caddish Lord’s frank appraisal of my looks and dipped low, giving the both of them a full view of my bust, as I took another set of drinks from the tray.

Then I raised my glass, hiccupped, and said, “To the noble allies of the Empire!”

Unwilling but unable to refuse without being impolite Lord Wairth finished his drink. As the center of attention in our merry little group of three, he had no escape.

With a smile, I said to the two, “Now let’s go find the rest of your band. I’d simply love to hear some more stories of the gallant bravery of our two countries’ heroes during the war.”

Lord Wairth seemed to wilt as I spoke, but acquiesced without protestations as the other Lord steered us off to a room out of the ballroom. There a slew of lords, many of them festooned with younger women who were no doubt exactly the kind of floozy I was pretending to be, were drinking and swapping inane stories all while toasting to some dead comrade or another. At the sight of his friends, our companion roared a greeting and set us down promptly in the middle of the group. In a moment, Lord Wairth was the center of a hundred questions about the Low Countries during the war.

In a few minutes, I excused myself by murmuring in his ear, “We’ve run out of alcohol my Lord, I’ll return shortly with something proper to toast with.”

He looked as though he wanted to protest letting me leave alone. But with the attention of the rest of the crowd squarely on him, it was impossible to raise any objection. Slipping from the room, I ducked into a nearby alcove and lifted my dress. Underneath my skirts and attached to my inner thigh was my pen. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to smuggle in any ink. So I tested the metal nib on my finger, finding it sharp enough for my purpose, and drove it into the side of my leg. Dipping the pen into my free flowing blood, I began to Write.

In a minute, I emerged from the room with a different face. My illusion wouldn’t hold under the scrutiny of a real Writer, but if Lord Wairth came looking it would be more than enough to hide. More importantly, it would fool the Scribes lining the ballroom.

Now to find Rach and enact my revenge, I thought. Surveying the ballroom, I searched for his telltale black hair. Finding nothing, I frowned. “Where could he be?” I asked the air.

Anticipation quickened my dead skin as I began to pace throughout the ballroom. The beauty that previously caught my eye now seemed garish and trite in comparison to my mission. Heedless of the august company and male attention I garnered as I stalked the dancefloor I continued my search. Like a specter, I haunted the crowd constantly seeking Rach’s presence. Yet no matter how I sought him out, he eluded me.

I considered the mystery as I slowly walked the crowd. Rach was too tall and too distinctive for him to hide for long. But hard as I tried I couldn’t find him. The cut on my leg protested each circuit I made, urging me to find him post haste. The more I traversed the room the more frantic I became. I’d come so far, endured so much, I couldn’t face the prospect of it all ending because of something as simple as chance!

Unwelcome thoughts pressed down on me. What if he’d left? Called away by some family or business emergency? Such things were uncommon, but known to happen. Rach might be gone by now and out of my reach. The thought pained me as I raced about the ballroom looking for him. He had to be here! He simply had to!

Frustrated and defeated after a full half hour of searching I stepped back to my alcove. Trembling with fear and anger, I leaned against the wall. The unwelcome sensation of failure washed over me. It doused the fire burning in my gut leaving me with an ashy sensation. Bereft of the adrenaline sustaining my pace throughout the night my limbs began to tremble with weakness. The constant sensation of Rach’s Skin Writing draining away my vitality resurfaced with a vigor that left me reeling. Icy rage built in my veins as I wrestled with myself.

“To come so close, dammit I can’t lose him now!” I hissed, tears appearing in my eyes. “He’s got to be here,” I fortified myself, “he’d never leave the princess alo-” my eyes lit up. “He’d never leave the princess alone!”

I laughed in relief. “I panicked too soon,” then with anticipation rising in my voice I whispered, “I know exactly where you are Rach.”

With that, I submerged the horrible feelings that rose during my hectic search back down under the force of my purpose. “Tonight,” I promised, bracing myself against the wall and suppressing the awful feeling of Rach’s cursed Writing eating at me.