A strange and indescribable feeling coaxes Emelia awake. Opening her eyes, she groans and tries to sit up, her body aching from laying in the same position for too many hours.

She leans back against the headboard and roughly rubs the sleep from her eyes, inhaling sharply from surprise when she finally lowers her hands and is met with the sight François in the room with her.

What... the... hell?!

"What are you doing here?" she demands, immediately pulling the covers up and clutching them tightly to her chest.

"Good morning to you too," he replies dryly.

"Have you been standing there watching me sleep?" she asks, completely creeped out by the concept.

"Only for a few minutes."

"Only?" she echoes incredulously. "Wow, you are twisted."

She turns to the other side of the bed, ready to wake Sofie, only to discover that her cousin is gone and the place she should be is empty.

"Where's Sofie?" Emelia demands, panic instantly flaring up in her gut. "What have you done to her?!"

"Nothing," François mutters, wincing slightly. "Mon Dieu, no need to shout. I sent her downstairs."

"Why?"

"I wanted to speak to you."

"About what?" Emelia asks, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.

"Your father," he replies. "He is telling everyone back in England that you are visiting distant relatives here in France."

Unprepared for this information, Emelia frowns. Huh?

"Why would he do something like that?" she wonders out loud.

"Obviously to calm the media down," François answers. "And to convince the public that everything is fine. He requires proof, though, and since my sister insists on treating you two like guests, you have both been invited to Le bal royal."

"The what?" she says.

"The royal ball," he repeats. "It's an event my family hosts every year in Versailles. Hundreds of people attend," he continues to explain, "And so it will be the perfect place to take photographs for your father."

"I'm not going."

François' eyes widen, surprise transforming his features. "Pardon moi?"

"You heard me," she retorts, anger colouring her voice. "We're not going. If my dad wants to pull the wool over everyone's eyes and pretend that everything is fine when it isn't, then I'm sure as hell not going to help him achieve that."

"But you don't have a choice," he splutters.

"That's where you're wrong," she counters, glaring across the room at him. "I do have a choice, and this is me making it."

Lying down in the bed, Emelia pulls the covers back over her head and hides from him the way a child hides from an imaginary monster.

She tenses when she hears his approach, sensing his presence when he comes to stand at the side of the bed. With a quickening heartbeat, she waits expectantly for him to yank the covers away, but he doesn't. Instead, he gently pokes at her through the fabric, surprising her.

"Amelie..." he grumbles disapprovingly.

"My name is Emelia," she growls. "Get it right."

"Hiding under those covers isn't going to protect you," François says.

"I know that," she snaps.

"Then what are you doing?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"I'm ignoring you until you go away," she grumbles. "I don't want you here. Allez-vous en!"

"Since when did you start speaking French?" he asks and judging by the tone of his voice Emelia has managed to surprise him yet again.

"I studied it at school," she mutters.

"Not bad," he chuckles. "But incorrect."

Emelia yelps when he grabs the covers and yanks them away, exposing her. She glances up warily, unsure whether to be angry or afraid. In the end, she goes with both.

"Allez-vous en is for strangers," he explains, looking down at her with a wide smile. "But because we know each other, it would be Va-t'en."

"I don't care what the right translation is," she hisses. "I just want you to go away."

"Not going to happen," he snorts, grabbing her just above the elbow and pulling her up from the mattress.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Emelia shrieks.

"Getting you out of bed," François says simply. "Seeing as you refuse to do it yourself."

"Let me go," she demands, struggling to break free, and his nostrils flare, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"When will you learn that fighting only makes it worse?"

"Screw you!"

François' answering smile is leering and he snakes an arm around her waist.

"You have a dress fitting to go to," he purrs, "But another time perhaps."

Emilia reels back with indignation.

"Oh, you sick-!" Her insult is cut short when he bends down, places his other arm behind her knees and swoops her clean off her feet. Shocked, Emelia instinctively fists the fabric of the front of his shirt, gasping when the air suddenly shifts and world momentarily blurs. Next thing she knows they are in a completely different part of the house than they were a minute ago.

She looks around, dazed. What the..?

"You took long enough." Camille appears from the nearest doorway. "Well, don't just stand there. Bring her in."

François strides into a room with Emelia in his arms before placing her back down on the ground where she waivers on her feet slightly. She turns and spots Sofie standing on a short stall in front of a full-length mirror, her arms in the air. Marie-Claire stands beside her, holding up a measuring tape.

"You can leave now," Camille tells her brother, taking Emelia's hand and pulling her further into the room.

"What's going on?" Emelia asks, staring at her.

"Didn't François tell you? Mon died," Camille exclaims, "men are useless!"

"He said something about a ball..." Emelia's words trail off.

"Yes, the royal ball." Camille nods. "It is going to be wonderful!" she sings. "You're going to need a suitable dress though."

"What if I don't want to go?" Emelia asks, annoyed.

Camille raises a bold eyebrow, tilts her head to one side and stares at her with sharp pinpoint pupils.

"Of course you are going," she states firmly. "The royal ball is an amazing event. No humans have ever been invited before. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" Now it's Emelia's turn to stare at her.

"Yes," Camille asserts. "Now get undressed so Marie-Claire can get to work. We don't have all day."

"When exactly is this ball?" Emelia asks, reluctantly taking off her pyjamas. Camille tows her over to the mirror just as Marie-Claire finishes taking Sofie's measurements.

"The day after tomorrow," she replies, patting the stool. "Step on and hold out your arms."

"Is all this really necessary?" Emelia grumbles.

"Quit griping and let me do my job," Marie-Claire chastises her, clearly in no mood for listening to complaints. "It will only take a few minutes."

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Emelia finally concedes.

"Fine," she mutters begrudgingly. "Let's get this over and done with."