Chapter 37: The Night of the Ball

The grand ballroom on the second floor of the Westwick Plaza was… well, Clara didn’t really have a better word than grand. The tall ceiling had been painted like a canvas in a way that reminded her of the Sistine Chapel, and the windows were beautifully stained. Floating high, near the center of the room, were violins, clarinets, and even a piano, all playing a slow waltz that vibrated the floorboards.

It was a fitting end to gala week.

“Clara,” Emma whispered from her side, “that piano is playing itself.”

Clara chuckled and pointed to the back. “There are musicians controlling it. Look over there.”

There, a dozen performers, men and women alike, swooshed their wands like maestros.

“I imagine the pianist has to visualize each key individually. It’s remarkable.” Clara made a mental note to ask Professor Morris about the specifics later.

The ballroom was filling quickly. The student body and the visitors—family members, alumni, and even some townspeople who’d received invitations—were a mix of commoners and nobles, but it was easy to tell which was which. Nobles like Philippa and Edward wore dresses and suits of fine silk and satin, with elaborate embroidery. Commoners, among whom Clara recognized Jonathan from the Spellweaving Club and many of the professors, wore the same general shapes, but their outfits were made of cotton and wool, with ribbon instead of lace and brass instead of gemstones.

Like any reader of this type of novel, Clara had often imagined what her life would be if she were reincarnated into a fantasy world, and pictured herself wearing dresses just like those. Mostly, she’d just thought they looked pretty but uncomfortable.

Not that it mattered, of course. Servants like herself and Emma wore their usual work attire, standing at the sides should they be called upon.

The von Rhenia couple had been given the honor of the first waltz. In theory, it should have gone to Lochlann, as Crown Prince and highest-ranked noble in the room, but it seemed even he wasn’t politically unaware enough to take the place of honor with Helena in front of Maximilian von Rhenia, especially not considering how upset they’d been at him for his improvisation during the play.

The duke and duchess danced gracefully, their combination of rigid and flowing producing something that looked both effortless and supremely elaborate. He guided her through a turn, and her long maroon skirt fanned outward in a perfect arc. When he pulled her back, there was a half-second where her hand rested on his chest, and he looked down at her with an expression that was almost, impossibly, soft. Then his usual seriousness returned, and they continued as if nothing had happened.

“They’re beautiful,” said Emma. “I didn’t know old people could dance like that.”

“Emma, they’re in their forties.”

“Yes, it’s impressive, isn’t it?”

The cheek on this girl… Does she think I’m old, too?

The first song ended, and the music shifted to a more contemporary piece—still a waltz, but with a brighter tempo. Other couples began to take the floor, and Lochlann accepted Helena’s hand and guided her to the center. His emerald jacket bore the crowned wolf emblem in gold at each shoulder, and Helena wore a gown of soft cream that could have passed for a modern wedding dress, with large pearls on her neck.

Conrad, who had a long burgundy tailcoat and an elaborate tie that was somewhere between a cravat and a modern necktie, approached Iris.

“Dear sister, will you dance with me?”

“No,” said Iris flatly.

“No? Why not?”

“I’ll dance with you after. I’ve had a most marvelous idea.” She turned away from Conrad, her lavender dress swaying as she moved. It had silver threading along the bodice and sleeves, and her hair had been pulled into a half-updo with amethyst pins.

Clara walked behind her, always a few paces away, until they reached Ciarán. She had to admit the boy had cleaned up impressively, wearing a tailored suit in a shade of green darker than Lochlann’s.

Iris gave the smallest curtsy and extended her hand. “Your Highness, dance with me.”

“I don’t dance.”

“It was not a request.”

He stared at her. “Why should I?”

“Because your brother won’t like it.”

A flicker of amusement passed over his face, and he uncrossed his arms and took her hand with a slight stiffness.

They stepped onto the floor, Iris slightly taller than Ciarán, and danced. His steps were precise, if a little too fast, but Iris slowed him down by adjusting her own rhythm until they fell into something graceful. When they passed near Lochlann and Helena, the Crown Prince frowned, and they smiled back.

Mission accomplished, it seems.

Nearby, Clara noticed Felicity dancing with Edward, who looked faintly bewildered at how he’d gotten there. Her azure gown was one of the most ostentatious in the room. The boy, to his credit, was a capable dancer, managing Felicity’s more ambitious flourishes with practiced ease. At one point, she attempted a dramatic lean that the music didn’t remotely call for, and he caught her with a grin and steered her back upright as if it’d all been planned.

The waltz ended, and the floating instruments transitioned to a slower, more solemn piece. Ciarán released Iris’s hand.

“That was a tolerable performance, Your Highness. Frankly, I expected worse. I wouldn’t mind dancing again sometime.”

Ciarán frowned and blushed at the same time. “I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

Iris laughed briefly, and he retreated to the back of the room. Then she waved Clara and Emma over.

“You two. I’m told there are separate banquets today, one of which is open to everyone, even academy staff and servants. I don’t expect to have further need of you tonight, so you may partake in the festivities.”

Emma beamed. “That’s very kind, Lady Iris. Thank you!”

Iris’s cheeks reddened just a tinge. “Indeed. Iris von Rhenia is exceedingly generous.” She turned her back to them and went to Conrad.

The banquet hall was smaller than the grand ballroom, but no less inviting. Dozens of tables had been arranged in rows, draped with white linen and lined with candelabras. The dinner spread was impressive in its variety: there were multiple kinds of roasted meat, some fish, braised root vegetables, bread rolls still steaming from the oven, cheeses of several varieties, and even platters of fruit. As for drinks, there was a dedicated counter with juices, lemonade, and plenty of beer.

“Where should we sit?” asked Emma, peering around the room with cautious excitement.

Clara noticed many familiar faces, including professors, other staff, townspeople, and even some of the commoner students. Among them was a familiar head of light-blue hair at a table near the drink counter. Professor Morris was already seated, gesturing animatedly at something with a bread roll in one hand and a fork in the other. Across from him, Professor Harwick sat with his monocle firmly in place and his mustache curling upwards.

“Over there,” said Clara, making her way through the crowd with Emma.

Morris saw them and waved them over with the bread roll. “Sit, sit! It’s good that you’re both here.”

Clara slid onto the bench beside him, and Emma took the spot next to her. The girl’s eyes kept darting to the food laid out on the central table.

“You may serve yourself and eat whatever you like, Emma. You don’t need to wait for me.”

Emma nodded and sprang back up, heading to the food with no further reservations.

“Professor Harwick,” Clara greeted the older man across the table. “I wanted to thank you for your help with the play. Your patience with the rehearsal schedule was appreciated.”

Harwick finished taking a bite of beef, then dabbed the corner of his mustache with a napkin. “It was my homeroom class’s production. It is my pleasure to contribute to it, even if the subject matter was not entirely to my taste.” Harwick smiled warmly. “Though I will concede it was far more engaging than I had anticipated. I may have found myself on the edge of my seat during the senator’s testimony.”

“High praise from a man whose lectures on the dissolution of the Imperial Senate have been known to put entire rows to sleep,” said Morris cheerfully.

Harwick gave him a look. “My lectures are rigorous, Professor Morris. If certain students find rigor soporific, that is a failing of their character, not of my curriculum.”

“Of course, of course. I only meant—”

“You meant exactly what you said, and I shall choose to ignore it, as I have for the past four years.” Harwick chuckled. “It is the burden and the virtue of the young to always believe they know better.”

Morris gave a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck. Emma came back with two plates and put one in front of Clara.

“Here, Miss Casewell. I got you the dried cod and the filleted trout, since you like seafood so much.”

“Thank you, Emma.” Clara’s first instinct was to frown. She’d never liked cod, not even when she’d tried it in Lisbon. But then her mouth began to water, and she cautiously cut into the fish. The golden flesh was firm and flaky, and the moment it hit her tongue, it was as if she were scratching an itch she hadn’t known was there. She chewed slowly and let herself feel the strange combination of weirdness and familiarity.

It was good. Really good. But she contained her own excitement, ever careful not to get lost in a celebration.

“Ah, Miss Casewell, Miss Emma. And the professors, too.” A serious voice came from behind her, and Major Ricardo appeared at the end of the table, now out of his sparring armor and back in his dress uniform. Towering beside him was Dame Rowena, who looked just as imposing as before. Her uniform was similar to Ricardo’s, but in emerald instead of burgundy, and it had even more elaborate gold fringes.

“Major Ricardo, Dame Rowena. Please join us,” said Clara.

Ricardo sat down across from Clara, next to Harwick, and Rowena took the spot next to him in front of Emma, who recoiled when Rowena glanced at her.

“An excellent match today, both of you,” said Harwick. “Major Ricardo, your footwork in the second exchange was textbook. And I say that as someone who wrote part of the textbook.”

“You wrote a swordsmanship manual?” asked Clara.

“A chapter on historical dueling forms, as part of my seminal work on the Late Elysian Empire. It remains, to my knowledge, the definitive piece on Imperial-era rapier technique.” Harwick adjusted his monocle. “And the definitive doorstop in the third-year dormitories.” He laughed at his own joke.

Ricardo accepted the compliment with a nod. “Thank you, Professor. It was a well-fought match. Dame Rowena’s pressure nearly broke me entirely towards the end.”

Rowena, who had been methodically taking apart what appeared to be half a roasted chicken, grunted. “Nearly doesn’t win.” Her voice was low, with a rough edge to it. “Your trick with dropping the blade won’t work twice.”

“I know,” said Ricardo, smiling. “I’ll need something new for next time.”

Rowena tore a leg from the chicken and bit into it, downing it with several gulps of beer. Emma’s mouth dropped open with awe.

“Dame Rowena,” Clara ventured, “have you been enjoying Westwick?”

“The food is adequate. The beds are short.” She chewed thoughtfully, then drank some more. “The boy seems happier here, though. He’s been more at ease than at the palace.”

The ‘boy’ probably means Ciarán. “He seems to be enjoying himself more than I expected him to.”

“Mm.” Rowena took another bite. “The girl is good for him. Gives him a taste of his own attitude. He needs that.”

Clara wasn’t sure if Iris would have been offended or pleased by that statement. Well, she definitely wouldn’t be pleased at being called ‘the girl’.

“May I join you?”

Clara turned to the side and saw Father Leofric at the edge of the table, a plate in one hand and a serene expression on his face. Instead of the usual robes, he wore a simpler grey cassock.

“Of course, Father,” said Ricardo, shifting to make room. Leofric settled in beside him. The fiddle player in the corner had been joined by a woman with a small hand drum—the instruments in this room didn’t appear to play themselves. The group chatted pleasantly in overlapping conversations, and laughter came easily. Rowena brought increasingly larger plates of meat, Father Leofric refilled everyone’s drinks, and even Clara went to the buffet for seconds.

When she came back, Morris was leaning towards Rowena, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes were unfocused. The knight was holding a freshly refilled mug of beer.

How much more can she even take? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone drink this much, and that’s saying a lot, with how many finance bros there were at the usual firm parties.

“Dame Rowena,” he said, “I have an academic question. When you enhance your strikes with magic, do you visualize the forces as originating from the gemstone, or from the muscles of your arm? The channeling pathways would differ significantly, and it has implications for—”

“From here.” Rowena tapped the center of her chest with a fist. “I think about hitting something very hard, then I hit it very hard!” She gave an uncharacteristic laugh, loosened by the alcohol, and then downed the contents of her mug.

Morris pulled out a pencil and began scribbling on a napkin. “Fascinating. A somatic-origin channeling model. That would explain the raw output, though the efficiency loss must be—”

“Emmet.” Harwick’s voice was flat. “We are at a banquet. Put the pencil away.”

“But this is—”

“Emmet.”

Morris reluctantly tucked the pencil into his pocket, and Clara chuckled before taking another sip of orange juice.

“—and Mama makes the bread herself, every morning,” Emma was saying on the other side of the long table. “She puts dried apples in it sometimes, when we can afford them.”

“Apple bread.” Leofric nodded thoughtfully. “My mother used to make something similar. With walnuts.”

“Oh, that sounds tasty! Clara, do you think we could try making that?”

She’s only supposed to call me Clara when we’re alone. But it’d be terribly cruel to correct her right now.

“I don’t see why not. We’ll need to find a good source for walnuts.”

“Hargrove’s,” Emma said immediately. “Third shelf on the left of the display.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. Emma grinned.

Rowena suddenly stood up and pointed at Ricardo. “You! Fight me! We shall wrestle!” She was slurring her words.

“Dame Rowena, I’m afraid you are—”

“I’ll have my revenge!” The tall woman put her hand on Ricardo’s shoulder, then stumbled and fell to the floor, making the table jump.

“Oh dear,” said Morris.

“I will have you, Ricardo!” Rowena continued, even more slurred, as she pushed herself back up.

Ricardo shook his head. “I’m in no condition to fight, Dame Rowena. Let me rest for tonight, and we can spar on the morrow.”

She gave it some thought, then nodded. “Very well. Then I, too, shall rest.” She tried to make her way out of the hall, but stumbled again.

“I believe the good Dame Rowena might require some assistance.” Leofric rose and offered her his shoulder to lean on, remaining remarkably steady when she held onto him as they walked out.

Ricardo downed some more of his beer. He’d also been drinking heavily, though not nearly as much as Rowena. Was it some sort of knightly habit?

“Miss Casewell, do you not like alcohol?” he asked.

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes and gave it some thought instead of reflexively answering in the negative.

Around her, there was laughter. There was the clattering of tableware as the group enjoyed a rare, delicious dinner. There was a high, sweet note from the fiddle. Her mind tried to drift to her mother’s hand in hers, or to a plane falling from the sky, but she pushed those thoughts away and opened her eyes.

The world was still there. The candles still flickered. Emma was laughing at something Harwick had said, while Morris knocked over his water. Clara Casewell was surrounded by acquaintances, coworkers, maybe even friends, and was having a lovely Saturday evening.

“I suppose I could have a drink.”

Ricardo nodded with a smile and went to get her a mug. But the tension was still mounting on her shoulders.