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The line to greet him seemed interminable. Cecilia reported that it had stretched from the great hall out the door, and wound around the inner courtyard before they opened the doors. The servants had erected great tarps over much of the courtyard, in hopes of sparing everyone the worst of the sleet.
Char greeted the young ladies in the grand hall by rote, carefully inclining his head so as not to give himself a crick in his neck. Most of the women had already removed their masks before they reached him, to better show off their features, or perhaps in hopes that he would recognize them from other fetes and royal functions. He wondered if any had left them on past the doors. So much for Cecilia's grand plan to make him judge each one by their sense of humor or graceful speech rather than their physical merits. He hoped she wouldn't be too put out by everyone's disregard for her clever scheme.
Cecilia had been quite proud of the masquerade, having bragged to Char about it no less than seven times in the weeks since he had returned home. "It will give them all an air of mystery!" she'd said when she first told him about it.
He'd been looking forward to seeing what artistry the young women of Frell had come up with. Perhaps the masks would tell him something the women's faces wouldn't, or couldn't. Perhaps they would simply be a reminder that anyone could wear a mask at any time, and he would be none the wiser.
"Your highness, a pleasure," said the next guest, pulling Char back to the task before him. A woman in pink organza stood in front of him. She had a pleasant smile, with a crooked front tooth. She looked at him expectantly, no doubt hoping for a moment of conversation.
"Likewise," he said, nodding once before handing the woman off to Dickens, who stood ready to direct her back toward the dancing.
Cecilia raised her eyebrows at him, a question in her brown eyes. Char shook his head minutely and greeted the courtier following the woman in pink. Had he any control over the grand fete welcoming his return from abroad, he would have requested that it return to the old tradition of a trio of banquets, with each one featuring the culinary traditions of one of the places the prince had traveled.
Char wasn't sure who in the royal household had first suggested turning the banquets into a series of balls, but he knew it was Father, the well-meaning romantic, who had decided that they would be used to determine what fair lady would win the hand of Prince Charmont. He understood the impulse; by his age, Father and Mother had already been betrothed for years, and their wedding date set.
He shook himself again and tried to refocus on the remaining ladies in the queue. It was shrinking, thank goodness, and he could finally see the end of the line. There were perhaps another thirty to go. He could bear that, he thought. He'd be granted a short break before he was expected to start dancing with anyone. It wouldn't be enough time to sneak off to the menagerie or escape to the castle's highest tower, but he'd at least have a chance to catch his breath.
He smiled and greeted and fare-thee-well'ed to the ladies in turn, his answers to their questions short and politely bland, and at last, he reached the final one. He nodded to her and moved to step away when one more young lady, still masked, stepped forward.
She made an intriguing picture. Her dress was of an older style, clearly refashioned to be more current. Her jewelry had obviously not been designed to match her mask; the glasswork pendant, though intricate, was too simple to fit the pearl beadwork that covered her face. It was likely that she was of the merchant class and had altered an older family member's ballgown. Whoever had done the tailoring had skill. Perhaps if he encountered her again during the dancing, he would ask after the tailor so that he could pass along the information to Cecilia.
He wished Lela of Bast a pleasant time in Frell and made once more to go, only to be stopped cold by her farewell in Ayorthaian. It had been months since he last heard the sonorous language, and though Lady Lela's accent was as strong as his own, it was wonderful to hear it again. He could not keep himself from asking after her connection to the kingdom, drawn in despite himself.
Rest period forgotten, he asked her to dance, barely waiting for her to say yes before sweeping onto the floor for what turned out to be a gavotte. It gave no time for further questions until the end, when, breathless, Char asked Lady Lela her opinion on sliding down stair rails. Her answer delighted him, exactly the sort of joke that he enjoyed.
He wanted to ask her for a second dance, but the clock chimed the time. It was already nearly midnight; the greeting of the guests had eaten up half the night. He bowed to Lady Lela and pointed her to the refreshments, hoping she would stay long enough that he might catch her for another dance later.
Char turned away rather than watch her go, only to find his sister at his side.
"Who was that?" Cecilia asked, peering over his shoulder.
Char didn't turn to watch Lela, knowing his sister wouldn't believe him if he tried to feign ignorance. "Lela of Bast," he said. "It's her first visit to Frell."
"Hmm," said Cecilia, holding her hand out so the two of them could dance. Father would want him to dance with the eligible ladies, but Char could hardly refuse his sister. "Pretty under her mask, do you think? Or hiding a warty nose?"
Char rolled his eyes as he drew her into the crowd of dancers. "I thought you wanted our guests to wear their masks so I wouldn't know either way."
"I did," Cecilia replied airily. "But I didn't expect any of them to catch your interest so quickly."
Char was glad for the warmth of the hall; it might hide his flush. "She was funny," he said, trying not to grow defensive. Cecilia had seen the worst of his moods these last weeks, and he knew she wasn't the only person in the household who hoped the balls would cheer him up. "I liked her jokes."
"Ah, she has jokes! She knows her way to my brother's heart, then," Cecilia said, her eyes bright with mischief.
Char huffed. "Jokes aren't all that matter," he said.
"They're not," Cecilia agreed, "but they do make things more fun, especially when you have to spend the rest of your life with the person telling them."
Char grew quiet at that. Ella had made him laugh, too, her sharp wit often driving him to tears with laughter. He'd thought that the two of them might laugh their way into a long life together. It hurt more than he cared to admit that he'd been so thoroughly tricked by her. He was glad now that he hadn't told his family about Ella. They knew he had been horribly moody since his return from Ayortha, but at least they did not know that he had been preyed upon, toyed with, and summarily rejected by someone who had only wished to have him as a trinket in her chest of jewels.
"Char?" Cecilia said, over-loud, as if she were repeating herself.
He blinked and realized that the song had ended. "Sorry," he said, "just tired all of a sudden."
Cecilia smiled, though Char could see a hint of concern in her eyes. "If you want to dance with Lela of Bast again and neglect your other duties, I'll keep Mother and Father at bay. They'll be taking their leave soon anyway; you know Father starts nodding off once it's past midnight."
Char bit his lip. He really should be a better host to the rest of the guests, but he had the feeling that Lela of Bast could slip away if he did not reach out to catch her. "Thank you, Cecilia," he said.
"Of course," his sister said, giving him a quick hug. "Good luck!"
Char nodded and turned toward the archway that led to the refreshments hall. Perhaps Lela would still be waiting.