The ballroom is filled with music, giggles and pastries but there is a secret ballroom in the garden far from everyone's judgement.
Anastasia leaned against the cool terrace wall, fanning herself with the fan of nobility.
"Kit," she sighed dramatically, "I have something tragic to confess."
Kit raised a brow. "Should I brace myself?"
"Yes. The admirer of mine, whom I danced with earlier— stepped on my foot six times. Six. And not once did he apologize—just smiled like a man proud of new accomplishments."
Kit blinked. "Perhaps he thought it was part of the choreography."
"It was not," she confirmed grimly. "If it was, I would have seen it in those dance lessons Mother tortured us with."
He chuckled under his breath, a sound that didn't echo here the way laughter did inside the ballroom. It felt less observed. Less staged.
Anastasia wasn't finished. "Also, someone tried to compliment my gown earlier and asked if I made it myself. Which I'm fairly certain is an insult disguised as a question."
Kit tilted his head. "That could go either way, honestly."
"No," she insisted. "It was an insult. I'm bold, not blind."
Another laugh from Kit — quiet and genuine. Anastasia decided she liked him better than half the nobility she'd met tonight. For one thing, he didn't check his reflection every three minutes.
"And what about you?" she asked, nudging him with her shoulder. "Have you completed your pastry-sampling duties? The kingdom must be protected from soggy crusts."
He winced with theatrical pain. "I fear I have neglected several pies. My captain will be furious."
"You mean the tall one who prowls around like he's hiding swords in his sleeves? Yes. Terrifying."
Kit glanced toward the garden, and for a fleeting second, his face softened — like he was letting go of some invisible armor. Here, no one stared at him, expected sparkle from him, or measured how princely he looked. Here, he could just be Kit. A boy sharing jokes under cold lantern light with a girl who didn't seem impressed by titles because she thought he didn't have one.
After a moment, she straightened her gown. "I should return before Mother decides I've escaped through a window and eloped with a pastry boy."
Kit looked almost disappointed. "Of course."
Anastasia turned toward the ballroom entrance, but paused. "Good luck with your… royal pie vigil."
He placed a hand over his heart. "I shall serve with honor."
She grinned, then slipped back inside, swallowed by warm candlelight and chatter.
Kit lingered a little longer, breathing in the quiet she had left behind. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he took the opposite corridor — the one that led toward duty, guards, titles, and the expectation of being Prince Charming for a crowd that hadn't asked who he actually was.
But for a few minutes in the garden, he'd gotten to be just Kit.
And he liked that more than he expected.
* * *
When I slipped back into the ballroom, the air immediately returned to its usual state: hot, noisy, and full of people pretending they were enjoying themselves. I'd barely taken three steps when Drizella materialized, wobbling like a startled flamingo, escorted by a very tall man who wore the expression of someone reconsidering his life choices.
"Anastasiaaa," Drizella whispered at a volume meant for elephants. "You left me. With a man. Who uses full sentences."
The man bowed politely, the poor soul. "Rowan, milady. I only offered assistance because—"
"Yes yes yes," Drizella waved her hand, "you offered water which I do not need because hydration is for peasants and horses."
Rowan blinked at her. "Not… quite, no."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I leave for five minutes and reality fractures."
Rowan looked at me as though I were the only sane creature within a ten-mile radius. "Your sister felt faint, so I helped her back from the dance floor."
"I was not faint," Drizella sniffed. "I was artistically spinning."
"Into the floor," Rowan corrected gently.
"Art is subjective," she countered.
I bit my lip to stop myself laughing. "Thank you, Rowan. Truly. You've saved ankles, reputations, and possibly our family's dignity."
He chuckled. "I can't speak for the dignity, but ankles have survived."
For a moment, we simply existed in mutual understanding — two survivors of the Ball.
Rowan glance at me, a little shy. "Also… if I may say, your dress is quite unique."
"Unique?" I repeated, wary.
"In a good way," he rushed. "Interesting, not… curtain-like."
I gasped. "Someone asked if it was made from curtains!"
Rowan winced. "I heard."
"I would have confronted him," he added seriously, "but Drizella had begun artistically spinning again."
Drizella held up a finger. "I am avant-garde."
"Avant-dangerous," Rowan muttered—then froze like a man expecting immediate execution.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, I adore it. Truly."
His shoulders loosened. A tiny alliance formed between us. A quiet pact: We shall endure balls and perhaps one day write a manual on surviving them.
Just as we were having our time, Mother's voice exploded across the ballroom like a trumpet that hated peace.
"Girls! There you are!"
Several nobles jumped. A chandelier trembled.
Mother swooped in like a hawk corralling two inconvenient pigeons. "Time to leave! Quickly! We must maintain mystique. Mystique is everything."
"We could also just… leave," I suggested.
Mother ignored me entirely. "You!" she said to Rowan, scanning him as though appraising livestock. "Tall. Cheekbones. Good posture. Potential."
Rowan stared. I stared. Drizella stared at a wall.
"Go," Mother commanded. "Grow a mustache and return next season."
Rowan wisely chose silence. I managed a small apologetic smile before being herded away like furniture.
We went to our carriage which was waiting outside with other carriages.
The instant the carriage door shut, Mother initiated her traditional Post-Ball Critique: a blood sport disguised as conversation.
"Drizella! You nearly collided with a duke!"
"I was expressing myself!" Drizella protested. "Through motion!"
"Toward the floor!" Mother snapped. "Gravity is not expression!"
"And you, Anastasia," Mother continued, swiveling toward me with predatory precision, "where did you vanish to? People noticed."
"I was outdoors."
Mother gasped. "Outdoors?! What sort of lady stands outdoors?"
"One who wishes to avoid suffocation," I replied.
"We had perfectly fine air inside!"
"It was expired air," I muttered. "Very stale."
The carriage hit a bump, launching Mother into a tirade about cobblestones, peasants, and the delicate nature of noble ankles, hers, specifically.
Drizella slumped against me. "I liked that Rowan boy," she murmured. "He didn't judge me for spinning. Out loud."
"He seemed decent," I admitted. "Also tall. And calm. Which I appreciate."
Mother was still monologuing about how mystique was our only remaining advantage in life, something about posture, and also about how I needed to stop going outdoors.
I tuned her out and looked toward the window. The night blurred by, cool and quiet. I thought of Kit — who was probably off sampling pastries or chasing rogue nobles, or whatever guards were required to do — and how easy it had been to laugh with him.
The world would return to expectations in the morning. Dresses and posture and curated mystique.
But tonight had been chaos. Ridiculous. Spinning. Onion mishaps. Curtain insults. Rowan dignity loss. And a garden conversation with a boy who didn't look at me like I was failing at being a lady.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was… nice.
Nice in the way real things are.
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