Isabelle relished the way Alicia's eyes nearly popped out of her head when she returned to her suite in time to prepare for the ballet. It was only compounded by the fact that the lady-in-waiting had, for some reason, dressed herself in ball finery and opera gloves.

"Have you also been invited to the ballet?" Isabelle asked, running an eye over Alicia's dress as she crossed to her own room. It was crimson and gaudy, cut so low that it didn't leave much to the imagination. Alicia's hair had been heat-pressed into ringlets, piled atop her head with a pair of ruby combs to match the dress. Those same curls were quivering now as Alicia leaped to her feet. Behind her, Laura and Marjorie exchanged horrified looks.

"You're supposed to be sick," Alicia snapped. "As your lady-in-waiting, it falls to me to take your place."

"How fortunate for Laura and Marjorie, then, that you'll be here to keep them company," Isabelle said, not bothering to wipe the smile from her face.

She closed the door in the fuming lady-in-waiting's face, ringing for Lissa as she tried to contain her giggles. When her ladies' maid arrived, Isabelle urged her to go and witness the spectacle for herself, the pair of them doubling over with laughter when Lissa returned. Apparently Alicia had torn out her hair combs in a rage, but one of them had snagged in a burnt curl of hair. Laura and Marjorie were desperately attempting to tease it free while Alica barked orders, her face the same colour as her dress.

Isabelle's preparation was decidedly less extravagant. She chose a watered silk dress of silvery blue, tying her hair up into a chignon. She debated with Lissa about the need for opera gloves, Isabelle refusing to remove her ring while Lissa insisted that it would be improper for her to leave without gloves. In the end, Isabelle slid her engagement ring onto a chain, ensuring that Leopold's diamond hung prominently in the curve between her collarbones as she snatched up her gloves and made her way to the entrance hall.

The rest of the debutantes were already outside, enjoying the fragrant summer night air, the stars winking to life in the clear sky above them. Casting her eyes around the assembled men and women, Isabelle spotted Sam handing Violet into a carriage. She spared little more than a cursory look around for Byron Fletcher before gathering her skirts and heading towards Violet's carriage. If Byron couldn't be bothered to find her, Isabelle would stuff herself in with Sam and Violet.

"Any room for a third?" Isabelle asked as she approached them. Violet's face lit up as she leaned her head out of the carriage to see who had spoken.

"Of course! Are you feeling better?" she asked, shooing Sam out so he could help Isabelle in.

"It seems a day of rest did me some good," Isabelle said, reaching for Sam's hand, only for him to pull it away and dip a bow.

"Your Highness," he said, looking over Isabelle's shoulder. She didn't bother to hide her scowl as she turned and curtseyed.

"Did Byron forget to come and collect you?" Prince Graham asked, Cora already on his arm. She bristled as Graham offered Isabelle his other elbow, her back going rigid in her jade silk gown.

"It seems he has," Isabelle said, ignoring his arm. "Perhaps I'll find him at the theatre."

She turned back to Sam, whose ruddy eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline.

"Well you don't want to be riding in this carriage, not when you have the honour of riding in mine," Prince Graham said. Isabelle gritted her teeth.

"How wonderful," she said. When she turned back around, his elbow was still outstretched, waiting for her. Cora looked as if she'd sucked on a lemon.

With a sigh, Isabelle resigned herself to riding in Prince Graham's carriage, shooting a look over her shoulder at Sam and Violet as the prince led her away. He was enjoying having her and Cora on his arm far too much, jovially conversing with the pair of them as he led them towards the grandest carriage at the head of the queue. Standing beside it looking just as surly as he had at dinner was Byron Fletcher, clearly not amused that the prince had arrived with Isabelle on his arm.

"Ah, Byron. How kind of you to grace us with your presence," he said, handing both Cora and Isabelle into the carriage. "It seems Miss de Haviland was attempting to escape our esteemed company."

Isabelle fixed the prince with a glare, but he had leaned close to say something low to Byron.

"You didn't have to take his elbow, you know," Cora said, folding her arms as the men exchanged words outside.

"A simple 'thank you for the invitation, Isabelle' would have sufficed," Isabelle said, making quite the show of arranging her skirts. Cora opened her mouth to retort, only to clamp her teeth shut into a too-large smile as Graham and Byron climbed in.

"We certainly are two of the luckiest gentleman in Highcastle tonight, wouldn't you say, Byron?" Prince Graham asked, settling in next to Cora and across from Isabelle.

"Yes, your Highness," Byron replied, sounding just as unenthusiastic about the evening as Isabelle felt. Looking out the window as the carriage lurched forward, she tried to ignore the smug grin on Graham's face as he stared at her.

~*~

Despite being the first carriage to leave, they were the last to arrive thanks to the circuitous route their carriage followed through the city. The prince assured Isabelle, even though she most certainly hadn't asked, that it was to ensure that they made an appropriate entrance. In fact, he'd spent the majority of the voyage pointing out the sights of the city, like the Royal Conservatory, Highcastle's university, which was lit up with lanterns hanging from the old oak trees on its gated grounds. Isabelle had remained mute, under the distinct impression that the nighttime tour of the capitol was more for her benefit than anyone else's, as both Cora and Byron had grown up there.

When they had finally alighted, Isabelle had taken Byron's arm with about as much enthusiasm as he had offered it. The pair of them followed Cora and the prince, who had fallen in behind the king and queen. The entire entrance hall had dropped into reverences and Isabelle felt her stomach turn at the way her friend's chin had tilted into the air, mimicking the queen's snobbish posture. Prince Graham marched onward, much like his father, paying little heed to the nobles bowing before him. Byron was positively glowering, clearly annoyed that Prince Graham was escorting his first choice of debutante.

"This theatre is remarkable," Isabelle said, breaking the silence between them as they were shown to a pair of seats at the back of the royal box. It was outfitted with plush red velvet chairs and a pair of butlers already passing out refreshments.

"Hmph," was Byron's noncommittal reply. When he turned his attention elsewhere, Isabelle focused instead on the rest of the theatre as the box's curtains were lifted, the royal fanfare echoing from the orchestra pit. The entire parterre rose in a shuffle of skirts and whispers, turning their attention to where the king stood, surveying the room, at the front of the box. He gazed out over them, holding their attention for longer than was necessary before he sat, the rest of the box and the theatre following suit. Once again, Isabelle felt that hot wave of resentment for the king roll over her.

Here he was, again, abusing his power because he could. He could have simply taken his seat and allowed the ballet to commence, but instead he had held the entire theatre in his thrall, on their feet until he allowed them to sit. Thankfully, the curtain rose, a dozen daintily-dressed ballerinas with their arms in the air, immobile, on the gleaming stage. Isabelle's wrathful thoughts about the king were silenced when the music began and the ballerinas, as one, slid into graceful motion.

She had been to the ballet once before as a child, in this very same theatre in Highcastle. Her mother had been fond of the arts and had very much disliked the frigid winters in Kentshire, so she'd convinced her husband to buy her a winter home in Highcastle. Some of Isabelle's earliest memories were of that three-storey townhouse, its narrow sitting room lit by a crackling fire and the warm scent of spices and evergreens hanging in the air as she waited up for her mother to return from the theatre. She'd only spent a few winters there, though, before her mother fell ill. After she passed, her father had sold the house and they'd never spoken of those magical Highcastle winters again.

But seeing the dancers on stage, twirling and gliding so gracefully it seemed almost effortless, all those old memories came rushing back. She remembered now how her first visit had been during the holidays, when the theatre had been decorated with evergreen boughs and sprigs of holly. She couldn't forget how the dancers on stage had kept her so raptly attentive that she hadn't wanted to go to sleep when they'd returned home, for fear that she'd wake to find it all had been a dream. She didn't recall which ballet she'd watched, but she did remember that neither of her parents could stop her from twirling and leaping down the hallways at home for weeks afterward.

They were the memories of before; before her mother's death, before Kentshire's financial woes, before she had to worry about courtship and marriage and politics. They were the few souvenirs she had left of the innocence of youth, when dancing down the halls was permitted and dreaming was encouraged, not frowned upon.

She hadn't realized that tears had welled in her eyes until the audience erupted in applause as the curtain crashed closed for the intermission. Hastily blinking them away as the butlers lit the box with candles, Isabelle dragged herself back to the present, pretending to fuss with her skirts to give herself a moment to regain her composure. Byron had risen without so much as a word to her before he stalked from the box, brushing past where Cora had cornered the prince between his seat and the door.

Her friend had seized yet another opportunity to attempt to charm the prince and Isabelle had absolutely no interest in interrupting, not with the looks Cora kept darting her way. Following Byron if only so she could find Sam and Violet for some company during the intermission, Isabelle halted in her tracks as the prince outstretched his arm to block her path.

"For your sniffles," he said, a monogrammed handkerchief in his hand. Mortified that he had perhaps noticed her tears, Isabelle snatched it up and flounced away, out of the box, refusing to look at him.