The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

Aelwyn walked up to the two of them. She had been borrowed from the sisterhood that day, as she was the sorceress in charge of the princess’s wardrobe and social preparations for the season. Marie shot her a glance, begging her to help. “Can I have a word with the princess?” Aelwyn asked.

The dance instructor nodded and blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. “Yes, yes, go ahead,” he said. “Perhaps there is a spell that might help Princess Marie to remember the steps.”

Marie and Aelwyn went to the corner of the room to confer. “You’re not very nice to him, and you should be,” Aelwyn said. “He’s only trying to help. You’re not even trying.”

“I’m tired,” Marie said stubbornly. “I need to rest.”

“You look fine to me,” Aelwyn said firmly. “Maybe we should we send the court away?”

“Is that possible?”

“You’re the princess; you can do whatever you want.”

Marie watched as Aelwyn walked over to the ranking lady-in-waiting and exchanged a few words with her. After a moment, the courtiers left the room, a few of them looking a bit miffed. She had forgotten how strong and forthright her friend could be. When they were little, Aelwyn had often been the one who told Marie what to demand on birthdays and holidays. She knew instinctively how to stretch the limits of Marie’s privilege, and when to push back.

“Shall I send away the orchestra, too?” Aelwyn offered. “Maybe everyone but the violinist, for a melody.”

“It’s like magic,” Marie said when the large cavernous room was empty—save for the two of them, the dance instructor, the violinist, and Gill, of course.

“Are we ready to try again?” Pierre asked with a weary air.

“Perhaps the princess should dance with a different partner,” Aelwyn suggested. “Her guard can take your place, Master Fontaine. What is your name, soldier?”

“Oh Gill, you don’t have to,” Marie said, horrified and a bit excited as Gill stepped forward obediently.

“Aelwyn is right. It might help you, because then I can see what you are doing and correct what you are doing wrong,” Pierre said. “Over here, please, Corporal; yes, just like that,” he said as Gill placed one hand on Marie’s waist and took her right hand with the other.

Marie placed her hand on Gill’s shoulder and hoped he didn’t notice that her hands were sweaty. She felt self-conscious standing with him this way. She was physically affectionate with Gill, always in a purely platonic spirit. But this was the Lovers’ Waltz they had to master, and it was disconcerting and thrilling to be practicing it with Gill. Since the reality of the situation meant she would be dancing this with Leopold in a few weeks, it seemed almost cruel to dance it with the boy she wished could take his place.

“All right, Marie?” he asked.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said testily.

The violinist played, and Gill moved woodenly through the dance. He didn’t hold her any closer or tighter than necessary, and he had a hard look on his face as if he were in pain.

“Hold her closer,” Pierre instructed. “You act as if she is a puppet; she is your partner! Dip her lower—closer—this is the Lovers’ Waltz!”

Marie blushed. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him.

Gill frowned grimly. “I do as told.”

The violinist played the waltz, a romantic, elegant melody, the sound of the first blush of young love. It was traditionally the first dance of the Bal du Drap d’Or, and the most beautiful debutante performed it with her chosen partner as an homage to the enduring power of love. As a child, Marie had loved watching the chosen young couple perform the special dance. She had loved everything about the royal ball, from the heady music to the extravagant magic used on the ladies’ dresses. She remembered a dress made from sunshine itself; it glowed golden rays when the dancer twirled. Now it was her turn to shine, her turn to swoon and fall in love in front of the whole court. But she was not in love with the prince. He was rehearsing on his own time, as tradition dictated they would not perform the dance together until the fateful night.

She wished Aelwyn had not suggested Gill dance with her, he looked so mortified and annoyed. He did not take the least bit of pleasure in holding her this way. She was embarrassed for herself and for her infatuation, for her greedy desire for any excuse to be close to him. She could tell he only wanted it to be over. Mercifully the lesson finally ended, and Marie was free to return to her room. She pushed Aelwyn inside and shut the door in Gill’s face.

“Why did you do that?” she whispered fiercely. “Why did you get Gill to dance with me? I was so embarrassed!”

“You need to learn how to dance for the waltz. I thought it would help. Master La Fontaine is so short.…I thought if you had a partner who was tall like Leopold, it would be easier,” said Aelwyn. “Wait, why are you so upset? The boy you were talking about before—the one who disappeared—it’s not—” she pointed to the door. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s him. Gill.”

“But you told me he had been sent away—that you didn’t know if you would see him again.”

“He came back.” Marie said. Except it wasn’t the same, not like before. He had returned, but he hardly spent any time with her anymore. After that first day when they’d read together, he never did again. He visited her less and less on his downtime, and if she had thought there was any indication of deeper feeling on his part, it appeared she was wrong, especially after his strained performance at the dance rehearsal.

Aelwyn walked to the sideboard and found a bottle of mulberry wine. “Can I open this?”

Marie nodded and brought out two goblets so Aelwyn could pour them drinks. “Winnie, you can’t tell anybody about how I feel about Gill.” She knocked back the wine with one gulp.