A tale of Love And Languish

Chapter 1- Alexander

Your highness,” Abigail takes my arm and whisks her brown curls across her shoulder, stone-faced as we file into line.
The tulle in her gown ruffles with her gait.
She lifts her skirt just high enough for me to see, then drops it as our siblings’ titles are announced. She’s wearing black leather boots, the laces climbing her ankle.
We stand behind our siblings, looking perfectly ahead. I wouldn’t dare speak while in line. My father would kill me.
Abigail and I have been engaged since we were kids. Her sister, Amanda, engaged to my twin. I only see her as a friend, but I would marry anyone in a heartbeat if it was for my country. When our siblings marry, the first district and the third district will be merged, enabling us to provide our own natural resources, instead of allowing the second district to blackmail us into giving more than we can provide.
The independence day ball is the only event of the year where we see all of the districts together, for food and dancing, and discussing relations.
When we reach the dining hall we take our seats and unfold the blue napkins, placing them in our laps.
“Why would you wear boots?” I whisper, “You’re going to get in so much trouble.”
“I have this,” she breathes in, “irresistible urge to rebel.” She laughs, putting her hand on my shoulder and breaking a rule that my father would have me beaten for. 
We sit near the end of the table, in front of our siblings and her parents. Lindon and I are mostly identical, with the same blue eyes, and the same white-blonde hair. But if you didn’t know us you couldn’t tell that our noses are different, and his face is fuller than mine, if not a bit longer.
My father stands from his seat, champagne glass in his hand. He’s a regal old man, fit and trim for his age, with a graying silver beard and a gold crown that matches the stripe on his wrist. While lower castes may hide their stripe, we hem our sleeves too short.
“Welcome,” he lifts the glass, “Let us take a moment of silence, to remember those we’ve lost.”
There’s a cardstock pamphlet resting on the china, and as we each run our fingers over the names of the deceased, I notice something. Catherine Ramus is carefully written in fine cursive, near the bottom of the page.
Our eyes dart to the other end of the table, where Catherine Ramus sits with her new husband, piercing daggers into my father.
Someone wrote my mother's name.
Someone wrote my mother's name, and my mother is alive.
She slams the glass of champagne against the wall and stands to face my father, “Eric I-”
“Silence, Please,” he interrupts, “Have respect for the dead. “
My mother storms out of the dining hall, fists balled at her sides.
When the moment of silence is over my father returns to his seat, “The queen,” he pauses, “She really was something, wasn’t she?”
Abby whispers, “Did he  just-?”
“Yes, he did.”
My mother abandoned her post as Queen to run off and marry the king of the Second District, a younger, thinner man with a bigger kingdom than we could ever dream. His glare pierces the room as he taps his fingers near her empty seat, “I expected more of you,” he says before following his wife.
Not long after, our food arrives. They’re serving fish soup, except I’m allergic to seafood, so the boiled fish is substituted.
I’ve never had an appetite, and maybe that’s why people liken me to a rail.
My twin stands from his chair and raises a glass of champagne, breaking the silence.
“I have an announcement to make,” he smiles. His fingers tap the glass as he speaks, “We’re expecting a child.”
“I couldn’t be happier for you both,” my father raises his glass, “Congratulations.”
Amanda’s stomach is concealed with drapes of eyelet lace, covering her shoulders and buttoning over her abdomen. She’s short and thin, her umber hair tied gracefully behind her head, with jade eyes and skin that could sweat diamonds. Her parents, short, goudy people dressed to the nines. We’re all dressed to the nines. Her father pushes his food to the side and turns to my father, “You let them… you let them spend the night together?
“They’re not married,” her mother chimes in.
“They’re going to be,” my father sips his drink, “I never let them spend the night together, but, you know, kids will be kids.”
The third district is the only district to practice one of the ancient religions, Father calls them Catholics but I call them crazy, because the things they believe are downright strange.
Amanda smiles, “Can we forgo the drama, please? I’d like to enjoy my night.”
After the dinner is over we file into line, by order of succession. My father is in front of Lindon and Amanda, and I stand behind them, locking arms with Abigail. Her parents fall behind us, smiles plastered on so that ball-room goers won’t suspect their displeasure.
“They’re only seventeen,” Abigail whispers, “It’s ridiculous.”
“Lindon is mature. He’ll be a good father. Both of them are quite mature, honestly.”
The party stalls to a halt as father reaches the top of the stairs, he bows as his title is announced, then waves to the crowd as he finds his throne. He shies away from dancing, preferring to observe the crowd, because he’s, in his words, “Too old for that shit.”