Lost Souls

Part Two: Waltz.

n.b.

I simply wanted to publish this "prologue" for Waltz. 

Please note that there is a whole new set of characters in Waltz; as you'll soon see, the time period has changed, and we are no longer in the afterlife of Calliope Stone.

Enjoy :)

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Waltz.

Diamonds and rubies.

All the ladies wear elaborate jewels, and some of the gentlemen, too. Anybody who is somebody wears a jewel. Each sparkles with color and vibrancy, each attempting to outshine the others. One of these could feed a poor family for a month—or a whole year, even.

But what I am looking for is brighter than them all.

I am still and alone, stark silent in the middle of a crowded room. They cannot see me: the dancing couples swirl through me, stepping with elegance and grace. To them, I am not there at all. To the living, I do not exist.

Unless it is my wish to do so the living do not see me, because they look—but they never see.

How I wish I had never made that mistake.

My eyes scan the room, carefully assessing each and every person at this ball. I ignore the servants, for they had told me that it would be someone of wealth and status. So I focus on the nobility, using their familiar faces to help me determine their rank. But nobody is marked.

That is, until I see the prince.

I recognize him immediately. Father had wanted him to be my husband, even though I had been betrothed to his brother when we were both very young—poor Arthur had died years and years before either of us were old enough for marriage; he had always been a rather sickly child.

James, on the other hand—James, his younger brother—Prince James, the heir apparent, is so very different. He is all smiles and laughter. I watch him for a while, noting his easy charm with the ladies, his intellectual conversations with the gentlemen. He is a good man, a good prince. Handsome and charismatic, but brilliant as well. He would have made a good king.

But he bears the mark; his soul has been chosen, and tonight he is the one I must claim for them.

I walk through the waltzing couples, heading straight for the prince. He is speaking to a young girl with rosy cheeks; her loose hair tells me she is a virgin, and her extravagant dress denotes her family's rank—the daughter of a duke, perhaps? At the very least, of an earl. Perhaps she is the one James hopes to marry someday. I almost feel as though I should apologize to her. (But of course, I cannot.)

I don't stop moving until I am standing right behind James, close enough that if I shut my eyes I can almost imagine that I feel the heat his warm, living body is sending off. I reach out a hand and lightly tap his shoulder.

One touch—that is all it takes. They told me so, and it is so; one touch, and James stiffens and turns around to face me, completely forgetting about the rosy young girl. He wakes straight through me, his movements trance-like, never once acknowledging the calls of the other guests of the ball. In the corner of my eye I see the elderly queen, sitting on a raised dais, staring after her last surviving son with motherly concern; but she is the queen and cannot abandon the guests to ask after her own child. And so James is alone.

I spare the confused young girl one last glance before turning and crossing the ballroom, leaving it through the same door the prince had. The halls are lit by dim candles, but there is hardly anyone around; the servants are all busy preparing for the grand feast that is to follow, and the guards' attentions are focused more on inconsequential human threats.

James is waiting for me around the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes are glazed, and when I smile at him he reaches for me desperately. He does not understand, of course. None of them ever do. They simply can't.

I place one finger on his lips, motioning for silence.

"Not here," I whisper, walking forwards. He backs up, one hand reaching around his back to search for the knob of the door there; as soon as it opens he grabs me, pulls us both through, kicks the door shut and locks it.

When he turns around to me he is nearly unrecognizable. There is a look on his face that is not James at all, and I am both sad and relieved that this is happening; a man with such a weak mind would not have been a good king after all. Perhaps there is a silver lining to all of this?

"My lady," he breathes, tenderly intertwining our fingers. He steps closer to me so that our fronts are pressed together, chest to chest, heart to heart. I can hear his pumping furiously. I wonder if he even realizes that mine does not move at all.

"When I saw you..." he pauses, trying to find the right words. I don't want to hear a sonnet but I am interested to see what kind of words my former betrothed's brother uses to seduce a lady. "You are absolutely exquisite, my lady," he says finally. Earnestly. "You have the most beautiful hair, the most lovely eyes—"

He goes on and on but I am not interested anymore. It is all the same—the same compliments repeated over and over again. Someone had probably drilled them into these men's heads since infancy. I use the slight irritation I feel and force myself to magnify it into rage so that what I do to him tonight can be explained as the actions of an angry woman, not a desperate one with no other choice. My pride is the last thing I have that is mine. Without it, I would be lost.

"Your Highness—"

"James," he cuts in eagerly. "Call me James, milady. You are far too beautiful for such formalities."

Beautiful. There's that word again. I try not to frown and instead smile at him seductively. "Of course, James," I purr, running my hands up and down his front torso, feeling his strength. "You flatter me, my lord, but—"

The words are stuck in my throat. Any other night I would have no trouble speaking them, playing this charade to the end. But not tonight. Maybe it is his eyes, just as blue as Arthur's had been; or maybe it is this room, this palace, this city that was once my home—once upon a time. Another lifetime ago.

He is still speaking, still touching me, caressing my shoulders and looking into my eyes as though professing love.

I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.