Furiko's Fantasy Novel Thing

I knew you weren't talking to me, but I feel that the audience has the right to defend the works they enjoy, even if it's only in the form of a fair response to criticism.

@Leradny: But what you're describing sounds incredibly like handholding. I don't want people to notice everything there is to know about all three girls right away; I think it's important to let the reader get to know the characters gradually so that their opinions of them change over the course of the book.

Hurf blurf. Just finished Ch. 2, so let me regroup my thoughts on that first before going on.

First, this line:

made me laugh out loud.

Second of all... I think Moony's on the mark with the "text equivalent of Shaky Cam" comment. The feel is kind of... disjointed. It feels like we jump around in space quite a bit, and in perspective, and it makes the whole thing sort of hard to follow. I believe in Show, Don't Tell as much as the next writer, but I think it's OK to be a bit more direct in what's going on in an action scene like this. Because it took me a while to figure out what was going on with the golems, and I'm still not sure if Lucy took water out of them or put water in. And how that worked. I also think it'd be OK to chop this up into some smaller chapters, maybe? If only two.

I like the Duke, though. And... the other Duke. Those guys; they're cool.

Blackmoon: It's hard enough adjusting my stance to accommodate one person's feedback. If I had to pick between you and Furiko, I would pick the person who is actually writing the thing. And since Furiko can, and is, defending herself, it's not my problem if you dislike what I say.

Furiko: I never said that you had to introduce everything at the start. You need to organize whatever information you are giving the reader, so that the information won't get misinterpreted (such as, my mistaking Hadrian for an entirely new character instead of one who was introduced earlier).

"Clarify your work" does not equal "Beat readers over the head with information".

Alright, well, I wasn't aware that you were trying to focus criticism, and I wanted to offer my personal thoughts on your... also personal thoughts in the hopes of getting some clarification, that's all. My apologies if this rubbed you the wrong way.

Really, I'm just here to read. People shouldn't be listening to me anyway.

Seconding that we should get a bit more insight into her reasons for defending and seeing Hadrian. Again, things do feel just a bit shakycam here—we're hopping around a bit and I feel like I keep missing vital bits of information. I appreciate your desire to reveal things gradually, and I respect it. But I feel like I'm missing out on some character motivation here, and while I'm willing to get to know the characters, if they're going to be doing fairly major things straight from the beginning (like sparing people who've just trashed the town), I think we need a little insight into what makes them tick.

@Aleithio: The way I see it with regards to criticism is: A person who is well-versed in mechanical engineering and what makes machines tick can't always build a perfectly-functional machine on their first try, even though they theoretically know what to do. So though someone may be an imperfect writer, if they know writing theory in general, they can still competently criticize. Plus, you know, writing is a subjective art and you can always say what you did and didn't like from a personal standpoint.

WREEEE-OOOO

Right, Officer Alex, Romance Police. I think you know what you just did, that'll be a standard fine of—

This chapter did lay it on a bit heavy, and the tsundere stuff didn't do much to mitigate it. Right now I'm already seeing where this is going and it's a bit too obvious. You could keep essentially the same stuff without making the alarms go off so heavily, though. For instance, his looks. He can be as beautiful as you like, but time in a jail cell does no-one favours; he should look a little grungy and beat after being tossed in shortly after a battle. Then you can make it a little more subtle by throwing in a hint to his looks, like

"There might've been a handsome face under the smugly impassive expression and prison grit, but it was certainly hiding itself well."

And then you can have all that beautiful stuff later. Keep in mind that sometimes keeping a character's good looks and stature hidden for a while can lend gravity to a particular situation. Like if you've ever seen someone light up and shine when working at their craft, or when solving some particularly challenging situation. Point is, no character has to be overwhelmingly beautiful all the time, and saving it for later will probably do you better service in the long run.

I think it's a bit early to be making that kind of call, and critiquing based on it. It's one thing to say "I know where this is going", wait to see if that thought pans out, and then make critiques for being too obvious. But to call a plot point "too obvious" based solely on initial impressions, without waiting around to see if those impressions actually play out, is a little presumptuous. After all, it's not too hard to trip up the Genre Savvy by pulling out the rug.

It's not just based on that line, though.

Okay, I have had the benefit of a preview and discussion, although that was some time ago. There's also the attention to his looks and the whole tsundere thing. None of these on their own would set the sirens wailing, nor would the combination. It's just the fact that they're all there together in such a short space of time. Spread it out and then bring it all in later, perhaps when the reader's mind is otherwise concerned.

For instance, what if the first time she gets a gander at Hadrial's looks, it's when he shows up at the academy? That's a good opportunity for her to be shocked, and perhaps regretting the way she treated him in the cell, not to mention some initial, shallow (but understandable) interest sparking that can deepen over time.

Besides, I know the genre and audience. And Furiko knows 'em both better than I do, and is very good at selling a concept.

Dude, I've changed my mind since the last time we talked; there's no romantic subplot for these two anymore. All there is now is Lucy's unrequited crush.

Or, wait. Do you even remember that?

Excellent point re: criminal grunge. I forget not everyone is turned on by guys who've been recently roughed up. I shall patch the chapter up and talk up grouchy-britches' handsomeness later instead.

edited 9th Nov '11 2:15:22 AM by FurikoMaru

I remember, but I didn't want to let on too much. <_<

In any case, patching that bit up is going to do you well, no matter the approach. Whether you play it straight or pull the carpet, the audience will appreciate slower going either way. If you played it straight, it would be too obvious; if you pulled the carpet, a part of the audience would feel cheated.

I don't think you told me that. ._.

I don't think the "omg special middle name?" thing alone smacks of possible romance subplot; all it suggests is she has a secret, which is fine.

Though since the beginning, I've always thought the descriptions of Hadrian as groin-grabbingly beautiful right off the bat were... well, I'll be honest, laugh-inducing.

edited 9th Nov '11 1:47:17 PM by Blackmoon

Fair enough. I freely admit I have no ear for romance writing - which is one of the reasons there is a romantic subplot in this at all; I want to get some experience at it.

Without further ado, the next part. Warning: infodump central and Sue-ish Dare.

Chapter Three Part II

Lucy tried straightening and hunching her back, but the violet gown didn’t get any less uncomfortable. It was a loan from Allie – as she insisted Lucy should call her when off-duty – and even though the sober old maidservant who waited on the girls had done her best to adjust it, it still didn’t fit quite right through the shoulders.

“Lady Woodlawn has always had her father’s bones,” was all she’d said about it, in a tone that suggested Lucy’s own bones were so hideously miniscule as to constitute a scandal.

Giving the dress up as a lost cause, the redhead gave the ballroom another look. The dance everyone was doing was some fresh import from Adelia; there was a lot of dipping going on, and the floor was awash in fallen hairpins and flowers as a result.

A few of the boys had asked her to the floor, but she had given them all polite refusals. Her father’s idea of a party was a feast with his old school friends while the local dramatic society performed some play or other, dodging chicken bones hurled by hecklers; the only dances she knew were harvest festival ones. And even had she known the latest steps, Lucy’s etiquette teachers (hideously old-fashioned ones, though she had yet to find this out) had all been insistent that well-bred women never chose dance partners without knowing their social status first.

Still, it had been pleasant to be asked; one or two of the young men had been handsome enough that she’d actually taken a discreet look to both sides to make sure they weren’t addressing someone else, or being ushered her way by kind-hearted parents.

She looked around for Dare, and found her deep in conversation with a boy along the opposite wall. The girl had certainly made herself easy to spot in the crowd; from where Lucy stood she could see at least three people staring at her fellow redhead with varying degrees of disapproval.

Dare’s gown was silk, like many in the room, and the cut was daring and modern; if it had been sky blue, or one of this year’s other fashionable colours, Lucy would have been deeply envious of it. As it was, she was baffled as to both how the girl could afford it and (here her rural naïveté came to the forefront) where she had found a seamstress willing to make such a provocative outfit.

The issue was one of colour. Dare’s dress was white – a gentle ivory, in truth, but when contrasted against the yellow and blue and flaming rose of the dresses surrounding it on all sides, the effect was stark.

White in Eranme was the colour of the peasantry; it was thought to bring good luck. Common girls from Feobourg to Ward Island wore white on birthdays and holidays, and in the countryside a woman’s white frock was often the only formalwear she owned.

But the traditional white dress was a simple affair; a long tunic, belted at the waist and flaring outward, with perhaps the odd touch of modern tailoring to flatter and conceal. What Dare had on would not have been out of place at a reception for a foreign dignitary. Except, of course, for the colour.

“I just like white,” Dare had answered in an all-too-innocent tone when Lucy asked her about it in the carriage ride over.

In all honesty, Lucy didn’t know quite what to make of the ensemble; certainly it looked very well on Dare, but she was starting to suspect, having seen her in maroon and green that morning, that Dare was one of those infuriating girls who could wear any colour under the sun with equal flair. Their hostess, for one, had drawn a sharp breath at the sight of the outfit, but had held her peace. Lucy suspected that her silence on the subject had by now been filled twice over by the other female guests – by the almost insistently chromatic daughters of the middle class, if by no one else.

At the moment Dare was smiling merrily up at the boy she was chatting with, but Lucy could see that the boy didn’t share her good humour in the slightest; his face darkened by the minute. It was difficult to tell why; Lucy wondered if she might be making fun of him. It was clear from the look on her face that she was sincerely enjoying herself, whatever she might be saying. Finally he interrupted her with a solemn look, bowed stiffly, and skulked off. Dare caught Lucy’s eye a moment later and hurried over, still grinning.

“How’s your party going? I see the guest of honour isn’t dancing,” she sing-songed.

“I don’t have much practice at it,” Lucy admitted. “And...” She hesitated, feeling slightly foolish. “... I half feel as if I’m in a dream,” she said finally, blushing. “So much has happened to me today, and...”

Dare patted her on the back in amusement. “You get used to it, don’t worry.”

“You seem to be in high spirits,” Lucy said, curious about the dispute she’d just seen but not wanting to pry.

“Of course!” Dare beamed. “Got a duel tomorrow.”

“Oh. That’s… good, I suppose,” Lucy replied, eyeing her new friend with something approaching concern. “Did… is it because you broke things off with…?” She tilted her head in the direction the boy had gone.

“Oh, the fight’s not with Martinet,” she said, waving a hand, “it’s with his fiancée. He won’t stop flirting with me and it seems like she’s always around when he does. I think he’s trying to get her to break off the engagement.”

“That’s horrible!” Lucy said. “Why haven’t you told her?”

“I have, something like thirty times!” Dare cackled. “She won’t listen to me; says I’m after his inheritance. As if she isn’t.”

Lucy stared. “How can you laugh about this?”

“How can I not? Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part!” Dare leaned over conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “There is no inheritance. His father’s been selling off the family assets to maintain their position for over ten years.” She snickered. “She’s getting into a catfight over a fortune that doesn’t exist.”

“Do you have these sorts of duels often, then?” Lucy asked, nonplussed.

Dare shrugged. “What else am I going to do with my Friday nights?” She frowned slightly. “But what about you? With the slower dances you don’t have to move much, and I was keepin’ an eye out; not all the guys who asked you to the floor were unsatisfactory.”

For a moment Hadrian Laurence’s face flashed through Lucy’s mind, but she shook it off. “I just don’t want to accidentally give offense by accepting the wrong person,” she said, hunching her shoulders meekly. She confessed in a whisper: “I have no idea who most of these people are.”

Dare’s eyes shone with glee. “Oh, you want dirt? You’ve come to the right cadet. C’mon,” she said, taking Lucy by the hand, “this is the kind of conversation that requires liquor.”

“Oh, no,” Lucy said hastily, “I don’t think-”

“I more than think, I know,” Dare said, pulling the redhead through the crowd. “Nat’ll go easier on me for giving ya the gory details if he knows I was on my third drink when I did.” She winked. “He says it’s handy to have a rep as a talkative drunk.”

When they’d acquired their beverages, she took a long sip and said, “All right, let’s start you off with the basics. The upper crust of the city – and, by extension, the country – has got basically two factions, setting aside foreign interests and some of the posh-er criminals.”

Dare gestured without outright pointing at an implausibly diamond-trimmed hat wearing a rail-thin middle-aged woman. “That’s the Duchess of Richlea. She’s the Dowager Empress’ cousin through the Zekacrean side and the unofficial head of the Imperial faction. Whatever you do, do not do anything to make her consider you a threat to ‘Lissa and her Freddie’. The last foreign princess who feigned interest in marrying His Augustness long enough to learn anything important about our troop movements died of ‘natural causes’ on the boat home.” The auburn-haired girl sounded almost admiring. “She’s a ruthless old bitch where her cousin’s concerned, but I can’t say I blame her. They were at school together,” she added, as if that explained everything. “I heard about another time when they were a little younger than us when-”

“Miss Leto,” Lucy broke in, heading off what looked to be a long digression into Court gossip, “the second faction?”

The shorter redhead waved a hand at the formal tone. “I keep tellin’ ya, you can call me Dare. The second faction is the Traditionalist one.”

“The Traditionalists?” Lucy asked, trying to call up what little she remembered of her lessons; history was her worst subject. “They rebelled when the Empire was first established, right?”

Dare nodded. “But the Duke of Karling at the time, the alternate heir, refused to back them and swore allegiance to Harold Johannes I instead; said there’d been enough war over the bloody throne and if they wanted to start more trouble now that things were finally starting to settle down, he’d be the one to finish it. And without a recognized descendant of the old Royal Family to lead them or the extra troops Karling could have provided, the rebellion crumbled and the movement went underground.”

“Alasdair!”

From across the room a slightly intoxicated man in his late twenties marched over to sweep Dare into a hug, which she returned with a laugh and a hearty slap on the back. The two fell into conversation in a foreign language Lucy couldn’t place, until Dare switched back to Eranmean and introduced the man as ‘Slava, the Ferruvian ambassador’s son – he’s an old boy of the College’. Slava took Lucy’s hand with a smile and, much to her confusion, pressed his brow rather than his lips to her knuckles.

“Ferruvian custom,” Dare explained, before diving once more into – from Lucy’s perspective – gibberish. Lucy tried to keep an interested smile on her face and listened, wondering what on earth they could be talking about so animatedly.

The conversation went on, light and airy, for several minutes, but when the man tried to freshen his drink, Dare’s tone suddenly took a turn for the reproachful. He laughed, and replied in Eranmean: “Always the little mother, aren’t you, Lasdya?” He made a great show of presenting her with his wine glass, and intoned solemnly, “I swear on my honour, in the presence of these witnesses,” here he inclined his head at Lucy, “that I have drunk my last for this evening, on the instructions of my personal worrywart.” Then he kissed the top of Dare’s head. “I should go; Irena will be wondering where I am.” With a polite bow to Lucy, he departed.

“Sorry about that,” Dare said, turning back to Lucy with a sigh and smile. “He insists I speak Ferruvian with him to keep in practice, and we don’t get to talk as much since his obligatory service finished. Slava used to tutor me in literature and foreign languages when he was a student,” she explained.

“What was that he called you?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, Lasdya? Heh.” Dare rolled her eyes fondly. “He thinks it’s uncouth to call me Dare; he has it into his head that it’s insulting ‘cause of some of the connotations the equivalent word has in Ferruvian. So when he wants to use a nickname I’m Lasdya, like my grandparents used to call me.”

Lucy blinked in surprise. “You’re Ferruvian?”

Dare shrugged. “Mostly. Mum and I were born here, but before I got my scholarship I grew up on River St in Little Ferru. That was years ago, though; if it weren’t for Slava I probably wouldn’t remember the language at all.”

After a moment the auburn-haired girl snapped her fingers. “But I was telling you about the Imps and the Trads. Right?”

“Is there more?” Lucy asked blankly. I barely remember what she’s said already!

“Oh, not much,” Dare replied, oblivious. “By this point the whole thing’s mostly an excuse to be snobby at cross purposes; Imps tend to send their children to IMC or normal boarding schools, Trads to IMCMI unless the kid’s completely mundane – and Trads never call IMCMI by the acronym in conversation. It’s always ‘the College’, like the two schools are still one and the Emperors never split the forces up.”

She took a sip of her drink. “The main bone of contention between the two groups is magic, but really there’s a whole slew of stuff tied up in it, like the meritocracy that was in place under the kings before the Second Civil War. See, used to be lesser titles like ‘baron’ and ‘viscount’ were terms for elected officials in the Royal Parliament, and-”

“Wait, what?” Lucy said, completely forgetting her manners. “We used to have a parliament? Like in Adelia and Keiru?”

“Well, not exactly the same, but yeah.” Dare raised her glass to a passing lady, who smiled, and then continued. “The historical records say that back in the day, if you paid your taxes on time and were born on Eranmean soil, you could vote for someone in your town to represent your needs in the capital.”

“But what does that have to do with magic?” Lucy frowned.

“Not much directly,” Dare said, “but you have to admit, magic is pretty egalitarian; it comprises so many different fields that very, very few people are entirely incapable of learning how to use one form of it or another. I mean, most of alchemy doesn’t require any special spiritual sensitivity at all, it just takes a good grasp of math and a lot of hard work.”

Lucy took a bit of comfort from this. She wasn’t terribly good with numbers, but no one could say she wasn’t a hard worker; it was nice to hear that even if she turned out to have no special talent for any magic but her watercalling, she could at least keep her grades up in one subject.

“Before CWII," the auburn-haired girl went on, "magic was considered an essential part of a child’s education – not just in private schools, but in village schoolhouses all over the country; for two centuries of peace each generation of the Royal Family spent thousands on improving the quality of magical instruction to keep Eranme economically and militarily competitive with neighbouring nations. Being a skilled crafter was a sign of sophistication and a key to political success; towns and neighbourhoods prefered to elect barons with powerful magical abilities because they commanded more respect in the capital.

“If this hadn’t been the case, the war probably wouldn’t have lasted the fifty years that it did. But when members of the Royal Family started getting assassinated, and the army split over who of the remaining royals was the real heir to the throne, that was when the barons of parliament came into their own.

“Some of them established and maintained a fortified neutrality in their towns, some seceded outright, but almost all of them made a bid for more power, and plenty of those got it in the confusion of the times. For the next half-century arguably the only stable governance in the country came from feudal magelords and their underlings. And because the first of these crafter-barons were used to working with one another in parliament, there was more willingness to cooperate and compromise between the independent territories than between those where the fractured bits of what used to be the national armed forces held sway. Towards the end of the war the ‘real’ armies often spent more time fighting secessionists than each other.”

Lucy felt a surge of pride in her ancestors. She’d played on the battered walls of her hometown a thousand times, but her father was no more of a history buff than she, and no one had ever mentioned what had caused the scorch marks or the gaping hole on the western side. And she supposed the old rooftop vegetable gardens she’d grown up with, that were apparently unknown in Delmore, made a bit more sense now; the local farms were down in the valley, outside the wall.

“When the Duke of Brightmarch, the man who would later become Harold Johannes I, reunited the armies and took over the country,” Dare continued, “the first thing he did was make it illegal for regular schools to teach magic and set up a bunch of extra taxes on magical businesses like alchemists’ shops and prognosticators. He didn’t want anyone thinking they could run his country by popular mandate and experience better than he could by divine right. His descendants did him one better and split the military in half, and the Imperial Military College into two separate schools; the Magical Institute, which even today has strict guidelines as to how many students can be admitted at any one time, and the normal IMC for the Standard Forces. They also made it nearly impossible for nobles to lawfully marry people of common birth, and constricted the civil rights of the Undines to the point that, legally, you could be considered the result of an act of bestiality.”

“Don’t you talk about my parents,” Lucy growled under her breath with a glare. The condensation on Dare’s glass, which had been dissipating in her warm hand, crept back with a vengeance.

If the other redhead noticed, she didn’t mention it; merely winced at her in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Luce. I know it’s despicable, but you’ve got to be realistic about your situation; you aren’t the lady of the manor here, and plenty of people are going to be doing all they can to make things difficult for you.”

Lucy took a deep breath to calm herself and nodded. At least now I know why they call her Dare, she thought.

The white-clad girl sighed with an air of finality. “So to summarize, Imperials mistrust crafters and callers because they used to run the show before the Empire was established, and the Traditionalists miss the good old days when the crafters were in charge. Got it?”

“I … think so,” Lucy said finally. At least I hope I do; why couldn’t she have just given me that summary at the start? “And who’s the Traditionalists’ leader?”

“Me!” Dare said with a grin. She shrugged at Lucy’s disbelieving look. “Fine, but I might as well be; no one else wants the position. To hold it you’d have to be able to unite all the splinter-groups, and believe me when I say no one short of a reborn King Orion could pull that off.”

“Oh, gods, what are you telling her?” groaned Allie as she joined them.

“Just havin’ a little history lesson,” Dare answered cheerily.

“Lucy, I want you to know,” the blonde said with a shake of her head, “despite what you may have learned of etiquette, it is perfectly acceptable – nay, encouraged – to tell Dare when to shut up. Otherwise she will never learn.”

“Hey!” the party in question protested.

“Face facts, Leto,” Allie responded without looking at her. But her lips quirked up in a fond smile. “And don’t say ‘hey’ in gentle company.”

"Can you believe this?" Dare said, gesturing at the crowded room with her drink. "I swear, every time we have one of these events there're twice as many people our age as before." She sighed. "What happened to Lord Everhart? I miss him, he was funny."

Allie echoed the sigh, and massaged the bridge of her nose. "You know perfectly well what happened to Lord Everhart, Dare; the minister of finance can't attend every party he's invited to. Also," she added as her partner wolfed down hors d'oeuvres, "this may be hard for you to understand, but normal young people? Like to spend time with other young people."

Dare stared at her in surprise. “Really? Why?”

The blonde buried her face in her palm.

“Anyway,” the auburn-haired girl continued, “by what standards are we judging normality here? I spent an hour and a half crushing my enemies’ heads with my bare hands this morning.”

“You say that as if half of our acquaintances haven’t done comparably insane things,” Allie said. “Bisset’s little sister got kidnapped by Scarleters last month and he had to dress up as the goddess Yscamira to get her back.”

“Who’s the goddess Yscamira?” Dare asked, frowning.

“Bisset’s sister’s imaginary friend, apparently.”

Lucy shrank back into herself as she watched the two girls reminisce and laugh together. This, she thought, was the biggest reason everything felt dreamlike. She almost never talked in her dreams, either.

In Mont Albertine she’d been a social leader almost from the word go; it was her birthright as the future baroness, and she’d thought she was pretty good at it, after sixteen years of practice. But here she was just the nice, quiet, polite, boring new girl. As kind as Allie and Dare were, it was starting to aggravate her, the way they almost seemed to forget she was there, absorbed in each other’s company.

The worst part was that she had no idea how to bridge the gap; she’d never had to learn how to make friends with strangers, and now she was surrounded by them on all sides.

For the first time in her life, Lucy felt homesick.

“Ah, Lorrie!” someone called jovially, and the next second a tall, burly man with steel grey hair was upon them, pinching Allie’s cheek in a way that made her flinch for just a moment. “How’s my little golden warrior, then?”

“I’m very well, father,” the blonde replied with a smile, “thank you for asking.” She nodded at Lucy. “May I present Lady-”

“Lucy Averill, the woman of the hour!” He interrupted, teeth flashing. He took Lucy’s hand and deftly kissed the air above it. “I remember your grandmother’s superb dance lessons, of course. No man could forget such artistry.” He nodded at the dancefloor, his smile shifting slightly. “Do you dance as well?” he inquired.

“Uh, I’m afraid not, sir,” Lucy answered, wondering why Dare’s eyes no longer suited her oddly neutral smile.

“Lucy, this is my father, the Count of Gellerart,” Allie finished, very quietly. She laid a hand on the man’s arm and, in a voice that was no louder, but which held a hint of steel, added, “And of course you already know Miss Leto.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the man said impatiently, without even a glance at Dare. “How are you settling in, my lady?” he inquired of Lucy.

“Lady Woodlawn has been most kind, sir,” she said politely, smiling at the blonde before turning back to the count.

“As has everyone, it seems,” he remarked, looking out at the ballroom at large. “Why, I’ve seen ten men ask you to dance, and all ten walk away denied.”

“I didn’t wish to disappoint anyone with an inadequate partner, your lordship,” she said, pinkening and lowering her eyes. “I’m unversed in the fashionable steps.”

“Ah, don’t be so hesitant, Lady Lucy,” the greying knight said. “The city is aquiver at your daring debut; doubtless you’ll find many eager teachers waiting to give you as much experience as you could possibly want.”

“Well... I did come to IMCMI to learn,” she replied, wondering where this was going.

“There’s a good girl,” he said, and once more, there was a strange twist to his expression. “It’s refreshing to see a young woman your age with the humility to accept her limitations and seek to overcome them. After all, Mont Albertine is not Delmore.”

Is he soft in the head? Lucy thought. What can he possibly be driving at? “... perhaps it would be best if I stayed off the dance floor, then,” she said, eyes flickering over at Allie and Dare in turn, silently asking them what she should do, “as Mont Albertine is all I have to offer it.”

“Oh, but you must try!” he insisted. “When I think of Lady Hacken dancing the soles out of her slippers at her fortieth birthday...” He smiled wistfully. “Such talent is very often hereditary; I’m sure your ladyship’s blood will out.” Again, the smile shifted.

After a moment, light dawned. It wasn’t a smile, Lucy realized, but a sneer; he was trying to insult her.

How on Earth does that work? she wondered. He compliments my grandmother and I’m supposed to be offended? What sort of odd place is this?

“Quite so, Count Gellerart,” Dare said in a smooth tone that it was almost impossible to tell was insincere. “These things do tend to run in families.” Setting down her drink and stepping around the large man as if he were no more than a potted plant, the girl smiled and offered Lucy a hand. “Such as my own. May I have this dance, milady?”

Hesitantly, Lucy stretched out a hand of her own, and a split-second later was pulled into the round of dancers as easily as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Don’t look at your feet,” Dare advised, “just try to feel where mine are going next and follow ‘em.”

“What on earth was that all about?” Lucy whispered back, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

“It’s nothing to do with you personally,” the auburn-haired girl assured her, dipping her in time with the other couples. “Allie’s dad is just an ass.”

Lucy barely had time to catch her breath before she was righted and spun out, then back into Dare’s arms. We must look utterly ridiculous, she thought. I’m more than half a foot taller than her. Or at least, she amended weakly, as Dare flowed energetically from one move to the next, I look utterly ridiculous.

“He wants her in the Forces so she can meet eligible men,” Dare explained as they rounded the curve of the circle. “The Mimis family coffers aren’t quite as full as they were in the good count’s youth, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be filling them himself with that bad back. That’s why he founded a regiment for her alone; he wanted her where she could meet rich, disciplined men, but locked out of any actual danger. But then she turned out to be... well, Allie.”

“What in the world does that have to do with me?” Lucy asked, bewildered. The idea of the Lady Woodlawn attending the College just to snag a husband struck her as laughable, especially after meeting the girl she was slowly coming to think of as Allie.

Dare grinned. “You’re the first watercaller of noble birth in over a hundred years, and there’re far more Trads in this crowd than most of them are willing to admit. Most of them attended IMCMI; many of those would be very keen to see their sons married off to a suitable Undine after she graduates.”

Lucy’s jaw would have dropped, but she was thrown into another dip and it decided to hang on for dear life instead.

“I’m the daughter of a baron out in the middle of nowhere!” she hissed once she was upright again. “We don’t even have any valuable connections!” So that's why they wanted to dance with me, another part of her mind thought glumly.

“Exactly!” Dare replied perkily. “No pesky superior title in the offing to tempt you away, and no inconvenient bumpkin relatives that’d allow some jumped-up backwoods family to gain a political foothold. You’re perfect. Although,” she added thoughtfully before Lucy could protest, “if Woodlawn’s right, and he usually is about bloodlines, your grandmother was Lady Hacken, so your background isn’t quite rustic enough for you to say you have no connections at all.” She indicated someone over Lucy’s shoulder with a flick of her head, as if she were tossing her bangs out of her eyes. “The guy over there wearing the Order of the Lilac is one of your cousins.”

Lucy didn’t bother to look. “I- sorry, I am completely lost. There are noble families who want their sons to marry Undines?”

“Of semi-noble birth, yes,” Dare answered patiently, leading the taller girl through a brief sashay. “Traditionalist or not, they aren’t quite so out of step with their time as to be comfortable with the thought of mixing with the common sort, and even the few who are can’t exactly circumvent the marriage laws.” She peered up at Lucy. “You seem surprised. Don’t you remember? Queen Adaryn was a Sylph, and her ladies-in-waiting all married knights of Eranme. There’s the highest possible precedent for this kind of thing – it’s why we call them Traditionalists instead of just ‘traitors’.”

Lucy shook her head. “King Orion is practically a fairytale, and Sylphs might as well be fairies! We’re talking about living people in the modern world.”

“Including the Count of Jardine? The tall man with the glasses who asked you to dance earlier?” Dare looked mischievous. “A little dark by Eranmean standards, wouldn’t you say?”

Lucy blinked. “He mentioned his mother was from Amua-”

“And he expected you to take the hint that she was part-Salamander,” Dare finished.

“Salamanders are one thing, but Undines in this country are-!”

“Frightfully romantic,” Dare said with a wink, and continued in an exaggeratedly-wistful voice. “After all, they’re fading into the night, in the modern era; wanderers whose world has left them behind; the noble, magical barbarians, driven to extinction from the world of mere men by Man’s callousness.”

I wish, Lucy thought sourly, and changed the subject.

“So... why is it an insult to be related to this Lady Hacken?”

Dare blinked. “It isn’t. He was alluding to your mum’s side of the family.”

Lucy frowned. “Then why didn’t he just-?”

“Because that would be rude. Look, I know,” she continued at Lucy’s bemused expression, “these people are completely nuts, but trust me when I say they have set patterns of behaviour that they think of as politeness and chivalry that have only a little to do with the actual definitions of those words, and as long as they can twist things around enough that they don’t fall outside the boundaries of those patterns, they honestly think they’re still behaving with dignity befitting their rank.” Dare snorted. “Even when they’re fifty-five-year-old men picking fights with fifteen-year-old girls.”

Lucy glanced over at the place they’d left, uncertain. “So... should I apologize to Lady- Cap- to Allie for… being too eligible?”

Dare laughed outright. “Trust me, Luce, the second she can prise Daddy Dearest’s claws off of ‘er she’ll head right over to apologize to you.” The firecaller smiled fondly. “Allie’s-”

Whatever Allie was would apparently have to wait; Duke Karling and his entourage had made their entrance.

After a brief fanfare from the band, they descended the stairs, and the Countess of Pinkwater greeted her most distinguished guest with a bow that surprised Lucy; she hadn’t realized that the matronly woman who’d been gliding around micromanaging the evening was an alumna of the College.

If Karling had been imposing in his uniform, he was positively regal in evening dress. His knee-length formal vest was embroidered richly with silver at the hem, and the dress-jacket beneath was fitted close enough to hint at a physique that would be the envy of many a younger man, if the lovely woman to his very-immediate-left were not sufficient cause alone.

As he passed through the crowd, he caught sight of them, and immediately changed course to approach them. A quiet murmur went through the guests at this, and Lucy could feel another blush coming on, but Dare smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

“Good evening, Lady Lucy,” the Duke said when he’d reached them, inclining his head toward her as she curtsied and Dare bowed. “Once again, allow me to offer my congratulations on such an auspicious beginning.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Lucy said.

He nodded, and gave Dare a fond look. “Miss Leto; as ever, the very incarnation of Dance.”

Dare grinned. “I see your Grace has made some refinements to Yolanda. Beautiful work on her hip and leg movements, I must say; too often illusionists neglect the basic necessities of human locomotion in favour of the gliding-spectre style, don’t you find?”

“Quite so.” The man’s smile was surprisingly gentle, given his rough features. “But however lifelike, I find that dancing with shadows can wear on the soul, after a time.” He held out a hand. “Might a humble schoolmaster beg a dance of a radiant goddess?”

“Certainly he might, sir, were a goddess present,” Dare replied mischievously. “But in her absence, he might be reduced to requesting one of his most troublesome pupil.”

Lucy missed most of this conversation, having become fascinated with the woman on Karling’s arm. She was nearly half his age and almost of equal height, with long, plaited black hair pinned up cunningly with pearls here and there. Her cloth-of-gold gown was of an old-fashioned style, but she wore it with such poise that the effect was wonderfully nostalgic. Especially, Lucy noted with a start, when she turned her eyes on you. Those shining, eagle-like irises would have been eerie if the woman had been dressed in plain brown. In the shimmering dress she wore tonight they were downright hypnotic.

And then in a flash she was simply gone. Blinking, Lucy turned her head back and forth, trying to see which way she had left. A few people nearby laughed at her astonishment, including the Duke.

“You must excuse an old man his follies, Lady Lucy,” he said, pulling a large moonstone etched with minute numbers out of his pocket for her examination, then replacing it as he turned to Dare. Her friend waved, and it was then that Lucy noticed the auburn-haired girl’s arm was linked with the Duke’s. Together, the pair took to the floor, and the musicians obligingly struck up a new tune.

Relegated to the sidelines once more, Lucy leaned against a nearby pillar to watch them dance, and considered what she’d just witnessed.

An illusion-projector! Lucy had seen them before, of course; the mass-produced ones that displayed preset, overly-shimmery recordings had been on the market for years – her father had given her one on her last birthday of the great actress Lydia Hawthorn performing the Victory soliloquy from Lady Grenville. But the lady who had stood next to the Duke – Yolanda, Dare had called her – had been like a real person. Not ‘almost’ like, Lucy thought to herself, as if practicing for some later report, but exactly like; for all the gold-eyed stranger’s aethereal beauty, Lucy hadn’t doubted for a second that a flesh-and-blood woman had been standing before her until the moment the Duke had shown her the moonstone. If that kind of workmanship and artistry was what they taught at IMCMI, she was even luckier than she’d thought to have come here.

Her mind drifting, Lucy fiddled with her hair. She and Allie’s maid had combined their efforts to stamp out the natural frizz and get the whole ginger mess into a presentable state for evening wear, but the dressings had started to fall apart practically from the moment Lucy had arrived. She’d shed so many tiny flowers by this point that she decided to pluck out the stragglers and call it a day.

“Handsome couple, aren’t they?”

Lucy turned around. The boy who had spoken was oddly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. He was broad-shouldered, with flat black hair that he seemed to be in the process of growing out, and she guessed him to be about nineteen or twenty. His face was of that ruddy-cheeked, unremarkably handsome type that people sometimes referred to as ‘honest’.

He had been addressing her – she was the only other person in the vacinity – but his eyes were following one of the couples on the floor. She traced his line of sight, and let out a small squeak of surprise.

“His Grace and Miss Leto?” Lucy tried to imagine someone, anyone, saying “Her Grace Alasdair, Duchess of Karling,” and failed. Certainly the little soldier was pretty and vivacious, but the thought of her as a noblewoman – and not just any noblewoman, but the wife of one of the most powerful men in the country – was profoundly wrong in a way Lucy couldn’t quite put into words.

But perhaps, she thought with a frown, marriage wasn’t what he was talking about.

The young man shrugged, still watching the two dancing. “He’s her guardian, and he hasn’t looked into any marriage plans for her; what else could he have in mind? And she certainly has no reason to complain, being entirely without expectations of her own.” He gave Lucy a sidelong glance. “A clever, charming young woman like that could well win over a scholarly gentleman of advanced years, if she-”

“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance,” Lucy interrupted coldly. “Nor am I sure I wish to, if you are to continue ascribing such vile, mercenary motives to my friend.”

After a momentary look of surprise, the boy burst out laughing. “Oh, marvellous! I thought you had some go in you before, but I had no idea!” Beaming broadly, he stuck out his hand. “I do apologize, but I always use a lady’s reaction to Dare as a litmus test for whether to establish a friendship with her; old family prejudice against fatheads, I’m afraid. Captain David Zimmer, Alchemical Warfare Division of Leblanc’s Black Jackets, though I do hope that when you know me better you’ll call me Cousin Dai.”

Somewhat mollified, Lucy took the hand and shook it. “How do you do, Captain Zimmer? ‘Cousin’, you said?”

“But of course!” he replied, then added, “Well, almost. Your grandmother was my grandmother’s elder sister; really I’m the eldest son of your second-cousin, Rhiannon. But Mamma had enough of being a cousin when it was just Aunties Jelly and Jungle to deal with, so she passed the duty on to me.”

Despite herself, Lucy giggled. “You called them Jelly and Jungle too? Daddy used to give me a quarter every time I did.”

“Ha!” His laugh was as loud as it was infectious, and he clapped her on the shoulder as he let it out. “You were swindled, there, old thing; the going rate on Aunt-Baiting is a full dollar.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Better make a note of this into the bargain,” Dai continued, nodding at a group of people across the room. “Don’t talk to either of their sons. Fritz and The Pill have been itching for you to come over and try to speak with them all evening; The Pill so he can ignore you properly, and Fritz so he can pretend to fall in love with you and annoy his mother.”

Lucy groaned; Franz and Philip had usually been at school when their mothers planned the Averill sibling reunions, but on one occasion they’d been off on break and spent two days visiting with her and her father at the manor. Two days had been more than enough for a lifetime. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Don’t mention it, coz.”

“There’s so much to take in here,” Lucy sighed, taking a seat on one of the benches provided. “Dare was just telling me about the... the Imps and the Trads, she called them?”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Dai said, shaking his head. “Dare’s a nice girl, but gossip is her pet hobby, I’m afraid; it’s almost an obsession. I hope she didn’t overload you?”

Lucy smiled and shrugged in resignation. “She’s... certainly an experience. She mentioned you, actually,” she added, and tried not to laugh as the boy perked up visibly. “When I said I didn’t have any valuable connections,” Lucy explained, “she said that if I’m really Viscountess Hacken’s granddaughter, one of my cousins is here tonight.”

“Occasionally her hobby comes in handy,” Dai said with a bright smile. “And don’t sell yourself short; from what I hear about this morning, you could easily be considered a valuable connection yourself in a few short years.” He winked. “You’re already shaping up to be a better cousin than Lyndy, that’s for sure.”

“How many of you are there?” she asked. “Cousins I’ve never met, I mean.”

Dai tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, the only Zimmers are me, Mamma (most likely Auntie Rhiannon to you), Father (Lord Zimmer, if you don’t mind, at first – but after a few drinks with him he won’t say no to an Uncle Grim), and Birdy and Affy; they’re still up at Ghost Creek and Lady G, but Birdy’ll be enrolling at the College next year.” Dai said this with something approaching gloom, an emotional state that suited his jolly features not at all. “That’ll be, as you say, ‘an experience’. And Lyndy should be along the year after that; he’s Uncle Emmy’s son, one of the Bertons.”

Lucy considered this for a moment. Lady Grenville Girls’ School and the Spirit River Conservatory were both children’s magical schools with excellent reputations. “So… I suppose... that makes you Trads, then?” She braced herself for an angry correction.

Dai laughed. “I would hope where we go to school would be less of a hint than our Undine-esque surname, especially to you.” Lucy blushed and lowered her eyes as he added, “And before you ask, no, you’re the only watercaller we’re actually related to; an ancestor changed the name from Sumner in protest of something or other.”

Lucy wondered again why people would actually go out of their way to be associated with Undines. This is definitely the wrong person and time to ask, she told herself.

“Are you sure we ought to be seen together?” she asked instead, adopting a tone of amusement. “Between my lineage and yours, someone’s bound to expect we’re up to no good.”

He winked at her. “Let them. Rabble-rousing’s a fine Zimmer family tradition.” He offered her his arm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I know a particular young radical who would like to offer you a dance as part of his thanks for your assistance.”

“Me?” Lucy blinked, taking the arm offered.

“But of course.” Dai lifted his bangs with his free hand to reveal a set of stitches running down his forehead and through his left eyebrow. “After all, you did tell me to remember your name.”

“You!” she exclaimed, remembering in a flash. “You’re all right!”

He grinned at her. “Shall I take that as a sign of approval?”

“I’m not so sure,” she said. “After all, you were frightfully rude to me this morning.”

“And I’ll do it again in a red hot second if I see you freeze up like you did today,” Dai retorted, then lowered his voice: “No offense, coz, but you’re going to have to learn to lighten the fuck up.”

He laughed at her shocked expression, and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll have to get used to the rough talk, Luce. But if it makes you feel better I’ll try to restrain myself in your presence.” He offered her his arm anew. “Now let’s have a dance.”

She smiled timidly, and took it.

Maybe I’ll be all right here after all, she thought as the band struck up a new tune.

edited 10th Nov '11 10:28:54 PM by FurikoMaru

I'm in two minds about this chapter; on the one hand, it feels like you're starting to hit your stride, and the descriptions are really good. Vivid, fairly evocative, the sort of thing you should be aiming for.

On the other hand, my face at the beginning of historical-political infodumps, and my face after them.◊ You've known me long enough to know that my eyes tend to glaze over as my brain shuts down everything in a futile attempt at self-preservation when such dumps are about stuff that's actually happened, so don't take it as an aspersion on your talent by any means.

I feel like I might've missed something at some point, or it otherwise slipped my mind; why are we at some sort of fancy upper-crust ball? I can't recall hearing anything about this being on the agenda, but I feel like it was brought up at the end of one of the last chapters.

In summation, nice work, but fuckin' hell, my brain.

I did a bit better in following the historical stuff than Moony. I think I've got it figured out. There's still a little confusion in the form of that darn shakycam, but the ball itself, despite my being slightly unsure about why it happened, is nice. The descriptions really feel good, and it definitely feels a lot more confident. It reads like you really know what you're doing now and you really want it to be good, and that meant this chapter was very enjoyable to read. So I have fewer outright critiques and more random observations on the story itself, which in my experience is always fun to run into:

• Poor Lucy. She's really out of her element here, so to speak. I know how it feels. I fail at socializing myself.
• Love the Lucy/Dare dance. Paging the Yuri Fangirls in the audience!
• Undines, Slyphs... does that mean there'll be Gnomes and Salamanders too?
  • Not five paragraphs later, I am answered! We get mention of Salamanders, so now I'm wondering where we'll have Gnomes.
• So basically, the Duke brought the magical equivalent of a Realdoll to the dance? It'd probably meant to seem slightly skeezy, but I kind of like it if only for the sheer chutzpah of it.
• I think I might need a family tree to decipher the Averill family soon. Possibly I might need to re-read the previous chapters. Because it seems complicated.
• I kinda like her cousin, too, though let's see if he holds up past my first impressions.

Freezair said what I meant much better than I did. Yeah.

And she changed her avatar. >:C

It's funny the way people keep mentioning the shakycam; before posting this I was worried that I was making all my scenes too long and explanation-heavy. And once again it seems I didn't set up a scene to come (in this case the ball) well enough. I knew it was a good idea to share the first draft with you guys rather than the fifth.

*pats poor Moon* You are so good to put up with me and my history otaku-ness.

I admit I've been rushing to the fun part; I have this idea that once you guys have a better sense of the type of story I wanna tell, you'll be able to give me more helpful advice about the early parts.

No wai! Allie/Dare 4evah!

Oof, I have no idea. I don't have any particular use for Gnomes at the moment and it seems kinda lame to throw them in just to have all four elements.

Dai: Best not to overthink it, miss. ^_^; Gods know I certainly haven't. Mamma ordered me to look out for poor Luce and that's what I intend to do; simple enough.

True, but it's not nice to leave the audience out hanging, is it? ;D

I WANT MORE STORY GODDAMNIT

Finally. It feels like forever since I had time to reformat this crap and post it.

Chapter Five

“Karling’s going soft in his old age.” The old count shook his head as Dare and the Duke parted ways. “Why, when we were boys he’d sooner cut off his hand than let a peasant shake it! Now look at him. All doe-eyed over his pet unfortunate.”

Allie said nothing. She often did, in conversations with her father. If she spoke, she knew it’d be far too easy to say something that rankled him; all she’d have to do was tell the truth. So instead she fiddled with the straps of the small perfumed purse hanging from her wrist and watched Dare dance.

At least some of us are having a good evening, she thought, seeing that Captain Zimmer had gotten Lucy back out on the floor. Two out of three isn’t bad.

“Oh, really, Lorrie, don’t sulk,” he commanded, “it’s unattractive.”

“Oh! Forgive me, father,” she replied in a dainty tone that was entirely unlike her normal speaking voice. “I wasn’t aware there was anyone here that you wished me to attract. With so many Traditionalists around-”

“Traditionalists make for valuable allies in Delmore, young lady,” he lectured. “I learned that much in the Magical Forces. Why do you think I make you put up with that vile Leto girl? With your talent you would have been a Captain by now anyway, but with the common brat as your right hand not one of these blasted addle-headed romantics can deny you friendship.” His voice took on a mocking edge. “It would conflict with their principles.”

“Oh, please, father, don’t speak so about Dare,” Allie answered, her voice revolting even herself with its affected calculating air. “After all, she’s been such a dear friend to me.”

He smiled at her adoringly. “Of course you understand, my dear; how silly of me to have thought you didn’t.” He pinched her cheek, and this time she didn’t flinch. “The apple does not fall far from the tree.”

Allie certainly understood. She was unsure whether her father did.

Count Gellerart had been involved in the political scene for over thirty years to one degree or another, and in that time his deft hand had steered the Mimis family – and, from time to time, the country at large – through two wars, a financial crisis, and numerous greater or lesser emergencies. His focus now, when seeking to secure a brilliant marriage for his only daughter, was where it had always been – on his own generation and the one before. All his energy was divided between ingratiating Allie to the parents of well-monied young men and ingratiating her to well-monied old bachelors; he’d impressed upon her from the earliest age that their opinions were vital to her long-term success, and coached her in the correct way to comport herself in the adult world.

The minutia of socializing with other young people he had left entirely to her, perhaps on the theory that blood would out and she’d reproduce his own successes. The count hadn’t considered for a moment what this meant for Allie, as a young woman growing up in a castle that was much a school as it was a fortress, surrounded by people who would hold the balance of power when her father and his friends were gone – people he had as good as told her were nothing but marriage fodder. If he had ever given it any thought, he would most likely have assumed her to occupy the same social position as Lucy had in Mont Albertine, but on the far grander stage of Delmore, with the prestige of the House of Mimis behind her.

It would never have occurred to him that Allie and Dare could be among the most widely-disliked students in the entirety of the College.

They didn’t inspire the most virulent loathing, to be sure, and there were plenty of cadets who everyone agreed were more difficult to work with. But they were highly visible, and known to be favourites of both their teachers and a few of their former classmates now serving in the Magical Forces-proper, and as such they had acquired a reputation as ‘climbers’. It had only gotten worse once they'd reached the normal enrollment age and were expected to lead their fellow students in the field.

Allie especially was regarded as a frosty, prissy bitch. Having trained her whole life for command and being a perfectionist by nature, she expected the best from herself and from those serving beneath her, and wasn’t remotely shy about asking for it. To children used to the personal attentions and gentle pace of private tutoring, or else to the discreet academic safety nets of boarding school life, she was a shock to the system. Often it was her age that worked against her; Allie was a good deal less stringent than some of the more elderly professors, but it was one thing to be told your strike zone wasn’t tight enough by a retired major in his seventies and quite another when the advice came from a captain who might be a few months younger than you.

She was unlikely ever to be one-of-the-guys, and even less likely to be any normal boy’s idea of desirable company. The only ones who showed any overt interest in her were those who claimed to ‘love a challenge’. The turnover rate on such boys was about three weeks.

Meanwhile, after eight years of befriending people twice her age and learning the cultural ropes of womanhood far ahead of any reasonable schedule, Dare was effectively an insecure teenaged girl’s worst nightmare; beautiful, cocky, aggressively well-dressed, intelligent, and completely at ease around men and boys. The only thing in question was who hated her more; the noble girls for ‘getting above herself’, or the middle-class girls for being even more common than they and perversely proud of it. Allie did her best to rein her in and keep her out of serious trouble, but she was still fighting something like five duels a week.

It definitely didn’t help that Dare was a born shit-disturber who found these insecurities hilarious. Allie had tried for weeks to talk her out of ordering the white dress she had on tonight, but to no avail.

“C’mon, Al,” she’d pleaded, “aren’t you curious to see how many people try to accidentally spill their drinks on it?”

If Allie had been a gambling woman, she’d have gone double-or-nothing that whatever bridegroom her father secured for her through parental channels would volunteer immediately for a tour in Jara to get out of the marriage; and for an encore she’d have bet her tuition on Dare applying for a teaching position at the College after graduation just so she could keep on tormenting the students.

But she did not tell her father any of this. She seldom told him much of anything anymore.

“Are you sure about that gown, Lorrie?” he was asking now. “Perrin’s wife said something at dinner last night about pink no longer being fashionable.”

“I prefer not to be frivolous with my clothing budget,” Allie replied, smile still in place. “No one wants to marry a spendthrift. And it’s our heraldic colour; I thought-”

“Yes, of course,” the Count interrupted with an oh-my-silly-daughter smile, “and I appreciate your consideration, but I don’t want you wearing clothes that could place you at a disadvantage.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Really, Lorrie... there’s no need to grow up too fast. You should be allowed to follow fashion and enjoy the same indulgences as other girls.”

“I like pink, father,” she said quietly.

“Excuse me, your lordship,” came a voice with an ornate accent, “but might I trouble your charming daughter for a dance?”

Count Gellerart turned, and a well-dressed young gentleman offered a hand. “Prince Kaspar, your lordship.” The count’s eyebrows rose as he shook it, with the expression he typically wore when attempting to hide how impressed he was. Despite his youth, the prince wore several decorations, including a medallion marking him as a Commander of the Ferruvian Order of the Boreal Crown.

“I wasn’t aware your Highness was down for the Season.”

“I have come to make the most of the early spring,” Prince Kaspar replied.

“A wise decision, young man,” the count said. “We Eranmeans often take our weather for granted, I find.” He smiled at his daughter. “Allie, would you care to dance with his Highness?”

“Of course, father,” she murmured, eyes coquettishly lowered.

As soon as they were out on the floor, Allie dug her nails into the prince’s arm viciously. “We had an agreement, Nikolai; my father cannot see us together.”

Her partner smiled broadly. “I assure you, Allora,” he said, accent fading to a gentle ripple under his words, “that you could declare who I really am to everyone here present at the top of your lungs, and no one would believe you. Prince Kaspar Yanovitch Ilyanov is nearly as much of a real person as Allora Mimis, and certainly more of one than her straight-line old father.”

“How is it that no one notices when you pull these stunts?” she said irritably. “No matter how you change your clothes and face and voice, you’re still the same ridiculous ham under the surface.”

“Ahh, I see I rescued you from that fiendish creature’s clutches just in time,” Nikolai said with mock solemnity. “His very presence saps all your patience ‘til there’s none left for me to play with.”

It had been four months since the Former Capital had first been struck by a rash of peculiar burglaries.

In each case, prior to the robberies, the victims had been advised by post of the pillaging horde about to descend in theatrically florid letters on scented paper, signed only with drawings of snowmen, leading a slightly uncreative public to dub the parties responsible ‘the Snowmen’.

The crime wave had started with the abduction of a group of red peacocks from the private menagerie of Viscount Tomino, which had been followed in dazzling succession by a raid on the Pratchetts’ collection of musical instruments, the theft of the celebrated wedding gown of Lady Alamnus, and the seemingly-impossible string of events that had come to be called the Blue Manuscript Caper.

These and subsequent heists were pored over keenly by readers of the weekly magazine Through the Eyes of Delmore, which the gang of thieves seemed to have adopted as their personal secretarial service. Before each job they provided the journal with a copy of the introductory letter they’d sent their mark, along with a certified appraisal from an independent expert on the value of the items to be taken. After the robberies had been completed they often explained how they’d gone about their miraculous extractions, or else dropped cryptic hints about where they might strike next, all under cover of the ever-popular pseudonym of ‘inside sources’.

It had been one month since one of the authors of these incidents had started personally pestering Allie with warnings that she was in danger.

Allie glowered. “That ‘fiendish creature’ is a loyal, hard-working, long-serving soldier of the empire, in addition to being my father.”

“Oh, come now, Allora,” he said with amusement, “there’s no need to pretend with me. I know as well as you do that what he serves best is his own ambition.”

“You should talk,” she snorted.

“I?” he said, with a small smile. “My only ambition is to see you safe from the forces conspiring against you and your beautiful country.”

“You like to keep your goals attainable, I see,” she said tartly, “defending me and mine from nonexistent monsters under the bed.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes. “This argument again? I would hope that a woman who’d seen as many Scarleter plots come and go as you have would have a more open mind when it comes to danger unseen.”

“And I would hope a man in your line of work wouldn’t pout quite so obviously when someone fails to immediately take him at his word,” Allie answered. “So I suppose we’re both a little disappointed.”

His lips quirked. “My ‘line of work’? My dear Allora, I do hope you keep reading those sketch novellas Miss Leto buys; every now and then they make you come out with the most delightful little colloquialisms. From that phrase one would think I were an importer of textiles or some other thoroughly respectable bore.”

“Better than a thoroughly despicable sneak-thief,” she retorted.

Nikolai snickered. “Forgive me; evidently we have not met the same importers.”

“I certainly doubt we’ve met them under the same circumstances.”

“Why should you doubt?” He winked. “Prince Kaspar is invited to all the best parties.”

“Why are you here tonight?” Allie asked wearily. “Did you think the glorified husband-hunt my father has me on wasn’t quite trying enough and decide to add your personal touch to it? Or are you just after the Countess’ tapestry collection?”

“Not until next month,” he replied cheerfully.

“And what’s to stop me from telling her that she ought to tighten her security?”

He shrugged. “Please do. It’d be good advice even if I weren’t taking a professional interest.”

Allie fell silent for a moment as a pair of girls danced by, silently gawking. He’s a better dancer than I am, she noticed in the lull, and was surprised at how relaxing the realization was. She gave herself a mental shake.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she told him. “Dare saw you on your last visit and guessed who you are straight away; it’s only a matter of time before someone else works it out.”

Nikolai actually laughed at that. “I forget sometimes how sheltered you are, Allora... no, forgive me, but you are,” he added at the sharp look this prompted, and clarified: “Other people would not make the intuitive leap from ‘Lady Woodlawn has been meeting with a strange man in secret’ to ‘Lady Woodlawn has been meeting with one of the Snowmen’ for the same reason that no one suspects a man claiming to be a Ferruvian prince with a decorous and well-thought-of old aunt to vouch for him of actually being plain Nikolai Arkady; given a choice between a simple, plausible explanation and an overly-complicated, unlikely one, a normal person with no advance warning will take the straight-forward explanation every time, because they mistake idle scepticism for logic, and prefer the world to be an orderly place.”

Smirking, he gave her a deep nod in tribute. “And you assume that they can’t possibly be foolish enough to do this because you are not completely aware of how exceptional you are.”

“We can’t all be as overburdened with confidence as you,” Allie said sardonically.

“If' someone were to take note of me,” he continued, as if she had not spoken, “they would doubtless conclude nothing more dangerous than that Allora Mimis has a controlling father, and is as a result both very lonely and very discreet.”

Allie spluttered, the blood rising to her cheeks.

“What was it that gave me away to Miss Leto, incidentally?” he asked. “I’m curious.”

“The way you stand, she said,” the blonde muttered, not looking at him. “And something about how you pitch your voice – I didn’t ask for details.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Master Nataraj has certainly picked a worthy successor.” “So what did you have in mind when you decided to avail yourself of the Pinkwaters’ hospitality?” she asked, trying to circle the conversation back to where she wanted it to be. “You can’t have expected to have a heartfelt chat about your pet theories on the dancefloor.”

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “I had thought, when this dance is done, we might step out for a breath of air. I’ve got some of your mother’s wedding jewellery in my pockets and I’d prefer-”

“What?!”

A few curious dancers turned at her outburst, but it was with anger rather than embarrassment that Allie flushed this time. “You stole from my mother?” she hissed in outrage.

She supposed, technically, it was she who’d been robbed – when her mother died, possession of her things had fallen to Allie. But she’d never worn any of the platinum-set jewels the young Claudia Conrad had commissioned for her wedding to Henry Mimis; she’d left them tucked away in their corner of the family vault. She’d planned to take them out again only for her own wedding.

And now some glorified cut-purse was telling her he’d casually stuffed them into his waistcoat and popped down to the Pinkwaters’ villa to hand them over!

Nikolai, damn him, grinned at her. “Well, yes, after a fashion. I don’t normally stoop to lifting things from pawn shops, but as a favour to you, I thought I should make an exception.”

Allie’s frown deepened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Merely that your father needs to start hiring servants with a modicum of discretion,” he replied calmly. “One of my contacts saw a footman in Mimis brown-and-rose scuttling around Jasper Rd two days ago and made some inquiries. The publican at The Pine Cone on Grantwood mentioned a pawnbroker who’d bought everyone a round ‘compliments of Count Gellerart’ and supplied my colleague with an address.”

Allie raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to take the word of a publican and some phantom pawnbroker?”

“No, I expect you to take the word of the jeweller who engraved your mother’s initials and wedding date into the back of the pink sapphire brooch I found in said pawnbroker’s safe.” He smiled. “Though I admit I’m pleased you didn’t mention anything about ‘the word of a thief’.”

“At this point it goes without saying,” she replied.

He winked. “All the same, I thank you for the confidence you place in me. As this rate we might eventually be friends.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “grand friends, whose children grow up together. I can’t wait to hear the next little Lady Woodlawn ask me what a spiv is.”

“Must we always fall back into verbal combat?” Nikolai asked, smiling tenderly at her. “Would it not be more pleasant – and , of course, less conspicuous – if we were simply to enjoy the dance while it lasts?”

Allie growled, but was forced to concede that the bastard had a point.

This isn’t right, she thought as they danced. Father is almost as attached to Mother’s old things as I am. If he’s selling her jewels... how far into debt has he gotten us?

She realized with a start (and no small irritation) that she had just proved Nikolai right; her immediate assumption was that her father was guilty and the thief innocent, when the jewels could just as easily have been stolen by him directly from the family vault, or by the footman he’d mentioned. Even as short a while ago as last month she wouldn’t have believed what he had told her without proof.

I’ve got to keep my wits about me, she thought firmly. I’ve given him the chance to prove something’s amiss with the College, nothing more.

The song came to an end. After a moment of applause, the two adjourned to the terrace. Aside from a few smokers at the far end, they were alone, the large fountain beneath them easily drowning out their words with its loud gurgling.

“I can’t wait to see what kind of hiding place dear Miss Leto devises for these,” he said merrily, taking a handful of jewellery out of his vest and slipping it discreetly into her purse, never once looking away from her face. “She’s magnificently inventive, really; such a waste that she’s on your side of the law...”

Something in his tone chilled her to the core, and almost automatically she felt her face slip into a steely mask. Through her teeth, her voice barely above a whisper, she said: “Stay away from Dare.”

Nikolai’s smile faded a little, and he took a step back. “I should hate to be on the receiving end of that look when you have your halberd in hand, Allora,” he said quietly, and she noted with some satisfaction the slightest hint of anxiety in his expression. “I’m certain you’d cut me down where I stand.”

He bowed, and the light pouring out of the ballroom glinted on the Boreal Crown medallion as it swung out from his chest. “I retract my previous statement unreservedly; milady’s sister-in-arms shows no aptitude whatsoever for crime, despite her many years of training in its more respectable forms, and is frankly a little dim.”

She rolled her eyes, and leaned against the granite balustrade of the terrace. “Spare me the dramatics.”

“Really?” he said innocently, straightening up. “But you enjoy them almost as much as I do,”

“What I would enjoy more,” Allie said primly, “is to hear something concrete about this peril I’m supposed to be in. Or am I too exceptionally sheltered to be bothered with the details?”

“As I told you at our last meeting, the bulk of the evidence is to be found in the Moira Skye Memorial Library,” Nikolai said. “I know your appointment last week had to be cancelled, but I heard you spent the afternoon there today. I trust it was an informative session?”

“You really couldn’t have picked a worse year for this,” Allie said with a sigh. “No, it was not very informative to me. The centennial scholars, however, had a grand time with the books I needed. Again.”

“What a pity,” Nikolai said, placing a hand on hers in sympathy.

That was a step too far; Allie pulled back at once. “You keep saying your associates have been gathering this intel for months. If you’re all so well-informed, then why do you need me to be your mole?”

He could not have looked more genuinely hurt if she’d slapped him in the face. Finally, when the awkward pause had started to congeal, he composed himself with a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Allora; I understand how you came to that conclusion – indeed, it’s exactly what I would think myself in your situation.”

“What else did you expect?” she asked sourly. “What kind of rumour-pimps make you do their digging for them? Normally you people can’t shut up about-” she waggled her fingers and rolled her eyes as she spoke, “-the House of Spinderling’s seeeeecret catacombs where they hide the bodies after their ritual orgies, or whatever nonsense it is this week.”

He smiled apologetically. “I can see how maddening this must be. But if I were to tell you all I know, you would have to do this research anyway to determine if I were lying, and because directed research is what they’re on the lookout for you’d be placing yourself in even greater and far more immediate danger than you already are, which you have to admit would defeat the purpose of warning you.” He joined her in leaning against the railing. “And that’s if you didn’t assume I was just some fool jumping at shadows and dismiss me out of hand. This way you can form your own opinions without hearing ours first – you might see something we would miss, or find out something we don’t already know.”

Allie let out a short laugh of disbelief. “So in essence, you’re telling me you and your little friends don’t want to be up front with me about everything you think you know because you don’t want me to take you for a bunch of lunatics?” She snorted. “Have you mentioned to them that that’s actually my working hypothesis?”

Nikolai winced. “There... is another reason.”

Oh, this should be good, she thought, and almost unconsciously straightened up. For the first time that evening, Nikolai looked and sounded completely off-balance. Where once he had been light and free in his speech, he was now hesitant and awkward, and he avoided her eyes.

“Much of the information we’ve obtained concerns people you know,” he confessed. “Some of them personally. We have to be sure you wouldn’t side with them before we tell you anything that could lead back to us.”

For a moment she was silent. Then, slowly, her shoulders began to shake in silent laughter. They kept shaking for a full minute.

Eventually she brought herself back under control, and granted Nikolai a cold, diamond-hard smile.

“... wonderful.” Allie savoured the word’s sarcastic succulence. “So not only am I being harassed by a sneak-thief, I’m being harassed by a sneak-thief who doesn’t trust me.”

His face fell. “No, Allora, I-“

“It’s a pretty picture of our supposed future friendship you have, Niko,” she said, her voice shaking with rage despite her best efforts, “with me somehow miraculously gaining more and more faith in you, and you hanging back until you think it’s safe. In case you’ve forgotten in the middle of all your dissembling, I’m the one who should be on my guard, if your daydreams are correct. But no,” she continued, her knuckles white on her clenched fists, “instead I put up with your pompous, condescending little mystery-man performance, because of the possibility that I might be sorry not to have your warning; that you might actually be right. For that, I allow you to drop in and chat with me at your convenience, which sometimes means getting out of bed in the dead of night after a long day of school and work and before another long day of school and work, and in thanks I’ve gotten more evasive hints and more theatrics.”

She broke off for a moment to catch her breath, and shook her head at him in disgust. “I am a Mimis of Gellerart! Do you think I grant this kind of trust to just anyone?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “Thank you for recovering my mother’s things,” she said with great dignity, turning on her heel, “but good night, sir.”

He caught her wrist gently as she started to walk off. “I can tell you this much,” he said in a low voice. “No one on patrol this morning signaled you for a shift-change.”

“What?” Allie looked back at him in surprise; her anger slowly evaporated into confusion. “But... that can’t be right. Dare and I got the notification simultaneously; that can only happen when a request has gone through the comm office and been approved.”

“Then someone must have approved it,” he said, his blue eyes boring into hers.

Blue, tonight, she thought distantly. They’re different every time.

After a long, tense pause, he dropped his gaze.

“I wish I could say more.” His voice was soft. “But there’s too much. Far too much to take on trust.” He stared back into her eyes, and she shivered in the warm night air. “You deserve better than my word. There’s time enough yet. You have to see it for yourself.”

Then, pressing his brow gently to her knuckles, he bade her a brief goodnight and strode casually back into the ballroom, his hands in his pockets, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He was the gallant, good-natured prince once more, as easily as shrugging on a coat.

Just inside the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, and with a final, small smile, let out a sigh, and disappeared into the crowd.

edited 23rd Nov '11 7:45:39 PM by FurikoMaru

*clap clap* My thirst for Furiko-writings has been slaked. 'twas lovely. I have only two notes:

1. I know I said it already, but aaaaaauuuuuthoooooor appeeeeeeeaaaaaaal. XD

2. I think you let a bit too much of yourself slip into the narration. Just some unusually modern, Furikotastic turns of phrase here and there. These two sentences tripped me up the most, jarring parts have been bolded:

Those feel like things you'd say if you were summarizing the story to someone, and it kinda threw me off. Consider a rewording and it should be golden.

I agree with the first one, but somehow, "shit disturber" doesn't bother me much. It feels more like a result of implicit perspective, like straddling the line between third-person and first-person narration. While I'd agree with the sentiment that it's something to be careful of, I'd also encourage that technique when appropriate.

Besides, if this is 19th century Englandish, "shit disturber" is a fitting enough turn of phrase for tone of such a bastard combination of shoujo and shounen.

It's odd to think of you guys only knowing shit-disturber from my use of it. It's reasonably-common slang up here among the over-thirties, especially military guys. It's at least as old as the First World War, I think.

*whispers* Psst, neither he nor I are Canadian. We don't know your weird snow-person slang.