The happiness hits Ambrose like a rush, a wave, and he tries not to smile too widely. She wants him to call on her.

At her question, he falls curiously quiet for a moment. He manages not to let his eyes travel further south than her lips, so perfect and cherry-red, and even then he tries only to meet her powerful gaze.

And then, bashfully, he confesses, “I am afraid I have not yet approached your father. If that is a condition of my seeing you again, I shall speak with him right away, though I worry he may be occupied with the Duke–“

She'd rather he didn't resist but tormenting himself trying not to look down isn't such a bad consolation prize. 

"Not at all." She licks her lips very slightly. "Occupied with the Duke?"

“Yes,” he answers truthfully. “He… quite kindly offered to put in a good word with your family.”

And then Ambrose shakes his head. “My Lady, I am doing far too much talking of myself. I wish to get to know you better.” Have wished to, for quite some time. 

The Duke offered? He really did do all that just for an introduction?

Well. Here then is a very useful boy, if he's that devoted. And frightened. 

He's probably not with Father, certainly has good connections... she makes the snap decision to present herself as everything he wants. 

...Which, hmm, is probably not too far from the truth. This is not a man who wants a smiling little girl who plays the pianoforte. (She resists the urge to tuck her fingers into her sleeves, the bad habit she'd picked up after her pianoforte lessons). 

She quirks an eyebrow. "I like to read, a great deal." Had wondered if she could pick up wizardry, but judged it too great a risk. "And to dance. Really dance." She leans in to murmur, "perhaps one day I'll show you," in her most seductive voice, then continues as though nothing happened, "and I like to meet interesting people."

He would be so lucky, to see her truly dance. The flush deepens on his cheeks, staining his pale skin a pretty pink.

She likes to read. Gods, she really is perfect.

Galora watches the way he lights up at that. “Oh, so do I! Which genre do you favour?”

She wants to see him blush more. 

She can't afford it. 

She's heard of what wizards are like but she didn't expect this. It makes her smile. Genuinely. Again. 

She can't let that blind her. 

"Anything I can get my hands on. A lot of history," specifically political history, because she's not the first person to want a noble father dead, "some theology and philosophy," from which she learned that what Father did was wrong and that the gods probably couldn't help her, "and poetry. I write it sometimes."

...Why did she just say that. She does write poetry, but only in her own head, it's too - it's the only thing she has that's really hers - she schools her expression immediately. 

History, history, he loves history. Could never wrap his head around philosophy, never cared for theology, but suddenly he finds that he does.

It is rare that Ambrose finds himself impressed outside of Silvermoon. He does not wish for her to stop talking.

A thinker and an artist.

“Poetry?” he echoes. “I would be honoured to hear some of your work. I have always admired poetry – it is much like magic, in some ways.”

She freezes. She freezes. 

Of course. 

Later, she might rationalise it to herself - that it might not have been calculated but the best ways to manipulate people never are, that it was what he needed to hear to fall in love with her, whatever - but really she just starts to recite. 

In a low voice, she recites the poem she composed in her head when she'd used her little sister as a cat's-paw to get access to Father's diaries, while she was cleaning and dressing the wounds. It's about love that has to lie hidden, and what is lost. 

He parts his lips, draws in a breath, searches for the words to say. 

Of course, poetry is not always a reflection of the soul. Nowadays, it is often just… words, characters, perspectives that could never belong to the composer. Her poem felt real.

What is this sadness on her lips? She is a girl of only eighteen – how has she already experienced such tragedy, such repressed love?

Is there somebody else? Somebody else she loves, but cannot be with? Is she only entertaining Ambrose because she cannot have the other man in her heart?

The song ends. Ambrose does not let go of Galora, even as all the other couples bow and curtsy and step off the floor.

He stares intensely into her eyes, searching for all the answers.

He does not find them.

The spell breaks. 

She doesn't drop his hands hastily - that would be giving away more - but she does let go, and smile and curtsy. 

"I do look forward to seeing you tomorrow, my lord," her lips say, and then she withdraws. 

"Your Grace," he begins, watching the man struggle to pretend he knows how to take snuff. If he times it just right, he can make him choke. "Far be it from me to intrude - but would you tell me how Lord Ambrose came to be in your service? I was... surprised... to hear it. As of course you know his family are traitors."

There we go.

He doesn't quite break down coughing. He has a lot of discipline, and some ancient instinct tells him not to take his eyes off this man. 

Bloody fancy powder stuff. 

Eloise wouldn't have set him up with one of the surviving families from the other side of the war... would she? 

...No, in fact, he refuses to get into this ridiculous game of oh-I-say-don't-you-know-why-of-course-I-do, he's bought enough credit with his brand-new manners, surely. 

"I did not know. And I was well-informed of the names of the rebels' supporters, so I am surprised to hear it."

He didn't take the bait. A pity. 

"Oh, goodness me. I would never suggest the Deneith family were not faithful servants of our Queen. No, theirs is a rather unusual situation - they were granted holdings here long ago, but they were originally courtiers of the Empire, most powerful I am told, until... circumstances obliged them to leave. Naturally we older families welcomed them," by undermining them at every opportunity, "but alas, they did not quite escape the scandal-mongers - such fanciful notions of a plot against the Emperor. I am quite sure in my own mind that His Imperial Majesty must simply have been taken suddenly ill."

...He remembers, unbidden, the ridiculous mess that was the civil war - all the lies and madnesses invented to justify treachery. 

He could draw his blade and leave this man dead in half a second. 

No, Her Majesty would be annoyed. But he had better not listen to a word this man has to say. 

...Oh. He's angling for "this puts my family reputation at risk, gimme something", isn't he. 

Noble games aren't so hard when you remember to ask where the power lies.

"I am sure. Indeed, Lord Ambrose came highly recommended, and has in every respect lived up to his reputation. I will be sure to make it very clear that he has my absolute confidence. If you require further... reassurances..."

Well, that will do. 

He only smiles gently. 

"How kind of you, Your Grace. In fact..."

He returns at length to Eloise and Ambrose, fighting the urge to back out of the room with that man with his sword drawn. 

It is at this point that she sweeps in. 

She is attended by hand-picked servants, beautiful ones, strong ones, and of course Brimsley. She is robed in the finest silk and gold and jewels. Everyone looks at her with awe and adoration and fear. 

Ah. She made the right decision, all those years ago. 

Her eyes travel over her subjects, alight on Voltur - ah, not brawling, that's good, she must have a word with him about this business with that infernal woman, perhaps he has a clue - and move on to her hosts. 

Hmm. 

They wait in utter suspense for her judgement of their hospitality. 

Hmm... a very slight, bored nod. Acceptable. 

Oh, look at the relief and the disappointment. They will have to redouble their efforts. 

And then she sweeps away to her seat. 

Eloise curtsies along with the rest of the crowd, watching the Queen anxiously as she treads regally past. No sign of acknowledgment, even of scorn – gods, her heart is racing.

When Voltur returns to her, the relief is palpable. Her shield is back. “The Queen is here,” she whispers, stating the obvious. “Shall we wait for her to call us?”

Ambrose had been chittering away about Miss Kreel this and Miss Kreel that before the Queen had made her entry. He gets the hint that Eloise is absolutely not interested anymore.

“Ah, will you be declaring your courtship to Her Majesty?” 

"Is that the custom? I suppose we shall have to. But no. Eloise wished to ask Her Majesty for her thoughts on a certain dissertation I presented to her."

“A dissertation?” Ambrose eyes Eloise with a curious sort of fascination.

She blushes. “It is nothing that concerns you.”

That was ruder than intended.

“…Your Grace, I hate to interrupt your important business, but– what did Lord Kreel say when you spoke with him?”

His face twists. How is he going to play this game? If he just comes out and tells Ambrose it will... cause conflict, probably... Kreel is probably betting on him distrusting the boy at least a little... Perhaps he can keep the boy sheltered and fob Kreel off with- ah, the hell with it, his head hurts already, he's just going to blow the whole thing open.

"He called your family traitors and said he'd need 'assurances'. I don't know what he's playing at, but I agreed to grant him property in Volturgard and title to some cousin of his so he can keep an eye on you. Of course, he doesn't know you won't be in residence there. The man makes my skin crawl."