She knew from the moment they entered the crowd that it’d feel a lot longer.  The whispers were deafening, and the silence that fell as they neared was worse.

          Her master clung to her like he feared getting swept away.  His nails dug into her ribs as he squared his shoulders and set a smile on his face that was too sharp to be sincere.  He spoke to the first couple who had the misfortune of making eye contact.

          Lord and lady Lry, to their credit, only looked as if they’d run if they were given the opportunity and both proved reasonably bad at crafting one.  Issi did her best not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of them.  Half of their wardrobe had been poorly enchanted, making a cacophony of mismatched scents. 

          She hated the way their eyes kept drifting to her collar. 

          If she hadn’t worn it, if her master had chosen a looser gown, if she’d been less Egrean, less Chousalian, maybe they would have stopped looking at her with quite so much distaste. Her master didn’t seem to notice, but Issi read their hatred in the draw of lord Lry’s lip when he caught her eye, or how the lady moved closer to her husband whenever Issi addressed her.

          But Issi’s smile never faltered.  Every minor slight and quiet insinuation that she was not meant to be there only served to confirm what she already knew.

          She hated everything about the King’s Dinner.

          It took the couple fifteen ticks and what Issi suspected was most of their combined imagination to come up with the half-decent excuse of oh, we haven’t seen Lord Ruail for a while, we really must greet him. 

Her master stared blankly at the space they left behind until it filled with someone new.  During the fourth conversation, Issi concluded that the only thing nobles hated more than getting caught with a fallen member, was missing a good bit of gossip. 

That and they wanted what most people desired. To be flattered, and complimented.  Made to feel clever, and smart, and beautiful.  They drifted towards her without seeming to realize it, called by the promise of easy accolades.

They didn’t like her, but they wanted what she had to offer.

As the bell wore on, Issi turned it into a dance, carving their empty promises between the delicate notes of a nocturne. Reaching shameless platitudes as the music swelled and searching for clever insults when the notes bounced about.  Her cheeks went stiff from the smile that had stitched itself onto her lips, her eyes refused to identify anything more than bright blots on a cream-colored background. 

That is, until the pastels started to move in odd patterns.  Issi blinked forcing the world into focus.  A man with sky-colored eyes seemed to be leading a small parade of nobles around the room.  Her eyes ticked after him, it was almost a funnier version of how nobles responded her.

          She checked but there was no collar on his neck.  He didn’t cower or bow.  

          A compliment died on her lips as she tried to piece together what she was seeing.

          The lady before her coughed delicately.  She was a tall thin woman, with deep beautiful eyes and a pastel green dress that cinched neatly around her waist.  Issi blinked up at her trying to recall what nonsense she’d been about to say.  Something about the pendant hanging at the hollow of the woman’s neck?

          The sky-eyed man seemed to be making a round about the room. His baffling little group flitting around him like bees bumbling about a flower. 

Issi started blathering about the cut of the necklace’s gem, tossing out random phrases about how it complemented the woman’s eyes and how she’d lovely taste.  And just as the woman had begun to smile and regale Issi with tales about the craftsman, Issi looked to see where the blue-eyed man had gone and caught his eye.

She braced for the warmth to drain from his expression, but his face lit up as if he’d been searching for her.  Issi’s thoughts tangled.

          The woman coughed again.

          “Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds absolutely lovely,” she began, her attention spitting between the woman before her and the sky-eyed man who seemed to be coming closer, “It seems you’ve a bit of a cough though, were you aware that,” Issi launched into the most boring lecture she could manage as she tried to figure out what in Naya’s hells was going on.

          The sky-eyed man was still heading towards her.

          The woman grunted her frustration and stormed off all flowing skirts and indignation. The Grand Mage let out a sigh of relief.  His grip on Issi’s waist loosened until he saw where she was looking.

          His arm became a vice as his teeth ground together. She tapped at his hand hoping he’d realize he was driving the air from her lungs.

          The man approached with his not quite entourage.  He didn’t spare the mage a passing glance.

          “What happened to your face?” his voice was soft and deep.  Quiet.  She’d thought thunder and had gotten summer rain.

          Her mouth opened, but her voice had skittered off. She managed a smile as her master answered for her.

There was an accident in the workroom.

          Issi’s smile went brittle.  She nodded. 

          “I don’t recall asking you, Gadna,” the sky-eyed man’s tone left little room for argument.  The Grand Mage was crushing her.  Issi squirmed trying to buy herself breathing room.  The man still hadn’t looked at her master.  His head had tilted to face him, but his eyes had never left hers, “I was speaking to…excuse me, may I have your name?”

          She hesitated and glanced at the Grand Mage hoping for some direction.  He might as well have died on the spot for all the help he provided.

          “It’s, ah, Nydelissi Anders,” she pronounced it carefully nuh-ee-del-es-ee and waited passively as he butchered it, “I also go by Issi.”

          He smiled warmly before parroting her.

The nobles nearby were still dancing around him.  There was so much movement Issi had a hard time knowing where to look, they leaned towards the man like flowers to sunlight.  But there was a desperation to their movements that she’d never commanded and didn’t recognize.

          The man either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

          “—Issi?”

          She blinked, “I’m sorry, I was…distracted.”

          “I asked if you were excited to perform.”

          “Oh, yes, of course,” the blood drained from her face as she remembered the piece she’d chosen.

          He chuckled and the crowd drew closer.  Flowers to sun, moths to flame, nobles to—

          Royalty.

          He was a royal.

          Which one?  She glared at the Grand Mage, why hadn’t he warned her?

          Was there a way to buy back the deference she’d denied him?  Pushing the sky-eyed man out of the way to grind her forehead into the ground felt like it would defeat the point. 

          She swallowed a string of curses as her gaze dropped to his shoes.

          “I thought I’d have longer before you figured it out,” he breathed, “You’re as quick as the rumors suggest.”

          Rumors?  Her ears heated. She was hardly important enough for stories about her to reach his ears.

          She dropped into the deepest bow she could manage with the Grand Mage trying to collapse her middle, “I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect, my prince.”

          “What was it that gave me away? Was it the insignia?” 

Her eyes darted to his breast.  The king’s insignia had been obscured by a small purple broach fashioned into something that vaguely resembled a lizard.  Or possibly a long-tailed child.  She almost laughed, what was that?

          “Your eyes, my prince,” she lied, she’d seen the king up close twice, she should have recognized them instantly, “They’re very…pretty.”

          “Pretty?” amusement tilted the word as he echoed it back. Issi nodded, realizing her mistake too late.  The Grand Mage straightened.

          The prince grabbed her hand and spun her out of her master’s grip.  Issi stilled, a rabbit in an open field.  He was warm, smelling of ink and flowers, he held her gently, his hand a whisper against her waist like he feared she’d break.

          Maybe she would.

          She stole a glance at her master.  He looked like he wanted to be angry, his face had certainly gone through all the motions, his brows lowered, his teeth bared, and a bell ago, she might have cowered.  But now?

          Her brows drew low, “He’s still scared.”

          The prince laughed, his chest rattled with it.  The sound set her heart thrumming, “Gadna?  He’s always scared.”

          Issi shook her head, “He’s never—", the prince was far too close.  Space.  She stole a step, then two.