Two, with everyone wearing these lace masks over their eyes, I feel like I’m walking into a weird sex club with my parents. It’s not a feeling I really enjoy, and I wonder if I’m the only one thinking it.
I hope I’m the only one thinking it.
We run the gauntlet of officials and high-ranking people, and of course my parents have to stop and have a quick chat with everyone. More than one mostly-drunk old man gives me an up-and-down look and then tells me to save a dance for him, and it makes me feel slimy, but I smile and agree while hoping he’ll forget.
The whole time I’m smiling, saying niceties in Russian, and scanning the room. I have no idea if Kostya’s here yet, but I feel like a pre-teen with a crush at a middle school dance, my heart beating fast and my palms sweaty.
I thought I’d feel half naked with my low-backed dress, but looking around, I feel like a nun. All the women here are wearing brightly-colored dresses, hair piled high, cleavage on full display.
Yet again I feel like an alien who’s just come to Earth to observe human behavior, because Svelorians are confusing as hell. On one hand, women aren’t supposed to curse, they don’t drink vodka, they’re demure and polite and always dressed to the nines.
But on the other hand, my backless, bootylicious dress may as well be a paper bag here. At least now I understand why Irina was so concerned about my bust.
I sneak a glance down. They’re not winning any prizes, but they... exist.
Better too conservative than too slutty, I tell myself.
Can you imagine if you showed up with your tits half out and everyone else was wearing high-necked Elizabethan gowns?
Another old man shakes my hand, kisses my cheek, and touches my shoulder a little too long, but then I finally spy Kostya, taking a glass of champagne from a tray. My heart does a little flip in my chest, and I stare a little too long, because he’s wearing his military dress uniform and damn.
God damn.
Then he hands the glass of champagne to Yelena, standing right next to him, and I force myself not to make a face.
“Everything all right, Miss Sung?” the man says.
I look at him, smile, and nod.
“Good,” he says, and grins lecherously to me.
I walk away, following my parents, but I sneak a look back at Kostya. Now he’s drinking his own champagne. His mask is solid black, more Zorro than sex club.
Just as I’m about to turn my head, he looks right at me. I swallow hard and look away, forcing myself not to smile.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kostya
“Kostya,” says Yelena’s soft voice.
“Yes?” I ask.
After one more moment I tear my eyes away from Hazel’s back. Her dress ends right above those two dimples, and just thinking about them makes my mouth go a little dry.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her big blue eyes looking up at me.
For at least the twentieth time in the past week, I feel guilty for how I treat Yelena. Just because I don’t find her attractive or interesting doesn’t mean I should be openly gawking at someone else while I’m escorting her at the masquerade ball she organized.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I say, which is at least true. Last night I wasn’t in bed until nearly four in the morning, and I wake up by six at the latest, no matter what.
She pats my arm.
“I’ve arranged for Turkish coffee in the gallery at ten,” she says. “Though I’m afraid it will smell too strongly, and then the drapes in there will never let go of the scent.”
“I’m sure it will dissipate after a few days,” I say, and Yelena heaves a sigh.
She’s dressed like most of the women here: a bright red dress, hair piled elaborately on her head. The neckline on her dress isn’t as drastic as most, but there’s more than a hint of cleavage visible, and it pushes upward every time she breathes.
I dart my eyes at the spot where Hazel was again, but she’s gone.
“There’s Vika and Sasha,” Yelena says, suddenly perking up. “Let’s go say hello.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m playing hide-and-seek with Hazel. Yelena is still talking to her friends, the other daughters of rich men, and even though I’ve had two more glasses of champagne they’re still not interesting.
I keep catching glimpses of black lace swishing through the crowd, and it’s starting to drive me mad. To make matters worse, my father is here, my mother on his arm, striding back and forth and watching everything with his unpleasant hawk’s gaze.
If I had any goddamn sense at all, I’d slip Hazel a note and show up in her bedroom later.
If I had good sense, I’d stop this completely.
“Excuse me,” I say to Yelena.
I bow my head slightly and then walk away before she can protest that she wants to come with me. I don’t know who told her it was attractive to act like a barnacle — probably her father — but someone did.
In one corner, my father is speaking with a few old men in one circle, their wives clustered together next to them. I keep scanning the crowd, hoping that I haven’t escaped just as Hazel accepted a dance with someone else.
Since I have to look like I’m going somewhere, I head toward the bar, where a server in a tuxedo is standing in front of an enormous fountain pumping pink champagne punch. The thing is hundreds of years old and so gaudy it must have embarrassed even my ancestors, but it’s present at every formal event in this palace.
By the time I walk up, he’s already poured a champagne glass full of the punch, and he hands it to me, dipping his head.
“Your highness,” he says.
I nod back.
“Is that who you are?” says a familiar voice behind me, and I turn.
“Miss Sung,” I say, as formally as I can.
“Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says. “I assume, anyway, with the mask and everything.”
I hold out my right hand, and she takes it like we’re about to shake hands on a business deal, but I bring it to my lips and kiss her knuckles longer than I should, her skin cool and soft under my hand.
Her eyes flick to my knuckles. They’re almost healed, just ugly shades of yellow and blue now.
“Can I offer you a glass of punch?” I ask. “It’s an ancient family recipe.”
“Thank you,” she says.
I take the glass of pink liquid from the server. Hazel thanks him, and we step away to stand beside a cocktail table. We’re surrounded by people on all sides, and I know for a fact that anywhere I go in this ball people are looking at me, watching what the prince does.
Maybe that’s why I like the dark so much. I can do what I want.
“Is it appropriate to toast with pink punch?” she asks, looking into her glass.
“Vodka is preferable, of course,” I say. “Though this is mostly vodka.”
“I thought this was champagne punch,” she says, twirling the glass in her hand.
“We rarely pass up a chance to add vodka to something,” I say.
She looks down at her drink, and even though the mask makes it hard to tell, I think she’s smiling a little.
“Thanks for the warning,” she says. “I’ll try not to make another spectacle of myself.”