Winter's Ball by Giselle Ava (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📕

a toast of sorts to the new batch of soldiers who would soon experience their first winter’s ball.

One of the messenger boys was freezing his ass off near a wooden fence, his knees cuddled up against his chest, hands dug in the pockets of his overlarge coat. He glanced at her and she moved her eyes sidelong, to the people on the city streets, hurrying for cover.

Tasha enjoyed the killing, but most of all she enjoyed the serving of justice to those who threatened this great city’s safety. Those who came before her were a bunch of failures, who had failed her own parents seven years ago, failed the ones they had sworn to serve.

Tasha had never failed.

She would not fail tonight.

4: It’s Time

The guests arrived at seven precisely, right on schedule. Most flocked immediately to the ballroom, others to the indoor and outdoor balconies that they had decorated with gaudy lanterns and streamers. All around were firepits offering heat to the cold night. The storm had held off temporarily, leaving but a light drizzle of ice.

Her mother’s deep blue dress had been tapered and tightened to fit her own plump yet diminutive frame, the rather long hem brushing at her ankles. Her hair felt sticky and heavy but the end result was pleasant, a dark auburn with the red highlights being accentuated. She wore a conservative amount of gold eyeliner and some blush, but not much.

She watched them from one of the discrete ballroom balconies, a small round platform which overlooked the entire ballroom. There were several of them positioned throughout the chamber, most of them occupied by guards. There was nobody else up there with her, none but Sir Tam, straight-backed, sword in scabbard, metal armour reflecting firelight.

Snow beat against windows scattered about the ballroom. Music swelled from the band pit below: violins, a viola, a cello, a piano. Most of the time, voices of nobility rose above the music, producing a constant rumble. Wine flew. Servants drifted about with plates of finger food. Dinner was at nine. She had moved it up three years ago, from nine forty, due to some awfully insufferable guests demanding food earlier.

She spotted Tasha through the crowd, standing at the edge of the ballroom with an everchanging, concentrated stare. She wore a grey fleece coat and tight pants, allowing her to move quick and undetected. It was only a brief glance, and then Sarina had lost sight of her.

“The High Lady Mithriv,” said Lord Gregoth Trovik from the deep west, as she was halfway down the stairwell back into the ballroom proper. She stopped abruptly, nearly running into him in the crammed passage. Lord Gregoth extended his hand to her and smiled affably. He was middle-aged with a soft beard and warm eyes, a handsome man who had played suitor to many, but that was all she knew about him.

She gave him her hand and he kissed it gently.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise,” she said, catching her breath.

“It always is a pleasant sight to see the Mithriv family doing well. Please, meet my new wife. Lady Arina.” He stepped to the side and his wife pushed through, blocking the way out. Sarina smiled forcefully at his young, starry-eyed wife, who had a significant baby bump.

“My lady,” Lady Arina said, bowing.

Sarina noted how radiant she looked and felt a twang of jealousy. “I would love to stay and talk but I must be going,” she quickly said and narrowly squeezed out of the stairwell back into the ballroom crowd, where people mingled and some even had already started dancing. Drinks were poured and spilled and wine-slick tongues spouted nonsense and gossip. Sarina failed to find anybody she knew intimately, so elected to stand on her own by the music. She picked up a wine glass from the serving boy, who smiled at her.

She took a pill and swallowed it down with some wine.

“My name is Lord Desmond Da’vail of Vaul,” said a young man with dashing black hair and a strong jaw. She had to do a double take, at first not noticing who he was. He had the most intense brown eyes and wore an emerald vest with a white shirt underneath, and a golden unadorned bracelet around his left wrist. “May I ask you for a dance?”

“Lord Desmond,” Sarina said, looking him up and down. She hadn’t seen him since well before that one night seven years ago but they had become friends when they were very young, due to their fathers conducting frequent business with each other. It had been so long that she had nearly forgotten what he looked like or that he could grow so...well.

“A dance?” Desmond said, extending his hand.

She straightened. “Can you dance?”

“Mother was a ballerina. Father a choreographer. They met on the stage, dancing Kommunar, when they were only slightly younger than ourselves.” He spoke with a strong, confident tone, as though completely certain of every single word he said. When Sarina had last seen him, and Desmond was only eleven years old, he had often become tongue-tied.

“I can’t dance very well,” Sarina said.

“That can’t possibly be true,” Desmond said.

“And why is that?” She tilted her head.

“You’re too pretty.”

“Well I’m flattered, but you’re wrong.”

He tapped his fingers against the back of her hand and she sighed, downing the rest of her wine and then letting him guide her into the middle of the ballroom where they danced.

“Happy birthday for last week,” Desmond said.

“It was three months ago but thanks,” Sarina said, smirking. Desmond took her by the waist with one hand, and gripped her hand in his, soft but firm.

“Are you betrothed yet?” he asked.

“Odd question to ask, but no. I like to think that a lady doesn’t have to be betrothed, especially one who is already the ruler of the greatest city on Ivalon.”

Desmond smiled. “Ha. Ever thought of becoming a peasant?”

“Maybe,” Sarina said truthfully but passively.

She flicked open her pocket watch as she sat down at one of the