#gisette

The narrator is some sort of Historian-affiliated spirit thing here, but the specifics are left deliberately ambiguous.

Lady Rosaline was made up for the story, since my Gisette-mancer is immoral and I wanted an ethical one for this fic. She could be any 75-manip-compatible background.

This contains several snippets copied directly from the game; I don’t take credit for those!

You can hear me.

Granted, only when you’re half-asleep, but that’s better than I can do with anyone else.

I can hear you, too—or rather, hear you thinking to yourself—which makes discerning your motivations so much easier.

And you’re special. It’s practically a giant sign over your head, screaming “Stuff! Happen over here!”

Most importantly, Jasper’s your butler.

I’ve decided. You’re the one I’m recording this Summit.

--

Week 1, Day 0

As you drift off to sleep, you contemplate how unbelievably attractive everyone you met at the Welcome Feast was.

It’s a good problem to have, right? And you certainly charmed everyone you met. But as long as we’re discussing unbelievably attractive people: have you seen your butler?

Yes? Okay, good.

--

Week 1, Day 4

“I hope all our encounters can continue being so mutually pleasing, Lady Rosaline.”

A spike of want runs through you. You can’t wait for the next time the two of you meet.

Really? Character assassination does it for you?

--

Week 1, Day 6

More than hijinks, sparring, nature walks, or intellectual debates?

--

Week 1, Day 7

“I think there’s someone who might become special.”

Oh? Really? I hope for your sake they are thinking the same.

It’s Princess Gisette, isn’t it. You have terrible taste. Didn’t you see your gorgeous butler? Or the warrior princess who’s completely besotted with you? The dashing pirate? The thoughtful Revairan lord? Your adorable blushing maid? Did I mention your gorgeous butler? Or pretty much any person besides the one who faked you out with a supposedly private invitation and then tried to manipulate you into slandering an innocent woman?

It could be worse, I suppose. You could have an eye for her brother.

--

Week 2, Day 5

“I think I would regret it if you were to become a ghost in truth.”

She gives you a soulful look, her blue-violet eyes pulling you in, despite not being the true, gorgeous purple you’ve seen on some of the Isle natives. Such as Jasper.

“Not nearly so much as I would!” You smile at her, not even contemplating how much more purple her eyes could be.

Sigh.

--

Week 3, Day 2

Jasper has indisputably won the gift-giving competition, but you’re really fixated on that perfume.

She didn’t even pick it out for you! She picked it out for herself! It was probably just a spare bottle she brought in her luggage!

Yes, it’s expensive, but…

Augh.

--

Week 3, Day 3

Exhausted from herding quarrelsome children at dinner, you drift off to sleep.

There are no assassins around. Nothing noteworthy is going to happen with you for the next seven hours, at least.

Yay!

Across the castle, Jasper is finishing a journal entry, recording dutifully. He’s taken off his jacket and is sitting in his vest, looking enticingly exposed despite not showing an inch more skin than normal. There’s a hint of tiredness around his eyes, but his face is still almost inhumanly perfect.

With a neat flourish, he ends his entry. He pulls off his writing gloves to reveal his long, slender fingers before sprinkling the page with sand to dry it and shaking it off.

He closes the journal, then stands, sticking a finger in his cravat loosen it.

Oh my.

I probably shouldn’t be here. (I might have had to extrapolate the rules of my existence myself, but I’m pretty confident I’m supposed to be watching the actors. And probably not spying on people undressing.)

He removes his cravat and unbuttons his waistcoat, hanging them up neatly. He starts to unbutton his shirt, revealing his pale collarbone, and…I’m being creepy. Sigh.

(See, if you were here, this would be history and not voyeurism!)

I return. You sleep for the next eight hours, rolling over a few times. At one point you scratch your nose.

Absolutely scintillating.

--

Week 3, Day 5

Jasper has been investigating the plot against you, like the darling he is.

You remember an incident you observed last week, with that same type of easily missed servant and Princess Gisette.

…Yes, if that was the story it makes sense. Especially knowing Gisette and her family’s reputation.

“Lady Rosaline, what is it?”

“Nothing, Jasper. It’s nothing. Thank you for your help, and your investigation. I appreciate it.”

You don’t really, though. You can’t truly appreciate what this means for him, how he struggled with this. What devotion.

Somehow, the discovery that Gisette was behind your accident last week doesn’t seem to be putting you off. In fact, I think it’s piqued your interest.

You make no sense.

--

Week 3, Day 7

“I hope you will keep something similar in mind, Princess.”

You continue onto the Matchmaker with a dreamy internal smile, not at all bothered by the fact that she just sent your poor butler on a run-around errand because she decided to procrastinate until the last minute with her love confessions.

Granted, he…apparently procrastinates even more, but despite having just received a regular barrage of clandestine proposals, you fail to recognize his advice for the heartfelt confession that it is.

If you’d just reject it, I could live with that, but how oblivious can you be?

You proceed to lie shamelessly about plans for a political marriage to the Matchmaker. She’s totally onto you, I hope you realize.

--

Week 3, Day 7

Gisette gives you a studying look from across the room. It’s a lot like the look she gave you right after she tried to murder you. Last week.

Are you really sure about this?

You manage to meet her gaze and then give her a significant smile and nod of your own.

Apparently.

--

Week 4, Day 3

You bask in Princess Gisette’s lap, drinking in her condolences about the terrible burden on you this week.

If you would pause a moment to consider the irony, you might remember that you’ve deduced this burden is all her fault in the first place, and also how tragic you found the death of that fellow she murdered, but you apparently haven’t reached that level of self-awareness.

You at least remember that she also tried to murder you, but you’ve apparently decided to let that slide.

Not for the first time, I question your self-preservation instinct.

--

Week 5, Day 2

Jasper wipes your fingers carefully, attempting to gently remove the ink.

When he is satisfied it is clean he stares at your hand for a moment, as if lost in thought. It is only a lapse of a moment though, before he returns to himself and releases your hand from his grip with a start.

“Forgive me, Lady Rosaline.”

“Jasper—”

“I should go. I have other duties to attend to.”

Despite your surprised protests, he hurries off, leaving you alone with your newly finished letter.

“—you really need to get more sleep,” you finish, to the empty air. You read once more over your letter to home, plans already forming in the back of your mind for your return.

Sleep? How could you not see the pining there? The repressed longing? How could you not melt into goo over the yearning devotion in his eyes?

How could you not want to stay?

Your maids help you undress for bed, and you doze off happily, oblivious to the fact that you’re totally doing Katyia’s Legacy wrong.

--

Week 5, Day 4

Jasper sets down your breakfast tray, both he and the breakfast as mouth-watering as always. “Let’s go over your schedule for the day, Lady Rosaline.”

You groan inwardly at the businesslike tone in his voice. Today’s going to be a busy one.

“There’s a rehearsal scheduled this afternoon, for the three hours before dinner. You’ll obviously be expected to attend that. Given that you have a leading role, you may also want to reserve some additional time to go over your lines.”

You perk up at that, looking forward to the opportunity to see Gisette. Perhaps you could even arrange some time alone together under the pretense of practicing your Serah-Vienna scenes.

“You’ve received a last-minute invitation to a tea arranged by one of the delegates from Wellin, Lady Petunia.”

You shake your head. You’ve met Lady Petunia, she’s a dreadful bore. More importantly, she’s not nearly fashionable enough for Gisette to attend her teas.

“You’ve also received an invitation to a group luncheon from Lady Aria of Revaire, as a thank you for the tea you hosted last week. Given your role in the theatrical this week, I believe you can decline without causing offense, should you wish to. Lastly, with the upcoming ball, I believe it would be wise for you to work on your dancing. I would be happy to assist you in that area.”

Lady Aria rarely says anything of substance, but on the other hand, she spends a great deal of time with Princess Gisette.

Do you really want to choose an hour of empty-headed prattle where you may or may not be able to watch Gisette from across the table over dancing with Jasper?

“I’d rather not risk offending Lady Aria. She was a great help to my investigations last week.”

(Yes. Yes, apparently you do.)

“Very well. You should still have some free time after dinner and before the luncheon, which you could spend on dancing, private rehearsal, or something else.”

“I should take some time after the rehearsal to go over the scenes I had trouble with. Perhaps Lord Clarmont or Princess Gisette might even be available this evening to go over some of our scenes.”

Jasper’s eyes widen in alarm, though it does little to disrupt the sheer perfection of his features. “My lady, meeting privately with a man you have not been matched with to rehearse romance scenes would…invite comment.”

You knew that. Etiquette might not be one of your strong suits, but you’re not that oblivious.

“I thought we might be able to find someone to chaperone, but…you’re right, it will be best if I only ask Princess Gisette. I have just as many scenes with her anyway.”

You shrug, as if it doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, pleased to have an excuse for some time alone with Gisette.

“That still leaves this morning. I’m afraid I won’t be available to help you practice your dancing in the hours between now and your luncheon.”

“Perhaps another time. I can practice by myself in the ballroom for today.”

--

You spend some time dancing around in the ballroom. There’s something about this room, because by spending time in it you can feel your natural charisma increasing.

(Perhaps if you practiced with your butler, instead of trying to look alluring for yourself in the mirror, you’d actually manage to improve your grace and not just your personal magnetism.)

--

Gisette is not at the luncheon, which turns out to be a dreadful waste of a couple hours. (Just think, you could have been dancing with Jasper.) By the time the designated hour for the rehearsal rolls around, you are practically tripping over your skirts in your haste to escape.

--

“But Vienna,” you sigh, “how could I possibly trust in his intentions after my most faithful maid saw Lady Matterly leaving his chambers?”

“Sweet girl,” Gisette rests her hand on your back, a waft of sweet perfume teasing your senses. “I know you trust your maid dearly, but you must admit she is…prone to misjudgments. Confront Sir Horus, find his version of the story. He is not a man who would be able to lie under pressure. Not like Prince Armand.”

You turn to face Gisette, clasping her elegant hand between your own. “Oh, but Prince Armand cares for you dearly! I’ve seen the look in his eyes when he watches you across the room. He may be a man who talks all around what he means—not unlike yourself, dear cousin—but I am convinced his affection for you is true.”

“Lady Rosaline!” Lady Avalie is suddenly standing next to the pair of you. “You’re turning your back to the audience.”

Right. You release Gisette’s hand, masking your reluctance to do so. “I don’t think it works for Serah to deliver that line with her back to Vienna. Princess, perhaps if you came around?”

You try a few things, but don’t quite get it right by the time Prince Zarad and Lord Clarmont have finished and it’s time to switch scenes.

“Princess, would you have some time to spare this evening to see if we can get that scene figured out?” You smile apologetically, as if you’re sorry for the bother.

She gives you a coolly assessing look, but you can detect a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “I had some time planned to review my lines. I suppose we could use it to work on our joint scenes, Lady Rosaline.”

--

After dinner, Gisette knocks on your door, script in hand. “I hope now is a good time to work on our scenes, Lady Rosaline,” she says sweetly, just loud enough to be overheard.

You happily invite her in.

“I admit, Rosaline, I initially found the idea of this theatrical quite a bother, but I’m coming to appreciate its hidden charms,” she says, smiling languidly at you.

You look around for a suitable chair, and land on the one you were sat in yesterday when Jasper so lovingly wiped the ink off your fingers. Without sparing that tender moment a passing thought, you sit and run through your positioning a few times until you have it figured out.

“I confess,” Gisette smiles, “I’m not entirely confident in the scene before the ball, either.”

--

“Oh, Vienna!” you cry, taking Gisette’s hands in both of your own. “I fear I shall never find love!” You clasp your joined hands dramatically to your bosom.

“A lady should hope never to…” Gisette cuts off in the middle of her character’s quip, shaking her head with a smile teasing at her lips. “Really, my dear? I suspect the audience might notice if you have me grope you onstage.”

You grin unabashedly, releasing her hands. “My apologies. I was caught up in the drama of the moment.”

Okay, you’re kind of cute together. When she’s not planning your death.

--

“You did not see the so-called ‘love poem’ he sent me, Serah. It contained the most lurid descriptions of my—”

At this point, Serah’s maid is supposed to burst into the room and interrupt, but it’s just the two of you.

She’s standing where Jasper normally does when he’s going over your schedule in the morning. Your eyes meet, tension simmering between you.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Have you ever gotten a particularly terrible poem from a suitor, Gisette? I received one at seventeen that compared my teeth to his mother’s china.”

She tilts her head in thought, her pale hair catching the candlelight without the ethereal pearly shimmer that Jasper’s hair gets in the same light.

“Nothing so terrible as what was recited at that charming little evening you hosted, but there have been a few gems.” She smirks, takes one of your hands in hers and looks deeply into your eyes. “O lovely moon, I beseech you to shine on me eternally, eclipse me in your violet pits…"

You giggle.

“He was so proud of his work that he recited it in person. On one knee. And his father was too important an ally to offend, so I had to smile through all twenty verses.” She wrinkles her nose. “It was all I could do not to gag. But enough of such odious recollections, my dear. I have a rare moment alone with you.” She strokes her fingers over your wrist, not releasing your hand.

“And what would you like to do with it?” you purr.

“Oh,” she smiles slowly, like a cat basking in the sun, “I have a few ideas.”

She steps closer. Her long, cool fingers stroke along your jaw, and she cups the side of your face, her soft lips closing over yours. She kisses you passionately, releasing your hand to bring her other hand to your waist.

You wrap your arms around her, drawing her as tight as you can without mussing her exquisite coiffure. Your mouths melt into each other, her body feeling almost fragile under your hands.

(I wanted to vicariously kiss Jasper, but… this is nice.)

You finally, reluctantly, release each other, and you blush as you realize that you weren’t entirely successful in your quest to avoid disheveling her hair. You were not emotionally prepared for her to pull your lower lip between her teeth like that.

“Let me…” you grab a hairbrush from your dresser.

She raises an eyebrow, looking herself over in the mirror and giving you a fondly exasperated look before taking a seat on your dressing stool. “I shouldn’t give you a hard time. You’re more of a sight than I am.”

You peer over her shoulder into the mirror to find your hair falling out of its twist, bodice off-kilter, cheeks flushed, and lips red and slightly swollen.

“Whoops.” You adjust your bodice and hastily tuck the wayward strands of hair into place. The rest you’ll just have to wait out. “How do I look, cousin?” you tease, sliding a hand into her pale blonde tresses and catching a lock to smooth with the brush.

“Like perfection itself, my dear.” She doesn’t finish the line, tilting her head back languidly and luxuriating under your touch. Hints of the fragrant oils she uses waft up to you as you stroke the brush through her hair.

Once you’ve brushed every lock into place and then some, and can’t really justify drawing it out any further, you twist the strands she had pinned behind her head back into place and replace her hair clip.

She stands, smiling regretfully. “Our time together is always far too short. Until next time, Rosaline.”

With a parting kiss, she picks up her script and departs, leaving you with the trace of her perfume and lips that still feel warm.

--

Week 7, Day 8

As your ship becomes a speck on the horizon, it feels strange to be idle again. It’s been a long time.

Jasper stands at a window in one of the towers, watching you go, a hint of resigned melancholy in his eyes.

I couldn’t do anything for him. Again.

I know he can’t feel me, not like you could, but I concentrate on all my good feelings, all my esteem, all the love I was hoping you’d be the one to give him for me.

It’s so quick, I might’ve imagined it, but for a moment, a hint of a smile flickers across his face.

I don’t know if anyone like you is going to come around again, but…I can always hope, right?

Jasper turns away from the window, heads back down to help with getting the castle out of the state of disarray that sixty entitled visitors always manage to get it into.

And I?

I wait.

My apologies for how glaringly this fic needed to be twice as long and several times more edited. 

But the decorum of the event demanded mingling and conversation, so she supposed that was what she’d have to do. It would help her narrow down options she could marry if nothing else. With a barely perceptible sigh, Gisette stepped away from the Revaire delegation and moved into the milling crowd, scanning for a conversational partner who wouldn’t bore her. What she got was the pirate ‘prince’ of Hise, the only other delegate not currently engaged in the exchange of polite nothings and banal flirtations. He would not have been Gisette’s first choice, but nor would he be her last.

She repressed a small smirk as she noted her approach caused the pirate’s posture to stiffen ever so slightly. The polite nod of greeting he offered could almost be called wooden. “Princess Gisette.”

“Prince Hamin,” she returned, matching the nod with one of her own, equally polite but not disguising the faintly derisive emphasis on his title. “Not going to turn on the fabled Hisean charm? I was so looking forward to a demonstration.”

Hamin smiled, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. “Part of being a pirate is knowing which chases are worthwhile and which are more of the wild goose variety, simply toying with you, with no favorable intention in your regard.” He winked.  “Though most geese are not half so pretty.”

“Only half?” Gisette commented archly, raising one brow and smiling tightly. “I’ll have to have a word with my maids then. They’re clearly not doing their job.” The pirate didn’t so much as chuckle politely at her seemingly light-hearted quip, and he certainly didn’t offer a sweeping bow and his deepest, most sincere apologies if he’d offended like half the noble in Revaire would have done thrice by now. So she returned to the previous topic. “Well, do you see any chases that would be worth your time, Prince Hamin?”

He flicked an amused smirk in her direction and then deliberately turned his attention to scanning the collected delegates. “A few, Princess.”

“I’ll leave you to that, then. No point in wasting valuable time on a partner who can’t appreciate you.” And with that, Gisette stepped away, wondering vaguely if ‘Prince’ Hamin had caught the barb. She didn’t particularly care, either way. If he was perceptive enough to catch the dig, it would serve its purpose. If he wasn’t, well, then it was doubly true. Either way, Gisette won.

There were few appreciable victories to be had that night. Most of the delegates Gisette talked to were far too easily steered. Without the challenge, it was far less enjoyable than it should have been. She’d picked up several juicy tidbits let loose by careless lips, matched herself against the Wellin chaperone–and while she refused to name herself the loser in their contest, she couldn’t honestly say she won, either, and conceded an even match. Several delegates found suitably gracious but suspiciously fortuitous excuses to be busy in other conversation when Gisette passed close by.

In sharp contrast, the Corvali prince met her approach with a smile that was as much challenge as greeting. “Ah, Princess Gisette. How kind of you to grace me with your presence. I hear it’s quite hard to come by in your country.”

She smiled herself. “I fear you have been misinformed, Prince Zarad. My favor is hard to come by, especially for those who feel it their place to deny my family what is ours by rights. My presence can be obtained simply by requesting it. At least, among my peers. Whoever has been telling you stories is either lying or not among them.”

“More’s the pity for them,” Prince Zarad returned, smile tightening fractionally around the edges. “They don’t get to gaze upon your beauty.”

“You noticed,” Gisette said coyly. Of course he had; Prince Zarad’s reputation preceded him–much as Gisette’s did her–and so it was hardly surprising the charming and flirtatious prince would notice her looks.

“How could anyone not?” Prince Zarad returned. “Striking and refined, like a sculpture of ice, preserved by its own nature as mere mortals stare at it in wonder.”

“How poetic,” Gisette said, a purr edging the words. “And I suppose you have some choice words to extol the virtues of both your homeland and yourself to this more than mortal ice sculpture?”

“Alas, no.” Zarad was still smiling. “You are very lovely, Princess, and that loveliness does indeed catch the eye. But there is a lesson everyone in my country learns well and learns early.” Above his smile, something flickered through sharply warm brown eyes. “Ice is quick to melt in the Corvali sun.” And with that he bowed a cursory farewell and strode away before she could retort.

Gisette watched him go, one eyebrow curving upward. Interesting… Even if the prince had gotten the last word in their tete-a-tete, she still felt it was something of a victory. She now knew there was more to Prince Zarad than the shallow, charming flirt he showed the world. She watched him smile and flirt outrageously with one of the meeker members of her own delegation and made a note to interview the girl later. For now, the time for conversation was over, as the signal rang out that dinner was ready.

Gisette found herself seated between a warrior from Skalt and the Wellin princess. Shy as she was, the latter’s rank alone clearly made her the more tolerable partner for between-course small talk. The fact Princess Penelope looked nervous bordering on terrified to be receiving Gisette’s attention made it that much more… interesting. She started with innocuous things; the weather, how Penelope’s journey to the island had gone, opinions on music, before asking in the same sweet–almost casual–tone, “You’ve heard of our recent troubles in Revaire, have you not? Of course you have, the news went far and wide. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to favor me with your opinion on the matter?”

Penelope dropped first her fork and then her gaze to her lap, face flushing as she diligently studied the napkin laid across her skirts. “Oh, I don’t hear much, Princess. My brother would be far more knowledgeable. I-I feel I don’t know enough to offer an opinion on the matter.”

She retrieved her fork and fidgeted with it nervously throughout the rest of the meal. Similarly, she kept her gaze on her plate until they were released to return to their rooms.

Gisette enjoyed a secret smile as she made her way to her suite. Tedious as the next several weeks had initially looked, there would be opportunities to amuse herself, conversations that might prove entertaining, so perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she had feared. And with so many people of power in one place, surely there would be chances to increase her own. The smile widened as her door closed behind her.

Delegates milled about.  A few actually put on some pretense of working-- the costumers playing with thread as they chatted in circles with gowns and suits in their laps, the actors waving about scripts to emphasize their points about last night’s dinner.  Most did not even make such efforts and directed the staff to fetch all necessary implements for tea.  As well as comfier chairs.

He sighed.

“Lord Clarmont, there you are.”

He turned. “Lady Avalie.”

Avalie approached with her pleased cat’s smile and a trail of tinkling bells. “Come, the main cast is rehearsing backstage.”

She put an iron hand into the crook of his arm, leading him away.  Clarmont obediently followed.  At least it was darker backstage.  And quieter.  Unfortunately, it was also in better supply of Revairan royals; Princess Gisette glanced up as Avalie swept the red velvet curtains apart and practically shoved Clarmont before her.  The pale princess’s eyes roved over them, found them wanting, and returned to the script in her hands.

Still, he smiled, per usual.  He would have to be particularly careful this week.  Especially if this headache persisted.  At least Princess Jaslen had given him the part of Sir Horus, and not the partner to Gisette’s Vienna.  No, his Serah stood a few paces away, giggling with Prince Armand.

Zarad spotted him. “Here he is, our esrtwhile knight.”

He gave an overdone bow to Clarmont, with a fluttering flourish with the script in his hand.  Beside him, Lady Sabine was giving the prince a look that would be disapproving but for the curl at her lips.

“Really, enough, you--”

“Now, dear,” Zarad stated, turning back to her with serious eyes. “I know it will be hard to part from me for even a moment.  But we must all make our sacrifices for this important production.  Perhaps the most important work of our lives.”

“I see you still persist in this bad habit of speaking for everyone,” Sabine said. “But I suppose it would be the most important work in the life of an incorrigible flirt.”

The two of them had been like this for over four weeks now.  The glances and the laughter and the verbal dances gradually culminating in the Matchmaker’s approval a week past.  The pair seemed unable to look away from each other; after the previous week’s tribulations, one could hardly blame them.  To the side, Gisette wore a pleasant expression that, on close inspection, was entirely unpleasant.

Zarad winked.  “Now, now.  We’re not alone; don’t flirt too much lest we become a nuisance among good society.  And you must remember to be better to Sir Horus than you are to me.  Not everyone shares my magnanimous nature.”

Clarmont cleared his throat. “I’m sure Lady Sabine will be quite fine.”

“Yes, of course,” Avalie interjected.  She clapped a hand to her clipboard for emphasis. “We’ve some of the finest of our delegates here, all eager to collaborate in a show of international harmony.  Yes?”

They all smiled back at her, with various levels of thinly veiled sarcasm.

Avalie smiled as well. “Lovely!  Now.  A bit of rehearsing is due, yes?”

The four leads collected themselves and moved about the backstage area at Avalie’s direction.  They read from their scripts in slightly stilted voices as they tried to match their actions to the lines.  Clamont wasn’t a frequent theatre-goer, but even he could tell this was a disaster waiting to happen with amateurs like themselves given a week’s notice to practice.  Still, Zarad amused with his over-performing and his sidebars.  Gisette seemed committed to appearing to her best, even if at the expense of engaging with the rest of them.  And Sabine took on the role of sweet Serah with infectious cheer, helping him along with a twinkle in her eyes.

And yet it quickly became clear there was a problem.

In act two, scene one, Vienna brings Serah to visit the queen, conveniently at the same time that Sir Horus and Prince Armand attend to her.  Zarad slouched in a chair, beside an empty chair representing his absent aunt, with a bored expression not entirely affected.  His sidebars and interest had fallen off as their collective confusion impeded their lines.  Horus stood beyond the queen and the prince, practically stuttering platitudes to Serah.

At the moment Serah moved to go to him, with her own starry eyes and blushing compliments, Clarmont saw as Armand’s head turned with her passing and a new expression flit over his features.  As Sabine passed by with flowered sashes from her bustle trailing lightly, Zarad reached out a hand.

And tugged.

Sabine yelped. “What--”

She stumbled backward inelegantly, arms windmilling.  Regaining her feet, she whirled to glared at Zarad and his carefully blasé expression.

“You see, dear Horus, my bosom companion?” he said. “What a clumsy girl.  Utterly unfit to be a match to such a fine knight as yourself.”

Momentarily annoyed, Sabine schooled herself back into character. “Oh, Your Highness, do forgive me.  How terribly silly of me to trip like that.  I know you are such a good soul you would never hold that against me, and what a splendid friend you are, to consider Sir Horus so much.”

Clarmont coughed and quickly interjected, trying to steer back to the actual lines and away from the looks Serah was shooting at Armand.  Vienna’s cool smile had become decidedly icy.

And then, in the fourth act when Lady Matterly creates the first mess between the couples, Serah, with a very much un-Serah-like gleam in her eye, oversold her entreaty to Prince Armand on her cousin’s behalf.  She begged him to give Vienna another chance, her hand on his arm turning into a closer lingering against his side.  Her hand reached up to trail against his jaw as she gave her best pure-as-sugar-Serah-pout.

Swallowing, Armand agreed to reconsider his opinions.

And then somehow, the confessional scenes in the fifth act got side-tracked at the mere two lines Armand and Serah were supposed to exchange, which turned into entire monologues about women like stars and men like vain and empty-headed birds-- parrots even, that repeated certain lines.

“Perhaps,” Princess Gisette said. “Certain roles should be switched.  Clearly, there is an imbalance in this casting.”

She idly pushed a single lock of pale hair from her face with one of those pleasant-unpleasant smiles of hers.

Avale tapped on her clipboard with her own beatific smile. “Any changes can be addressed to Princess Jaslen.  Yourself.  Otherwise, I would advise all of us to commit our lines to memory.  Surely such a task will be considered worthy and enjoyable as it will prevent embarrassment all of us delegates.”

Clarmont agreed readily.  The troublesome couple did as well, albeit with completely unabashed smiles and conspiratorial glances at each other.

Clarmont still had a headache, and now all these lines to remember on top of everything else.  But he had the feeling this play would be anything but boring.  A disaster, yes.  But boring?