& @boleynsrex
Marguerite Welles was in full bloom.
The gaiety and splendor of the evening seemed to have opened her shell completely, launching the usually quite reserved and proper young lady into the depths of spontaneity, and numerous courtiers would remark that such joy suited her. Her costume, more revealing than she had ever dared (though still not able to hold a candle to those of more scandalous ladies at Hampton, English or French), transformed her from a lady in service to the princess to one in her own right, for Cyrene was beloved by her people for her tenacity and loyalty. Meg found every aspect of the evening enchanting, from the eyes focused solely on her as she performed to the sweets rotating through the crowd, from the laughter echoing off of the Great Hall's high ceilings to the sight of lovers embracing tenderly out in the open - for the Greeks did value lust and love as much as the French, did they not?
The king seemed equally enthralled by it all, interacting with members of his court with a grin that seemed to transform his entire countenance - and why should he not? Did this night not declare him the most enviable prince in Christendom, to have a palace filled to the brim with charm, elegance, and prosperity? Emboldened by a bit too much wine and excitement, Meg approached the king as he sat upon a throne decorated to befit a Greek god; she curtsied low, then rose and extended her hand, eyes dancing with merriment. "Will you do me the honor of a dance, Lord Apollo? I should think you must."
