#yipeeeeee

Juliette had been deemed the diamond of the season a few years back, and although you no longer shared a last name, you were as close as ever. 

Amy presented herself as rather indifferent to it all, dealing with her narrowing chances of marriage like a trooper, but you could tell there was some panic in her actions. It seemed she did not want you to suffer the same fate. Still, although you could understand her, you secretly hoped you'd suffer her fate over Juliette's, because being the Diamond seemed more hassle than it was worth.

“I’ve been doing my research, and it seems that there are plenty of eligible bachelors this season, namely a few newer ones, who are more about your age. Lord Bearman, Oliver, seems like a good chap. As does that Italian one, with that rather frivolous last name. Oh, and Isack, of course. Lord Hadjar.” Juliette corrects herself, smoothing her dress, and you shoot her a wary glance.

“I’ll take that into consideration. Not Isack though, obviously.” you reply sweetly, and she shakes her head.

“It would do you some good to respect him, you know. You aren’t bickering children anymore- you must come across as mature, and graceful.”

You inhale.

“I am both of those things, I assure you. As long as he stays out of my way, and he doesn’t provoke me as usual, then we shall be just fine. I will even accept a dance, if he decides to be so daring.” you mutter quietly, and both your sisters beam.

When Isack’s mother fell ill, your own family had almost adopted him, as if it was of no consequence. At first, it had not really bothered you. But soon, he had grown to become rather an annoyance. He was sharp; you were sharper. Your arguments could span anywhere from mere minutes to days, and his impertinence had never been lost on you.

He had treated you in a way that you could not call brotherly. It was more like he was testing you, constantly. With moments of genuinity, and friendship, before total annoyance and disrespect. You never understood it, nor him.

And that had been the way of the world, until his mother got better, and then he left as if he had never been there to begin with.

“Excellent. Now, let us go.” Juliette smiles, seemingly satisfied with your appearance.

The nerves only really start to pool in your gut as you position yourself behind the doors, waiting for the announcement of your name. You’d seen ten-or-so other nervous ladies, pale in the face, disappear. And now it was you, and only two others and all three of you seemed as though you’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I think I might pass out. In a sickly way.” one of them hisses, and you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“We’re going to be fine, I’m certain of it.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Both your sisters did well. I have no-one.” 

You’re slightly surprised that she knows who you are, considering her name is still evading you, but you almost remind her that Amy still didn’t have a husband. Instead, you smile a little wider, waving her nerves away with a generous hand.

“Well, you’re utterly beautiful. As long as you aim not to trip, I can’t see how anything could go wrong.” you reply confidently, and you see a small curve in her lips.

“She’s right, Maria. I’m rather envious of you. You’re certain to be the diamond. Or she’ll at least say something to you. I rather think she’d hope to forget whatever sort of entrance I make.” Beatrice mumbles, and you pat her shoulder affectionately.

“‘Tis alright, Beatrice.”

She gives you a grateful nod, but your hand is clammy, and you feel a little like a fraud.

When you hear your name, you falter, but step through the doors nonetheless.

“Smile, dear.” your mother says quietly, and you plaster the most lady-like expression you can manage as you begin to walk, ignoring the strange tugging at the trail of your dress.

The stretch to the Queen’s throne feels endless. You’re rather convinced it’s simply to humiliate even the most co-ordinated of you, and each careful step feels more like a taunt than any sort of progress. Still, you don’t hesitate.

The Queen does not smile when you reach her. You almost expected her to. Instead, you bow, praying your headpiece doesn’t slip, and stare politely at her shoes.

“You can look at me, child.” she scolds, but if there is any real malice in her tone, you don’t pick up on it. Instead, you give her a bashful grin, and she seems placated. 

She admires you with a care that makes you feel rather like a gem in a glass box, each sharp edge being analysed, but you desperately try not to break a sweat, forcing quiet breaths through your nose.

You hope she’ll grow bored of you soon enough, and move onto the next victim, but she pauses, raising an arm.

You think you might explode. You’re certain that if she keeps you here for a moment longer, you simply will not manage to keep calm under the pressure, and you'll end up splattered across the room. You wait, for her to shun you from society, or declare you ought to have your head cut off, and you give your mother a completely panicked glance, still half-bowed.

“I think she’s the right choice.”

You splutter, words spilling from your mouth before you can help it.

“I don’t think so. I mean, you haven’t seen the last two girls. Especially Maria. I really think you should reconsider-” you begin, standing up straight, and there is a collective gasp of horror from the crowd.

Queen Charlotte turns to you, and you realise now is when you’re losing your head. 

“Interesting. Well, you have an odd sense of humour, but no matter. I’ll stick with you, I believe.”

There’s a suffocating silence, as everyone waits to see if she’s being serious. It seems as though she is.

Juliette claps tentatively, and then Amy joins in, surer now. You turn to them, pale-faced and desperate.

Then the rest of the debutantes join in confused applauds, followed by their mothers, and you realise you’re in for an interesting season.

“Bonsoir.” comes an irritating voice by your ear, and you straighten, nearly knocking over the potted plant you were trying (and failing) to hide behind.

“You haven’t lived in France for several years now, Isack. You can drop it.” you mutter coldly, flashing a placated smile to any onlookers.

“Well, you don’t read your mail then, non? I’ve been in France studying. Returned for the start of the season, you see. By obligation, naturally.”

“Naturally.” you reply, keeping your eyes on the dance-floor. He shuffles closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours slightly. You try to act normal as you recoil.

“Aren’t you supposed to be there? As the Diamond, you must have people watching you. Even I was told to act interested.”

You shoot him a glare so vicious he has to place a gentle hand over his heart.

“So that’s why you’re here, bothering me?” you retort, venom hanging from each word, and he shrugs.

“You’re the one half-submerged in a bush. Figured you could just use the company. You know I adore annoying you.”

You nod, biting back a smile at his dramatic face.

“Well, now you’ve come across as interested, feel free to scurry away again. Eleanor has been glancing this way for a while now, and you ought not to agitate her.” you nod wisely, and he turns, a slight surprised look passing his face.

When he meets Eleanor’s gaze, he gives her a polite nod, before turning back to you.

“I’ll speak to her in a minute, I suppose. But first, inscribe me there.” he murmurs, gesturing to your dance card hanging by your wrist. You inhale, giving him a curious frown.

He raises an eyebrow and the corner of his lips simultaneously, like it’s a challenge.

“Go on, humour me. And I’d rather not face the embarrassment of a rejection at the first ball. I promise I won’t step on your feet.”

You consider telling him to stop being so irritating, but you just smile, all gentle-mannered and careful. You think back to Juliette’s words, and swallow your pride for what feels like the first time of many.

“You’ve got yourself a waltz, Hadjar. You better not embarrass me.”

“Isack! You promised me an introduction, friend.” comes a voice, and you’re not sure you recognise the owner of it. He’s tall, but not quite lanky, with a warm face and a genuine smile. He claps Isack on the back with an enthusiasm you envy, wondering how he has even a shred of optimism in a place like this.

Isack startles, and you have to mask a laugh with a delicate cough. 

“Of course, my mistake. This is Lord Bearman.” he murmurs, and you give him a slight curtsy, dropping your gaze. “My lord.”

He smiles politely. “If it’s not already full, I’d like to humbly ask for a dance.” he says kindly, the corner of his eyes crinkling, and you nod.

Isack mumbles something under his breath you don’t catch, and then the music has shifted, and you’re trailing onto the ballroom floor, shooting Amy a panicked look from across the room.

“I understand it’s common courtesy to say yes, but you look rather miserable. I wouldn’t have taken much offence if you’d declined me, you know.” Ollie mutters, searching your face for something as he takes your hand. 

“It’s not you. I’m just nervous. You’ll forgive me if I misstep. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.” you reply carefully, admiring the smile that slowly stretches over his face.

“Oh, yes. I heard about what you said to the Queen. Bold, to suggest she was wrong in choosing you. Do you still feel that way?” he asks, and you readjust your hand in his, surprised by the warmth of it.

“Absolutely.” you admit, scouring the rest of the floor as you begin to shift, stepping to the left. “I mean, look at Maria over there. The Queen was far too hasty in her decision. I’ve done nothing of consequence, and I’m not even the most beautiful of the debutantes. I’m not entirely sure what she was doing, frankly.” you admit, your voice reduced to a low hiss. Ollie laughs, seeming to take great pleasure in your irritated tone.

“Well, I believe that beauty exists in the mind that-”

“-contemplates them?” you finish for him, and he grins, having to quickly hide his teeth upon realising his mistake. “Personally, I prefer Shakespeare’s phrasing, with beauty being bought. The idea of that is more intriguing."

“Maybe that is why she chose you.” he concedes, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, you both fall silent, focusing on the gentle lull of the music, watching your feet shuffle together in time. 

You’re surprised at the ease of it, the way your nerves subside a little, the way the onlookers become more a blur than a crowd. His arm on your waist feels more like support than something you should be wary of, and you almost wonder if you were being completely dramatic about the whole thing. 

When the song ends, and the violin fades, it takes you a second to go, bowing your head a little.

“I’ll see you later, then. As I suppose asking you for another would be a terrible idea.”

“Oh, terrible. Scandalous. May as well kiss my reputation goodbye.” you joke, letting a small chuckle leave your lips, and he laughs with you.

When you return to the side of the room, Isack is waiting expectantly.

“Can I be of assistance?” you ask, and he frowns, raising a palm.

You look confused for a second.

“Oh. I thought you were joking.”

He half smiles as you take his hand. The song is a little slower than the previous one, and you don’t want to see Amy this time. You just swallow, letting the hum drown out the erratic beating of your heart.

There is something raw in the way you act with Isack. He is not, and will never be, Lord Hadjar to you. He is that to everyone else, but he lives inside you as something entirely different.

But out here, you both have to act. There are roles you play, there are mannerisms you must obey. You do not bicker, you do not fight him off you. Instead, you talk., like you didn’t once chase him around unweeded gardens.

“So, is there anyone here you think you’ll be visiting tomorrow?” you ask carefully, trying to come up with a rational explanation for the way your face is burning when he looks at you.

You decide it’s because of how wholly unnatural this whole thing is. You have no brothers, but you imagine this is what dancing with one must feel like. You want him to let you go, even though he is not gripping you too tightly, and you find the air far too stagnant.

“I’m not sure yet. I’m not overly keen on having a wife.” he admits, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, and you give him an outraged glare.

“Isack!” you hiss quietly, leaning towards him a little so no one can overhear. “You’ve proposed yourself as a bachelor, you can’t just say things like that.”

“I am only saying them to you. You are pretending you want a husband too, non?” he dares, and you inhale, straightening.

“I am not pretending about anything. Unlike you, I am rather useless without a husband. I’m not planning on going through this whole debacle again, so I feel rather inclined to accept the first to propose.” you reply, scowling slightly, but he just gives you an amused expression.

“Even if I proposed right now, you’d take me up on it?”

You huff. “You are not nearly as humorous as you think you are.”

“It’s a hypothetical. Indulge me, I implore you.”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“Not you. That would be much like accepting a death wish.”

His face falls for barely a second, but you catch it. By the time you blink, he’s rearranged it, and he’s smiling with a confidence you can’t tell is real or fake.

“You wound me, mon amie.”

You give him a dry laugh.

“You’d have to care about me for that to wound you.” you joke, but it doesn’t sound funny at all. 

He misses a step, but you pretend not to notice.

“You’re right.” he concedes, but you’re not sure what you’re right about.

You’re trying to embroider a rather stubborn handkerchief, when Juliette bursts through the living room doors, excitement all over her face.

“You have a caller!” she announces, and you freeze.

Amy looks up from the piano curiously.

“Is it Isack?”

You turn to her incredulously.

“Why would it be Isack?”

Amy gives you a quizzical look. “I saw you two dancing last night. I mean, I’m no romantic, but even I felt emotional. Who else could it be?”

It is then that Oliver walks awkwardly through the doors, giving you a shy wave. Amy inhales quietly, and you give him a gentle smile.

Your mother arrives behind him, giving you a supportive nod.

“Sorry to call on you so early, but I have some business errands this afternoon, and I wanted to see you.” he explains politely, taking a seat beside you on the thin sofa, awkwardly glancing between you and your family.

“No need to apologise. Thank you, for coming. I was hoping to get to know more about you anyway.” you say politely, and he beams.

Your sisters pretend not to stare at the pair of you, sitting politely on the sofa, through sips of tea.

He speaks of his brothers, you lower your voice when you speak of your family, and you both mask chuckles.

It works. It’s pleasant. It hums, and that’s enough for you. You weren’t expecting to find something that sings.

When he leaves, you hope you don’t look too dazed. You hope it’s not obvious that you’re already imagining his last name next to your first. You also hope it’s not obvious that you’re staring at the door, like you want someone else to waltz through it.

You tell yourself it’s so you have a choice, but you’ll probably choose this simplicity anyway. You don’t let yourself even consider anything else.

“I saw you two on a walk. Promenading, if you will.” Isack murmurs, pressing his hand firmly on your waist. You shuffle away from him a little, but your footwork refuses to so much as falter.

“That is what one tends to do, when being courted. You know you could speak to me without asking for a dance, yes? I didn’t realise my audience was so… desirable.” you reply, cordially, trying to figure out why he looks so stern.

He scoffs. “Tis’ impossible to speak to you without him lurking. Figured you might appreciate the rescue.”

“I don’t need rescuing, I’m perfectly fine. Us two get along rather well, don’t you think? Better than we ever did, anyway. Maybe you’ve simply set the bar low.”

He practically hisses, and the sound feels like a reward.

“You’re far too cruel to me.” he mutters, and you hide a smile.

“You’re far too volatile. Will you please stop staring at him?” you demand, voice barely above a whisper, and he flicks his eyes to yours instead, with a slow raise of his eyebrow.

“Why? Do you think he feels threatened?”

You don’t catch your gasp before it leaves your mouth, cursing how slow the dance is, how the tempo of the music drags instead of rushes, making you bear the burning of his palm for what feels like an eternity.

“Isack, stop it.  You’re being unkind. You’re meant to be his friend.”

“I am his friend. But we’re friends too, no? No need for him to fawn over you. I’m not actually going to take you away. Not for anything more than a dance.”

You pause, trying to catch Ollie’s eye and smile, but you turn too quickly.

“Do you not think I deserve someone fawning over me?”

He blinks.

“Well, sure. But is that what you want?”

“Us women don’t get what we want. I should be grateful to be doing so well so early. He’s a respectable match.”

“It is early, and your dance card is full.” he says wisely, as though it’s something you hadn’t spotted. As if he has a right to step in, to offer his opinion you’d rather die than ask for.

“Your name is in that card.” you reply simply.

The music slows, pauses, and dies. The crowd begins to disperse, and you know he’ll slip away with them, but you’re not sure if you want to hear his response or not.

So you linger, fingers intertwined, fabric of the gloves meshing into one, and you wait.

“It is.” is all he manages, with one, strangled breath, and then he is gone.

You try not to miss him too terribly as you shrink back to the sidelines.

It hits Lady Whistledown the next morning. You’d expected your name to crop up eventually, but hadn’t expected Isack Hadjar’s to be the one next to it.

“Although it seems the diamond of this season has taken a liking to Oliver Bearman, her old friend Isack Hadjar seems unable to let her go. Anyone can see something simmering unresolved under the surface, but will either of them dare say anything before she finds herself with a ring on her finger?”

Juliettes voice rings out in the drawing room clearly, and you wince at every other word.

“She’s rather irritating, this Whisteledown. You really do underestimate how bad it is when you’re in the limelight.” you mutter, ignoring as you prick yourself with your needle bitterly. Amy sighs knowingly, patting the side of your head.

“It’s okay, it’ll all be sorted soon enough. Although, it might be worth talking about. Even I noticed something last night. Were you two arguing?”

You shake your head.

“He was in an irritable mood. I don’t think he wants to marry at all, and he wants to condemn someone to the same fate. And we used to joke about it, being misfits and refusing all this silliness. Maybe he wonders if that’s still in me, somewhere. He kept trying to convince me to reconsider Oliver.”

Juliette exhales quietly.

“Maybe you ought not to dismiss him so fast. Maybe he is right.”

“I like Oliver. He is pleasant.”

“But you don’t love Oliver.” Amy counters, and you grimace.

“You both know I care for no such thing. And it is not like I love anyone else.”

“You loved Isack, once. There’s no reason in denying it now.”

You scoff, but don’t meet their eyes. “S’not true. We were children. I couldn’t understand what I was feeling. It most certainly wasn’t love, though. He got far too under my skin for that.”

“I believe that’s what love is. Having someone under your skin, and letting them settle there, even if you’re irritated by them. Because it’s better to have them, in all their annoyance, than to let them go.”

You would laugh, but Juliette seems entirely serious, and you figure she’s talking from experience.

“Alright. Well, that’s something to figure out later.” you say dismissively, although you all know that there is no later. It is now, it is until Ollie dares to ask for your hand, it is until Isack begins to confront his own feelings. Which you know he’ll never do, so all is well.

“I saw the paper.” Isack mumbles, brushing past you to shield you from the onlookers. 

“It’s poppycock, if you’ll excuse my language.” you joke, but it comes out flat, like you’re wounded.

He nods, but he almost looks nervous.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, I hope you know that. I just, I just wanted to look out for you. I understand this is stressful-”

“-Isack, it’s alright. Don’t fret.”

Hearing his name leave your mouth so casually almost aches. He should feel disrespected, but he doesn’t. It feels much like his name was made so only you could say it, and he’s ever so glad you’ve disregarded being proper.

“Would it be cruel of me to ask you to dance?  I don’t see your regular partner everywhere.”

“He’s taken his leave. His brother has fallen ill. But yes, it would be cruel.”

“You’re not going to deny me, are you?”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

He offers his hand, and you convince yourself you’re only taking it because it’s the right thing to do.

“Do you always choose the slow ones on purpose? They’re agony. They drag.”

He shrugs, with a careful grin.

“S’not intentional. But you’re rather dramatic.”

His hand covers yours with a determination you’re not sure you recognise, and you let your palm settle on his shoulder with a practiced ease. The edges of your shoes kiss eachother, along with the dust of the floor, daring the other to step out of place, but neither of you do. It’s smooth, but not cold. It’s warm, too warm, too alive.

The spinning is slow, and calculated, making sure your eyes catch with each turn, before they settle on something else.

“They’re going to talk again.”

“Why not let them?”

“Because I am worried he will not propose if I am ruined.”

You feel him straighten, feel him loosen his grip, but he keeps you close.

“You do not think he loves you enough not to care?”

You laugh, and it’s almost a snort.

“All of these childish notions of love! Ridiculous, I just am sick of it. I want to marry, and sit by a window, and learn.”

“Bearman is not the only one who could give you that.” he replies, gritting his teeth, and you inhale.

“He is the only one who seems to care enough to try. My lord, unless you are willing to dispute that, unless you are willing to walk beside the river with me and sit in my drawing room and fawn over my whims, I do not want to hear it.”

He never wants to hear you avoid saying his name again. He never wants to avoid you again. It had been far too easy, when his mother got better, and France called, to pack up and disappear. He had barely even felt the guilt that comes with hurting your own heart.

But now, he realises he’s far too full of cowardice to be greedy. And he is also far too kind, to take you away from him, when you seem content. 

He wants to be cruel enough to keep asking for a dance, to keep giving you half-smiles and barbed comments between drinks, but he isn’t. He’ll just burn, until it turns to embers, and then ashes. And you’ll both be married, and both be miserable, and deem it nothing more than the way of life.

So he waits until the orchestra halts, and he refuses to admit what's keeping him leaving after you slow dance.

You’re not sure when the time passes, but it does. Whistledown leaves you alone, the months fly by, and Isack simply sinks into the crowd. It is polite, it is easy. You’re nearly grateful. You find it nobody’s business but your own that you always leave a waltz blank.

The last ball of the season is hosted by none other than the Bearmans. You try to ignore the whispers of a proposal, but you know he’s spoken to your father. You know they’ve been smiling a little too hard at you recently, and you try to swallow the bile that’s constantly rising in your throat.

You still haven’t entirely registered what’s happening until you’re halfway across the floor, and people are laughing, and your body has kicked in for you. You’re splitting away and circling back, grinning with every side-step, affectionately squeezing Oliver’s hand as you skip around in circles. It feels celebratory, clicking heels and near-enough galloping, and the hollers and squeals are fitting for the last ball, for the final hurrah, for the end of a headache that has spanned several months.

You’re switching partners, and that is how you find yourself in the arms of Isack again, a place you figured you’d never be.

“You look well.” he whispers cordially, and you smile.

“You look irritated.”

He laughs, and it hurts to hear.

“You’re ever so respectable, the two of you. I wish you the best. You know, he’s going to propose.”

“I assumed.” you admit gracefully, with a nod.

“You’re going to say yes, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. He wonders if that’s enough. You’re skipping away before he gets a response, but he knows what you would’ve said.

“You’re spritely, Oliv- my Lord.” you beam, fanning yourself quickly, hoping your cheeks aren’t too flushed. The slow dances drag, the quick dances burn, and you’d rather not dance at all.

“Formalities are rather inconvenient, are they not? I do feel that I should just be Oliver to you, by now.” Ollie decides, and you nod, shrugging a little. Still, the knowing glint in his eyes is making him hard to stare at.

“It’s not much of a surprise, is it?”

You look up, a little confused, but his nervous grin is too endearing to shrug off.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. But I’ve never cared much for surprises. And I feel that, after all of this, it would be more of a surprise if you were not to ask.” you smile, and it is an agreement of other words. It is a reassurance, but not to yourself. It feels like a commitment, a pledge. You suppose that’s exactly what it is.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll see you later this evening, then. I believe someone may want to bid you farewell. I hear he’s off back to France.”

You turn, and Isack gives you a limp half-wave.

“You might as well offer him the dance you’ve been saving.”

Ollie gives you a knowing look at your stare of surprise, a glance that tells you that he knows you underestimate him, but he’ll learn to love you anyway, because he’s almost already there.

All the waltz pieces sound the same, but you’re sure this is sadder.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“I figured you didn’t want us talking anymore. Which is understandable. But it’s alright now, as I am set for Europe, and you are set for marriage.”

He says it so simply, like that was always the destiny you were both meant for. Maybe it was.

“You will come back?”

It’s not a question, it’s a demand, but you ask it anyway.

“If you’d like me to.”

“A piece of your home is always in me.”

It’s a horrific thing to admit, especially to admit it so late.

He presses his forehead to yours, but it is not enough. You both know it. 

You have spent the better half of a year dismissing that love is of any importance to you. He has spent that same time denying love to anyone. He has danced, and flirted, and stared at you across the halls. He has been a coward, and you have been obstinate, and you’re always right, in that you’d never work. But it almost feels like a crime to let him go, to stop turning, to stop pressing the side of your ankle against his, to move your faces apart. You are breathing one and the same, you are sharing a heart, but it is not the same as sharing a name, or a house.

“I should have done something.” he mutters, like it’s his deepest regret.

“If you loved me enough, you would have.” you reply kindly. “And I would’ve admitted it, if it was all that overwhelming. But we’re not stuff of legend, are we?”

“You don’t have to marry him.”

“You don’t have to go to France.”

It might as well be silent, even as the violins swell.

“You could come with me?”

It’s a selfish, gross, cowardly ask. He knows you’ll say no, he knows you’ll be the one that’ll nip it in the bud, he knows he can blame you for the rest of his lonely life.

The rejection never comes.

Instead, Oliver Bearman has taken your hand, has asked to cut in, and you are being whisked away. 

You try to meet Isack’s eyes without making it too obvious, trying to say that, maybe if he’d asked earlier, your answer would be different, but you can’t see him.

Maybe it’s because you’re not brave enough to twist your head all the way. Maybe it’s because he’s already left, even though the weight of his palm still lingers on your back.

By the time the song is over, he is kneeling, you are engaged, and you wish the slow dances had dragged on a little longer.