Her steps were measured and elegant, as though she had no destination at all. Penelope let herself drift through the edges of the crowd, pausing now and then as though admiring the flowers arranged in towering crystal vases, or the musicians poised upon the gallery above, her gaze remained fixed upon him.
Closer, she told herself. Just a little closer.
Prince Lucian had turned now, speaking briefly with a lord near the edge of the floor. Upon noticing his change of position, her eyes brightened.
This was her chance.
Penelope drew in a steadying breath and prepared herself to step forward, pulse racing, thrumming in her ears. Her legs felt weak, yet resolve was stronger, approaching his direction.
Her mind scrambled with practiced words, mentally reciting the things to say, what to do, how to act; shoulder squared, chin up, eyes—only to collide violently with another figure.
The impact sent a cry from her lips. Cool liquid splashed across the front of her gown, dark red blooming like a wound over the silver fabric. Her glass slipped from her hand and shattered upon the marble floor with a sharp, unforgiving crack. As if that wasn't worse, her mask shifted, causing the ribbon to loosen. And in the next horrifying moment, it slipped free entirely.
Penelope gasped.
For one suspended second, the world seemed to stop, arrested by the sudden disaster. Eyes widened in shock, Penelope stilled, utterly unable to move until a familiar voice shattered the silence.
"Oh, dear. Oops." It appeared sweet, silken, and maliciously painful to the ears.
Penelope looked up to find Celia smiling with a practiced innocence, though triumph glittered unmistakably in her eyes. She had almost forgotten about her. Behind her stood the usual circle of ladies who trailed after her like obedient shadows.
Celia pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. "How terribly unfortunate," she said, her tone dripping with feigned sympathy. "It seems your little venture has gone awry. Though I suppose misfortune does so enjoy keeping your company after all,"
Soft giggles rippled through the group as one of the girls hid her laugh behind her fan and another openly smirked. Penelope's cheeks burned hotter than the wine soaking into her dress as humiliation rushed over her in a wave.
Her mask had gone off, making her no longer anonymous when faces turned, eyes widened and recognition began to dawn. As if that wasn't enough, somewhere across the ballroom, Prince Lucian looked up, his attention now fixed towards their direction.
Everything shattered right before her eyes.
Fury burned beneath Penelope's skin, blinding her for one treacherous moment. It wasn't the sharp, fleeting sting of embarrassment, but something far hotter… something that settled deep within her chest and coiled there like a living thing. Her fingers clenched at the ruined folds of her gown, the wine staining the pale fabric in a cruel blossom of crimson.
Across the ballroom, Celia's smile lingered, the kind of woman who knew precisely what she had done. Worse still, it was the smile of one who believed she had won.
She leaned in, as though attempting to help, only to whisper, "Let's see if the Prince finds interest in the withered debaunte," she spat.
With the graceful arrogance of a peacock in full display, Celia turned and drifted toward the prince, every step measured, and every sway of her gown deliberate enough to command notice.
Penelope could do nothing but watch, rooted in place by humiliation and rage alike. Celia came to a stop before His Royal Highness and sank into a flawless curtsy.
For a moment, Penelope could not hear what was said over the swell of the orchestra and the growing murmur of the room, but whatever words left Celia's lips seemed to amuse him.
Prince Lucian smiled and Penelope's breath caught. Then, with the effortless charm that had inspired a thousand whispered tales, he extended his hand.
Celia placed hers in his, shoulders squared and chin lifted just enough to arouse jealousy around the room. A look passed over her shoulder then—a smug, victorious glance sharp enough to wound, mostly directed towards her, as they moved together onto the dance floor.
The sight struck Penelope harder than the spilled wine ever could. Just one moment, everything went smoothly, and just in the blink of an eye, it shattered like glass.
Around her, the hushed whispers began, deadly in the sense that fans lifted, eyes turned, and mouths curved in disdain. Penelope could feel the recognition spreading through the room like smoke, but the jealousy Celia had sparked was far greater.
Heat flooded her face. She could not remain another moment. And without a word, Penelope turned and slipped from the ballroom.
She moved quickly through the corridor beyond the grand doors, the music growing softer behind her with every hurried step. The laughter, the violins, the murmurs of scandal, they all faded into a muffled hum as she made her way toward the retiring room set aside for ladies.
It was a smaller chamber just off the west hall, elegantly furnished with gilded mirrors, velvet chairs, and a marble washstand where guests might compose themselves. Or, in her case, attempt to salvage disaster.
Closing the door behind her, Penelope exhaled shakily. At once, she crossed to the washstand and reached for a linen cloth, dipping it into the basin of cool water before pressing it gently against the front of her dress.
The stain refused to disappear. Of course it didn't.
"Urgh," Her jaw tightened as every moment replayed in cruel succession and a bitter ache rose in her throat. Tears threatened to spill across her cheeks, but she held back, breathing instead. It took her quite a moment before composing herself once more.
Tonight was her chance, but she was wrong. For one fleeting evening, she allowed herself to believe that anonymity might grant her freedom, behind the shelter of a mask she might exist apart from the rumor that had followed her like a shadow, but she had been foolish.
So foolish.
She dabbed harder at the fabric, frustration mounting, and anger rising until she heard a sound.
Penelope froze.
At first, it came as a sharp cry from somewhere deeper within the adjoining chambers, startling enough to make her whole body jerk upright. Her heart leapt painfully against her ribs. For one absurd moment, her mind raced to danger.
Had someone fallen? Was someone hurt? She thought, whipping her head behind toward the direction, her instinct sharper than reasoning.
Her mind screamed in alarm, heart racing within her chest as she wondered the cause of such a cry. At once, the memory of what transpired earlier was replaced by a strong sense of panic. But then the sound came again, slower this time, as a breathy murmur drifted through the thin partition wall, followed by the rustle of movement.
Penelope's eyes widened.
"Oh…" The voice was soft and unmistakably intimate. "Ah… oh yes… yes… yes, there! Ah," It was quickly followed by another whispered sound that left no room for confusion.