Chapter Text
The banquet hall of Castle Highmere glittered in the last hour of daylight. Torches hissed along the stone walls, their flames bowing to the draft that slipped through the arrow-slits. Gold and scarlet banners, those of House Lester, draped like river currents from the rafters.
Beneath them moved the invited nobility of three counties, all polished boots and rustling silks and the clatter of jeweled cups.
Lord Philip Lester, heir to Highmere, stood at the top of the steps leading down into the hall, wishing that he were anywhere else. His raven-black hair, pushed into a quiff, accompanied a delicate silver hairpiece and a disinterested look.
“The ball is in my honor, son,” his mother had said that morning, pressing a kiss to his cheek and smoothing the shoulder of his doublet with a fussing hand. “Smile and receive our guests properly. And do not glower so, for it creases thy brow, and no maiden enjoys a sour countenance.”
He had wanted to reply that he did not particularly enjoy the attention of the maidens either, but he had pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. Every utterance about alliances and futures and expectations made Philip have this familiar guilt tug at his ribs.
So now here he stood: a lordling in indigo velvet, the color chosen intentionally to make his blue eyes “shine most handsomely,” according to the seamstress.
He did not feel handsome. Well, maybe a little. But he mostly felt trapped.
“Now presenting, Lord Philip,” announced the herald at the base of the steps, projecting his voice across the hall as though the entire room needed a reminder of who the young heir was.
Heads turned. Conversation paused.
Philip plastered on his politest, least-threatening smile and descended the stairs. There was a wave of bows and curtsies, a spray of greetings from nobles who hardly knew him and even less cared about him outside of politics. He moved through them like a ship through congested waters. Pleasant, diplomatic, and secretly wholly uninterested.
He had almost reached the table at the far end of the hall when a voice, sharp as a dropped goblet, interrupted him.
“Lord Philip Lester, I presume?”
Philip turned.
A young man, roughly his own age, stood with a goblet in hand near one of the carved pillars. His attire showed wealth, but the haughtiness in his posture was what struck Philip first. Chin lifted, eyebrow raised, expression hovering somewhere between amusement and disdain.
He looked like someone who expected the world to move aside for him. Philip instantly disliked him.
“Yes,” Philip replied, stiffly courteous. “And you are?”
The young man executed a bow so shallow it barely counted as one.
“Lord Daniel Howell of Kentworth. My father, Lord Reginald, speaks highly of your family’s generosity.” His tone implied that he personally found the notion unlikely. “He insisted I make my greetings.”
Philip offered a tight smile, suppressing an eyeroll. “How dutiful of you.”
Daniel’s lips twitched, either amusement or annoyance; hard to tell. “One must honor one’s parents.”
“That is what they tell us,” Philip muttered before he could stop himself.
Daniel’s dark brows lifted, a faint spark lighting behind his eyes. “Aye,” he said slowly, “they do insist upon it, do they not?”
Philip sensed the beginnings of a conversation he absolutely did not desire and made to move on. “Well. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Daniel. I am sure we shall cross paths again.”
“Doubtless,” Daniel said, with the tone of someone who was simultaneously surprised and would in fact ensure they did.
Philip turned away, exhaling sharply.
What a prick, he thought.
He spent the next half hour doing what was expected of him: greeting daughters of this baron and that viscount, answering polite questions about Highmere, smiling through hints about potential courtships.
His mother drifted nearby, hovering with hopeful glances every time a girl curtsied prettily.
Philip felt increasingly like a horse up for auction.
He excused himself at the earliest opportunity, slipping toward the refreshment table in hopes of a moment’s peace.
That was, until he nearly collided with Daniel Howell again.
The other boy stood at the end of the table, holding a plate with a few sugared plums and wearing a smirk that Philip found immediately suspicious.
“Lord Philip,” Daniel said, voice far too innocent. “Might I trouble you for a moment of counsel?”
Philip narrowed his eyes. “Counsel? On what matter?”
Daniel gestured vaguely toward the gathered nobles. “On etiquette. I fear I am in peril of offending.”
“You?” Philip said dryly. “Perish the thought.”
Daniel’s grin broadened. “Indeed. I find myself approached by a procession of ambitious maidens. Their mothers glare daggers if I so much as breathe improperly. I wondered if you possessed strategies for surviving such encounters. You seem well practiced.”
Philip bristled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Only an observation,” Daniel said, popping a sugared plum into his mouth. “You are the heir to Highmere. Surely you are hounded near constantly.”
“I manage.”
“So you do. Yet your… expression suggests you endure it rather than enjoy it.”
Philip folded his arms. “You watch my expression?”
Daniel blinked. “Difficult to avoid when it broadcasts its misery across the hall.”
Philip scoffed. “I’m plenty of a good actor, you insult me.”
This makes Daniel laugh out loud, which attracts some stares. Philip hits him squarely in the shoulder to get him to shut up. They let the silence fall over them until Philip rolls his eyes and breaks it.
“Well, forgive me for not reveling in being paraded before noblewomen like a prize stallion.”
“So you feel it too,” Daniel said quietly.
Philip hesitated.
Daniel’s tone had softened. Lost its mockery. Strange.
“I suppose,” Philip said at last. “You as well?”
Daniel lifted his goblet. “My father has insisted I find a bride before autumn. As though I might pluck one from the hedges like a berry.”
Philip choked on a laugh. “Good luck. The hedges around Highmere are mostly thorns.”
“Aye, so are half the families here.” Daniel took a sip. “And those that are not, well, I cannot say the prospect entices.”
Philip felt the first sliver of empathy pierce through his irritation.
He glanced sideways at Daniel. “You do not wish to marry yet either, then.”
“Marry?” Daniel barked a short laugh. “I barely wish to converse at this age. Give one a while longer to know who he is.”
Philip snorted. “On that we agree.”
Silence sat between them for a moment, less tense now, almost companionable. Philip studied Daniel from the corner of his eye. The arrogance remained, but beneath it… there was a weariness that mirrored his own.
Perhaps, he thought reluctantly, he is not entirely a prick.
But just as Philip considered saying something diplomatic, a sudden cry echoed from the cluster of young ladies by the musicians.
“Oh heavens!”
Philip turned in time to see Lady Clarent, one of the more talkative maidens and a favorite of his mother’s, staring down in horror at the hem of her gown, which now bore a large, wet blotch of deep red wine.
A servant stood beside her, pale and stammering. And beside him was Daniel’s empty goblet on the floor.
The Lady’s eyes flashed toward them.
“Lord Howell!” she exclaimed. “You have ruined my gown!”
Daniel’s jaw tightened. Philip watched the gears turning in his mind. The spilled wine had clearly been accidental (the servant must have bumped him?) but Lady Clarent seemed uninterested in the truth.
People stared as the music blared on.
Philip had two choices: watch Daniel get scolded publicly… or intervene.
He should have walked away, avoided the chance of ruining his reputation with a woman further
Instead, perhaps out of shared misery or out of some petty sense of camaraderie, he stepped forward.
“Forgive us, my lady,” Philip said smoothly. “The fault is mine.”
Daniel’s head whipped toward him in shock.
Philip continued, “I startled Lord Daniel with a jest, and his hand slipped. I shall personally pay for the cleaning of your gown.”
The Lady blinked, her outrage softening now that the heir of Highmere had taken responsibility. “Oh well, I see. If that is the case, Lord Philip, then… I suppose I must accept your apology.”
“You are gracious,” Philip said, bowing. “Allow me to fetch a cloth.”
He strode away before she could lecture him further, and Daniel followed quickly, nearly tripping over his own boots.
When they reached a quieter corner near the musicians’ dais, Daniel hissed, “What in the seven hells was that?”
Philip shrugged. “A rescue.”
“I did not require rescuing!”
Philip raised an eyebrow. “Truly? Because from where I stood, she was about to have your head displayed on a platter.”
Daniel sputtered, clearly torn between indignation and gratitude. “Why...?”
“Because,” Philip interrupted, “it was not your fault. And because she annoys me.”
Daniel stared at him.
And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Something in Philip’s chest was lit aflame.
“Aye,” Daniel said. “She does talk as though each sentence might earn her a gold coin.”
Philip allowed a smile. “Quite.”
Daniel leaned back against a pillar, shaking his head. “I owe thee thanks, Lord Philip.”
“You may repay me by not causing further chaos.”
“No promises.”
Philip smirked despite himself. “Naturally.”
The evening unfolded with a surprising shift.
Instead of avoiding each other, Philip and Daniel kept drifting into the same corners, exchanging snide remarks about pompous lords and haughty ladies. At one point, Daniel nudged Philip’s elbow when the Duchess of Brindlewood boasted again about her prized pigs.
At another, Philip whispered commentary about two drunk nobles attempting a dance far too complicated for their current state, and Daniel nearly choked trying not to laugh.
It was… strange. Comfortable. Unexpected.
They fell into a rhythm. Part conspirators, part reluctant allies.
And then, of course, Daniel decided to get Philip in trouble.
Philip had just taken a breath of fresh air near one of the tall windows when he heard Daniel murmur behind him, “Lord Philip, I must beg a favor most dire.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “If this involves another spilled goblet, I will call for the guards.”
“Nay,” Daniel said. “Something far more perilous.”
Philip turned, suspicious. “What?”
Daniel tilted his head toward the group of noblewomen gathered near the center of the hall. They were whispering, giggling, glancing occasionally in Philip’s direction.
“My father,” Daniel said lowly, “has spent the last quarter hour telling every family here that you and I are most eager for matches.”
Philip blanched. “He did what?”
Daniel pointed. “Observe: Lady Emery approaches.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. Lady Emery was perfectly pleasant but endlessly persistent.
“What did you do?” Philip hissed.
Daniel feigned innocence. “Merely suggested that you were seeking lively conversation.”
“Lively conversation?” Philip echoed incredulously. “With a woman known for reciting poetry about turnips?”
Daniel shrugged. “I was bored.”
Philip glared. “You are insufferable.”
“Your forgiveness wounds me.”
“There is no forgiveness!”
Before Philip could escape, Lady Emery swept forward with her embroidered sleeves and determined smile.
“Lord Philip,” she said, clasping her hands. “Might you favor me with a walk about the hall?”
Philip opened his mouth, searching desperately for an excuse, any excuse at all.
Daniel stepped closer, shoulder brushing Philip’s.
“My apologies, Lady Emery,” he said smoothly, “but Lord Philip has agreed to accompany me to greet the steward. Matters of House business.”
Philip blinked.
Daniel continued, “It is a dreary affair, I assure you, and we would hate to sully your evening with such tedium.”
Lady Emery pouted but curtseyed. “Ah. Very well.”
She retreated in a cloud of perfume.
Philip turned slowly to Daniel. “Why did you help me?”
Daniel spread his arms. “Consider it repayment for earlier.”
Philip snorted. “You caused the problem. You cannot expect rewards for building the dam if you flood the river.”
“A minor detail.”
Philip shook his head, fighting a smile. “I do not understand you.”
Daniel’s grin softened into something almost warm. “Nor I you. Yet here we stand.”
An hour later found them leaning side by side against the edge of the dais, watching the dancers swirl through a pavane.
Philip sighed. “My parents will not be pleased that I have avoided dancing all evening.”
“Mine would faint dead away if I danced,” Daniel said. “They would assume the spirit of some obedient ancestor possessed me.”
Philip chuckled. “Do your parents pressure you as mine do?”
“Worse,” Daniel said without hesitation. “They want a political match. A union of lands. Something advantageous.”
Philip grimaced. “Mine as well. My mother insists that I meet Lady Helena tomorrow.”
“Helena?” Daniel shuddered. “The one who carries that lapdog everywhere? The creature that shakes constantly?”
“And drools,” Philip added.
Both grimaced.
Daniel leaned closer. “If I must wed a drooling lapdog, I shall cast myself from the castle wall.”
Philip barked a laugh. “Better than a lifetime of its yapping.”
“Aye.” Daniel sighed. “All I desire is time. A few years of my own. But they see us as pieces on a board.”
Philip nodded slowly. “As tools.”
“As heirs.” Daniel paused. “As disappointments if we do not comply.”
That struck deeply. Philip swallowed.
“Sometimes,” he admitted softly, “I fear I shall never be what they want.”
Daniel looked at him, and something in his expression shifted.
“You needn’t be,” Daniel said. “For their expectations are not your destiny.”
Philip blinked at him, surprised by the sincerity.
Daniel cleared his throat abruptly, glancing away as though embarrassed. “Though… it is easier said than done.”
Philip smiled faintly. “Still. Thank you.”
The music swelled. Dancers spun. A draft swept the hall, carrying laughter and lute strings and distant clinking of armor.
For the first time in hours, Philip felt comfortable.
He and Daniel stood like that for several minutes, silently united in their desire to avoid all obligations.
Then Daniel nudged him. “Lord Philip.”
“Yes?”
“I propose a pact.”
Philip raised an eyebrow. “A pact?”
“Aye.” Daniel extended his hand slightly. “We have mostly survived this night together. I believe future nights will be similarly fruitful if we continue such an arrangement, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose.”
“Then continue this alliance, we shall. Shield one another from eager maidens. Prevent further parental schemes. And if either of us is cornered, god forbid, into dancing, the other must devise an escape.”
Philip considered.
It was ridiculous.
It was unnecessary.
It was exactly what he needed.
He took Daniel’s hand and shook it. “Agreed.”
Daniel’s grin returned, wide and disarming. “Excellent. Our alliance begins now.”
The moon had crept higher by the time the musicians returned to the hall. Philip had assumed the evening was over. That the nobles would be ushered away, full of wine and gossip, but instead the herald stepped forth again, tapping the end of his staff against the stone.
Nobles froze mid-conversation. Fans stilled. Laughter dimmed.
Philip felt his stomach twist.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
Beside him, Daniel grimaced. “Do not say it.”
The herald lifted his voice, announcing with pomp far more dramatic than necessary.
“Lord and Ladies of Highmere, may we please present the Song of Baron Sivan for the tradition of the Ball's Last Dance!"
A wave of murmurs swept the room.
Philip rubbed his temples. Of course. Of course, his parents had insisted on this archaic tradition continuing. The Last Dance was the highlight of any noble ball, though some began to phase it out.
A moment where matches were hinted, alliances suggested, rumors birthed whole. Whoever one chose as a partner would be remembered. Discussed. Analyzed.
And his mother, without doubt, would be watching from the upper gallery like a hawk poised over fresh field mice.
Daniel groaned softly. “I had almost dared to hope they would omit it tonight.”
Philip snorted. “And risk depriving the nobility of such a fine opportunity to judge us? Never.”
Nobles fanned out across the floor, forming loose circles, whispering excitedly about who would choose whom. Young ladies straightened their gowns. Young lords adjusted their collars, hoping to appear attractive to whatever future bride her mother had selected.
Philip resisted the urge to run straight out the side door. He felt himself getting eyed up.
Daniel crossed his arms. “Well. One of the eager maidens will undoubtedly descend upon you shortly.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “Hardly. You saw how many I avoided tonight alone.”
“Precisely why they will be determined to ensnare you for this final moment.” Daniel sighed melodramatically. “I can almost hear my father’s voice urging me: ‘Daniel, choose wisely, the future of House Howell rests upon thy shoulders’.”
Philip made a face. “My father’s version would be: ‘Philip, do not embarrass us again.’ He has fewer words.”
Daniel huffed a laugh. “Ah. We truly are men of similar misery.”
The musicians plucked the first notes of a slow pavane.
All across the hall, nobles began approaching one another, offering hands, bows, and practiced smiles. The air buzzed with expectation.
Philip’s shoulders tensed. “I wonder how swiftly we can disappear.”
“We cannot hide behind the pillar again,” Daniel whispered. “They shall uncover us like mice in a granary.”
Philip pursed his lips. “We could… pretend to be ill.”
Daniel shook his head. “My mother would summon a physician before we reached the corridor.”
Philip groaned. “Then we are doomed.”
Daniel’s eyes flickered, sharp and assessing as though gears turned behind them.
Then he exhaled softly, expression shifting, mischief blooming.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “our fate need not be so dire.”
Philip narrowed his eyes. “Daniel. What are you thinking?”
Daniel tapped his chin dramatically. “We could choose… someone unexpected.”
Philip blinked. “Unexpected?”
“Aye,” Daniel said. “Someone who would confound their predictions. Someone who, by all noble expectations, we ought not dance with.”
Philip frowned. “Who could you be speaking of?”
He stopped.
Daniel’s gaze had settled on him.
Philip’s jaw nearly dropped. “You cannot be serious.”
Daniel’s smile sharpened. “Why not?”
“Because. Because that is absurd,” Philip sputtered. “Utterly absurd.”
“Indeed,” Daniel said pleasantly. “The best sort of idea.”
Philip stared. “Dancing together, two noble lords, during the Last Dance in front of the entire court? Daniel, they will talk until the next century.”
Daniel shrugged. “Maybe we’re handsome enough to get away with it.”
Philip gaped. “Our parents would be furious.”
“They already are whenever we breathe incorrectly.”
Philip spluttered, but he couldn’t get any words out.
Daniel folded his arms across his chest with that infuriating calm. “Do you have a better one?”
Philip opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The truth hit him: he didn’t.
And he was so tired of being inspected, chosen, pressured. Of being pushed toward women he felt nothing for. Of pretending.
He drew a slow breath.
“Is this a jest? Or do you truly mean it?” he asked with a lowered voice, glancing around.
Daniel’s face softened.
“Both,” he admitted. “It is a jest that might bring us survival. And… perhaps a little fun.”
Philip felt something twist in his chest. Fear, exhilaration, disbelief.
He swallowed.
“Very well,” he said.
Daniel blinked, clearly not expecting agreement so quickly. “Truly?”
Philip forced a smirk. “If the realm is to gossip, let them gossip about something we choose.”
Daniel’s grin spread, wide, delighted, reckless. “Excellent. Let us destroy expectations together.”
Philip couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him.
Before he could change his mind, Daniel stepped forward, bowing with more elegance than he’d shown all evening.
“Lord Philip,” he said, voice just loud enough for those near them to hear, “might I have this dance?”
The words seemed to ripple outward like a dropped stone.
Philip felt dozens of eyes shift toward them.
Time slowed.
He swallowed, dipped into a bow of his own, and replied, “I would be honored, Lord Daniel.”
Gasps, actual gasps, followed.
Philip barely registered them. His heart hammered against his ribs as Daniel offered his hand.
Philip placed his palm against Daniel’s.
Warm. Steady.
And then they stepped onto the dance floor.