A Night To Remember

You step out of the carriage onto a dark gravel pathway. It curves from the end of the driveway up to the steps before the golden, ornate front doors of the Palace. Your shoe wobbles precariously on the uneven stones, so you start walking, slow and uneven, to the staircase. Lit with thousands of candles, it releases a sweet vanilla scent into the air around you.

The breeze picks up as you ascend the steps, wafting over several candle flames and extinguishing them. A young boy appears seconds later, carrying a large lit lantern, which you watch him use to relight the smoking wicks.

You feel goosebumps prickle your bare skin, so you pull the shawl up onto your shoulders, the soft fabric tickling slightly under your arm.

In your hands you hold your dress, lifted up just enough so you don’t trip on the step, but still close enough to the ground so no-one can see more than the tip of your bejewelled shoes. Though, as you look around, you realise the only people in your immediate vicinity are servants of the Crown.

You hear the clock above you, fixed into the walls of the tallest tower, chime 10 o’clock. The invitation was for an hour ago, you think desperately, hoping the doors will still open even if you are drastically late.

You feel the sequins press into your palms as you tighten your grip, realising too late that they’ve left small red marks on your skin. Releasing the dress once you reach the top step, you rub your finger absent-mindedly over the now bumpy skin, hoping to remove the indents before anyone can question it.

The doors open before you. Two uniform-clad men stand either side as you carefully step through, watching you carefully through the gaps in their masquerade masks.

You offer them a gentle smile, which they return after a moment. They direct you down a long empty corridor, filled only with the flickering light of yet hundreds more candles. Another set of decadent doors waits for you, and as you get closer you can hear the most melodic noise.

You stop and wait for a moment, letting the sound resonate with you. Adjusting your own mask across your face, you take a deep breath, filling your nostrils again with the heavy vanilla perfume that permeates the air.

A heavy bang vibrates the wood as you knock to enter. You step back, momentarily concerned that someone will tell you to leave for disrupting such an important event.

Instead, the doors heave open, with apologies whispered to you from each direction. You can barely hear them, however, over the harmonizing orchestra. Emanating from the corner and partially shrouded by long, crimson curtains, you watch them perform in perfect unison, missing not a single note.

You stand still on the balcony, looking down to the mass of masked ladies who swarm the dance floor, circling a young man in a crown like birds of prey. As you watch, he is unceremoniously passed from one overdressed woman to another. Each dances along to the music as smooth as an avalanche makes its way down a mountain; it almost makes you wince, seeing a waltz performed so foolishly.

You turn away and make for the stairs just as the song reaches its crescendo. The crowned man has broken free of the throng and brushes his palms down the front of his gold waistcoat. He squints up towards you; as you walk, a shadow is passed down the stairs and catches his eye.

A young maiden, wearing the brightest shade of magenta you’ve ever set your eyes upon, reaches a hand to the man’s shoulder, and tries to turn him back to the awaiting dancers. He brushes her off, not daring to turn away from you. He approaches as you reach the last step and holds out a hand.

“My Lady, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet this evening.” His hand is warm and slightly damp to the touch, and he gives off a faint aroma of sweat. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with me tonight?”

For a moment you say nothing. You feel the breath catch in your throat, your heart starts to race even faster than before, and your head starts to spin.

The song ends, and the thunderous applause that follows echoes in your eardrum.

For a moment, you say nothing. Your eyes catch his; irresistible oceans, swimming with relief, concern, and then joy when you nod your head. The golden ringlets swing back and forth behind you, brushing your shoulders as you step forward into the crowd together.

At the centre, the man finds his position and the orchestra begin their next intro. You shakily raise your hand to his shoulder and accept one on your waist in return.

“Do you know this dance?” he whispers, so close his breath tickles the bare skin on your neck. The song picks up and he begins moving slowly, walking back and forth to the rhythm.

You recognise it after a moment.

“My father taught me this dance when I was young.”

The young gentleman smiles down at you, and you twirl and glide around the ballroom floor for what feels like hours. You feel lighter than air in his noble arms, and for the first time in a long time you feel a smile spread across your face from ear to ear.

After dancing through many symphonies without so much as a glance at another person, a rest is called for. The man, who you learn is Prince Christopher, takes your hand and kisses it. He promises to bring back a drink and walks away to a secluded area of the room where his parents are sitting, observing him.

You almost stumble away, still moving to the music in your ears. You watch as people start to crowd around the food; servants wearing royal colours carry out trays and plates laden with all types of cuisine.

Your wide green eyes land on a table of delicacies at the edge of the room. The glorious scent of chocolate washes over you like a wave. Subconsciously, you head towards it, ignoring the dancers, the servers, and the sturdy guardsmen in your path. Saliva floods your mouth as you close in on your target: a stack of chocolate slabs piled almost to the balcony, circled by almost a dozen young ladies also dressed in their finest finery. You watch as they use dessert forks to take the smallest slice you’ve ever seen, and delicately place it on their tongue, bypassing their perfect lipstick and dazzling pearly teeth.

A stray piece of hair falls into your vision. Blonde, curled and previously styled to perfection, you try to flick it away before the flaw can be noticed. Raising your head high, you stride over to the table, weaving your way through the dazzling ladies to reach the beautiful treat. Ignoring their propriety, you use your entire hand, lacking the silk gloves of the others around you, to take a piece for yourself. It melts onto your skin, leaving sticky fingers behind. Gone in seconds, you unashamedly reach for a second piece, ignoring the feeling it leaves in the corner of your mouth and enjoying the flavour that overwhelms your senses.

You walk away, knowing if you do not have the strength to leave now, you shall stay at that table and eat until nothing remains. Though you have been raised as a lady, no-one can see your true face below the feather mask across your delicate features, and so you have only yourself to answer to.

To your left, you see the woman in magenta. Up close, you recognise the crooked nose and constellation of freckles and hastily step away. A ghastly creature, your stepsister is, inside and out. A wicked cackle erupts from her lips, which she insisted on painting the most horrendous shade of orange hours earlier.

You observe the group around her. They cringe and step away, giving more room for others to flood around the dessert table. Their faces showed relief as they escape to the other side of the room.

The crestfallen look on her face does little to make you feel any sympathy; you can feel the bruise growing around your eye from this morning’s breakfast incident.

The musicians collect their instruments and re-take their positions. You notice the curtains have now been moved back to show the entire ensemble, which as you try to count, is almost a hundred. You watch, in awe of their work.

You feel a hand press softly against your back, and spin on the spot. Christopher stands there, broadly smiling at you and showing several crooked teeth. He offers two crystal glasses forward, allowing you to pick.

The drink is cold and refreshing. It washes away the remaining taste of chocolate, and you hastily wipe against the side of your cheek to remove any remnants.

He laughs and reaches to his pocket. A handkerchief embroidered with gold thread is held out, which you gratefully accept.

The music starts up again, though it is not a melody to dance to. It is fast and fierce, the pace quickening after each new verse. You can feel the vibrations through the floor.

The pair of you deposit your glasses with a nearby waiter and take a stroll outside. The temperature has dropped significantly since you arrived, and you shiver almost immediately after stepping into the private garden.

Christopher notices and sheds his formal blazer, drooping it over your shoulders atop the shawl.

“Is that better?” he asks. You nod, again unable to speak. The lack of noise outside is rather strange, and you try to relax into the semi-silence of nature. The symphony can still be heard. Though the doors block most of the sound, the feeling is still there in the air with you. Your heart thrums along to the intense beat.

The prince offers you his arm again. You take it and start to walk, again treading carefully on the uneven gravel pathways. You lift the dress, a stunning ball gown of sparking silver, to see the ground beneath your feet.

Christopher stops and stares at the heels. You see the confusion written across his perfect features. The song inside the hall gets louder.

“My slippers are made of glass.”

He looks up at you, amazed. “Really?”

You decide there and then to tell him your story. This man, whom you met only hours ago and barely know - who makes you feel butterflies and treats you with kindness and respect.

The beat gets faster still, again reaching the crescendo. Your whole body fills with the vibrations of the orchestra’s magic, and it gives you a burst of confidence.

You open your mouth to speak, when you suddenly hear a sound that fills you with dread. It tears through you, echoing all around in the secluded garden.

Hastily you look up to find the source of the horror and see that your fear is correct. The bell is ringing out again.

The song inside reaches its finale.

Midnight.

***

This is the 4th story I wrote for my Writing Group. The month's prompt was 'Music' so I put a fairy tale spin on it - can you guess which one?