The Triton

Chapter 25: Vivien

My least favorite day was hours of practice in what my instructor, Madam Baskerville, a burgeoning bowling ball of a female, called "The Art of Refinement." Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she presided over my lessons with the same authority one might expect from a battle-hardened general. Her scales visibly bristled with every imperfection, her voice clipped and precise as she drilled me in the nuances of courtly etiquette.

Of course, Rosann insisted on watching. "My duties as your protector dictate I simply must be there," he'd said, his mask of faux responsibility unable to hide the glimmer in his eyes. He sat in the corner, legs crossed and propped against a table, a smug smile on his face before we even began.

The lessons began with what she considered the fundamentals: posture. "Straighten your back," Madam Baskerville instructed, her voice firm, nasal, yet somehow sharper than the blades Rosann wielded. She reached up, standing on her toes to slam a book across my skull. Spots danced at the edge of my vision. "Balance this atop your head and walk. Head high, shoulders back."

I adjusted my stance, blinking away the stars. The first few steps were awkward, my movements stiff and uncertain, but I quickly found some semblance of a rhythm. It was surprisingly easy, if a bit cliché. I walked the length of the room, back and forth, the book remaining steadfast despite my initial worries.

"Just so," Madam Baskerville said, her voice devoid of any praise. "Again."

And so I did, walking up and down the room, turning as gracefully as I could muster at each end, the book never wavering.

Madam Baskerville's only acknowledgment was a curt nod.

That was until she directed me to sit.

"Sitting with grace is as important as walking with it. Back straight, ankles crossed, just so. Your appearance must reflect the dignity of your station at all times."

I complied, perching as delicately as I could on the edge of the chair, my back as straight as a rod, ankles crossed in the as precise a manner as I could muster. The book remained balanced as I settled.

"Just so," she repeated, her tone making it clear that perfection was not an achievement but an expectation. "Again."

Hours passed in a blur of instructions and corrections. We moved to the biggest challenge of my life: curtsying. My legs ached, each dip and rise scrutinized for every possible flaw. Madam Baskerville's sharp eyes missed nothing, her critiques as unyielding as her posture. "Lower," she demanded. "Straighter. Again."

I must have curtsied a few hundred times, my legs trembling with the effort, but finally, I managed one that earned a rare nod of approval. "Just so," she said, her eyes narrowing as if daring me to falter. "Do it again."

Rosann only watched, completely, unashamedly grinning. It was infuriating, every time I glanced over, he only smiled at me, and would occasionally give me a small round of applause. Prick.

"Enjoying yourself?" he called out, his voice teasing as I struggled to balance a second book while executing a series of graceful turns.

I shot him a glare, wobbling slightly as the added weight threatened to topple. "Oh, immensely."

Rosann chuckled, pushing off the couch and sauntering over. "May I give the Princess an example?" he offered, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Madam Baskerville frowned at the interruption, but before she could protest, Rosann deftly took the second book from my head, balancing it on his own with an exaggerated flourish. "It's all in the core strength, you know," he said, giving me a playful wink.

"What are you doing?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Helping," he replied, balancing the book effortlessly as he executed a deep, flawless curtsy. "Am I not?"