Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Punishments

*Of Punishments*

 "Remind me again why you won't sit in the royal box?" Tristan asked as they were jostled by the crowd pushing to get into the theatre. Both he and Alex were dressed in nondescript clothes, and were unaccompanied by any other people. Across the lobby from them, a group of well-dressed nobles climbed up to their private boxes.

"Because I'm bored at court," Alex said distractedly. "And I want to see if M. Beaufort took my advice on that dancer from the mountains, so I'm multitasking, if you will."

"And this multitasking couldn't take place in the royal box?" Tristan demanded, steering them into the crowded theatre.

"Like I said," Alex said with impossible patience. "I'm bored. Lady Annette keeps stalking me, you know." His voice was lighthearted, though, really, if he stayed cooped up in court for another day, he was afraid he would go mad and murder Lady Annette or any of the number of other ladies who hovered incessantly around him, chattering like magpies.

"So this is an adventure to you?" Tristan enquired, grumbling slightly. "What about that hunting trip last year? That was a thousand times more adventurous than just sitting in the dress circle at the ballet."

Alex sighed, finally annoyed. "Then think of this as a diversion, if you will. Something to stop me from going mad and destroying those hideous vases in the entry hall."

Tristan snorted. "What a lovely image," he said sarcastically. "Not that anyone would particularly mind if you did."

"You're forgetting about my mother," Alex muttered. Queen Annika was a strict mother, if a kind queen, and did not suffer fools kindly. She had been known to restrict her younger son to his bedchamber for weeks at a time whenever he misbehaved. As for Alex, he had only ever suffered the indignity of a good, loud scolding in front of the entire court, and, when he'd been a child, a week without his horses, or his toys when he'd been very little.

They had reached their seats, and Tristan filed in. He had insisted Alex sit at the aisle so he could protect him better, but Alex thought that was a bit optimistic. Of them both, the prince was the better fighter.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching other audience members enter. The orchestra tuned their instruments, adding a cacophony of sounds to the hum of people's conversations. Alex leaned back in his seat, his eyes half-closed. Maybe tomorrow he would go for a ride, the kind of ride women didn't come on. Yes, that would be a bit more of an adventure than this.

The lights dimmed until only the curtain, painted with frescos of sprites and dryads in lush landscapes, was lit. The music began and the curtain rose. Beyond it, a single, dark-haired dancer stepped across the stage. A bassoon solo, high and haunting, wound its way through the air. Never before had Alex heard a bassoon play a note so high as it did now. It sent shivers over his skin.

The dancer move gracefully, if unnaturally, with the movement, her body contorting in ways Alex thought shouldn't be humanly possible. At one point, her back bent so far that her head brushed the ground, and, when the men grabbed her up between them, her body was as limp as a rag doll being jerked this way and that by two fighting children. It hurt, just looking at her as she hung there, apparently helpless.

All around him, the crowd pulsed, angry and uncomfortable. Tristan stood like a guard dog, shifting to keep Alex from being trampled. But Alex hardly noticed it. His gaze was locked onto the dancer–Lune, the program had said her name was.

From the stage, her own gaze scanned the audience. Fear was written as if in black ink across her face. Her eyes found him in the pulsing, shifting crowd, and held there. Her face shifted, the fear fleeing as if she was pushing it beneath a veil of determination.