Shit.

The waltz eventually came to an end.

We had long stood still, and yet, Madeleine was staring at me, as if I was the single most captivating person in the room.

I swallowed, as I let go of her hand.

I liked her.

I liked Madeleine Campbell.

And I would never be able to tell her.

"Are you alright, Antoinette? You're shaking." Madeleine reached for my hands, gently rubbing them with her own.

It was insane. Every little action, every single word of hers made me like her more. Was this normal? I don't think it was.

"You seem to be having fun." I flinched at Quinn's voice. He had somehow managed to sneak up behind me.

"Ah- er, yes. We are." I internally lamented when Madeleine let go of my hands.

"I apologize for interrupting in that case, but the crown prince wants to speak with you in the lounge. Alone." He shot me a meaningful look, and I swallowed.

"I... I see." I clenched my fists.

Madeleine's eyes darted between us before she folded her hands in front of her.

"Antoinette, I wish for us to keep seeing each other. Could you please come to see me at my residence as soon as possible?" She smiled, gently, and my stomach started feeling fuzzy.

"Of course. And I'm sorry to cut our time short." I tried to not look too disappointed.

We bowed to each other before Quinn lead me away.

"I don't know why he wants to see you, but I can smuggle you out of the party. I don't think he'd get that angry if I told him, so you should run while you still can." He was walking much faster than me, in a direction that definitely didn't lead to the lounge.

Catching up to him, I grabbed his shirt, causing us both to abruptly stop.

"Quinn. I... I can't keep avoiding him. I might as well get it over with."

".... I guess." He groaned, brushing his hair back.

"Let's... both go back to the lounge. I don't know how, but maybe he'll allow you to stay? At least I hope so." A sigh escaped me, as we both turned around, walking the opposite way.

"I fucking hope so. I don't know much about him, but I trust him about as far as I can throw him."

"... Quinn, you can throw logs, like, ten meters far."

"Figure of speech. You know what I mean." He rolled his eyes, though I did not miss how he encouragingly squeezed my shoulder.

We finally arrived in front of the ornate door.

Quinn knocked twice before a voice from inside invited us in.

To call the room fancy was an understatement. Borderline gaudy was more accurate.

Golden benches with red velvet cushions were in the middle of the room, surrounded by marble floors and walls, and a lot of detailed paintings, mostly containing naked people frolicking in fields.

I quietly wished to be inside one of those paintings instead.

Luca of course was sitting in the middle of the couch facing the door, legs crossed, and a rectangular box sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

"We meet again, your majesty." I mustered my best fake smile.

"Indeed so. And I see you've brought one of my knights. What might you be doing here, Sir Farraday?" Luca's eyes sparked with.... something, as he looked at Quinn.

"Ah, I am her grace's escort. I promised her father to accompany her the entire evening, your majesty." Quinn bowed, standing behind me as I settled down on the couch opposite Luca's.

"I see. In that case, were you not irked at her grace dancing with lady Campbell?" Luca didn't look at me as he addressed Quinn.

"Is there a reason to be?" I could not see Quinn's face, but there was a genuine hint of surprise in his answer.

I suppose we both weren't expecting that question.

"Of course. Anyone would be jealous, of both lady Crawford and lady Campbell. Two beauties are meant to be enjoyed by yourself, not admired from afar." He laughed heartily, as I felt bile rising in my throat.

What a disgusting thing to say.

"Excuse me for cutting to the chase, but my parents are expecting me in a few moments. May I know what you wanted to discuss?" I couldn't fully suppress my sour expression as the prince finally turned to me.

"Of course, you may. Well, there are a few things. Am I correct to assume you like these paintings?" He pointed around himself.

"You are correct. They have a certain warmth to them." I wondered where this was going.

"It would surprise you to know that these were all painted by my brother, shortly before he joined the war. Sir Farraday, do you remember anything of my brother?" He turned back to Quinn, who I could hear correct his posture.

"Aye. He was a noble man, god rest his soul. He fought like a lion, and cared for all of his soldiers as if we were his family." It didn't sound like Quinn was exaggerating.

"Indeed. And now, all that remains of him are memories and these paintings. And as such, I would like you to have this." He pushed the box toward me.

At this point, I was confused. What did Leon Findlay have to do with me? I met him briefly, back when I was eight years old. I only remember that he was eighteen, tall and that he had a warm voice.

And then after he died a year later, the entire country had a mourning period.

That was exhausting, especially considering that my grandfather had just been honorably discharged from the war due to his injuries.

And then he died, shortly after. Good riddance.

I looked back at the prince, before carefully opening the box.

Back at me stared the face of General Augustine Crawford the Third. My deceased grandfather, forever immortalized in oil paints and brushstrokes.

I didn't know if I should burst out laughing or start crying.

Either one seemed like a bad option, so I lifted the painting out of the box, inspecting it closer.

Over the years, my memories of my grandfather had grown fuzzier, but they all came rushing back to me.

His greying hair was captured beautifully on the canvas, despite him being only 47 when this painting must've been made.
He was wearing his military uniform, with all the different medals that he won during his prior battles.
His eyes held a stern look, the scar on the left side of his face standing particularly out.

When I was small, he'd always told me that he got the scar from wrestling a bear.

My mother later explained to me that he got the scar when he out of anger threw a vodka bottle into the fireplace, causing it to shatter into his face.

I stared at the face of this pathetic man, whom I would never be able to outrun, and all I could remark was how much respect the painter must have had for the subject, as his scar looked worse in real life.

I looked at Luca.

"Your brother.... he drew this?" I swallowed.

"Indeed. He drew it for your grandfather's 47th birthday. Your grandfather planned to give it to you for your 16th birthday, but due to how things turned out, I'm afraid that honor has fallen on me." He didn't seem like someone who just offered a person a painting of a dead person, made by a dead person.

I just blinked, before bowing deeply.

"Thank you, your majesty."

At least it wasn't a marriage proposal.