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A sea of masks met his wandering gaze as he entered the ballroom. Bejewelled gowns in every colour under the sun sparkled from wall to wall, glass slippers peeking out beneath their voluminous skirts. Canapés were being passed around by servers in uniform. He let a small smile curve his lips as he scented bacon-wrapped mozzarella sticks — elevated for the purposes of this ball by way of expensive ingredients — and chocolate drinks fused with the most exquisite of creams. 

Every woman in the room was here for him, their sovereign prince. They sought to determine identities beneath satin, chasing wealth disguised in silk suits. None of them knew which one he was, doomed to coo at every man he had invited specifically to afford himself the privilege of privacy. 

Artificial smiles greeted him from either side, inviting him for a dance, and he obliged a few as to camouflage himself within the ranks of people spinning about the floor. An hour, two hours passed in that fashion, with inane chatter and polite conversation that skittered through his memory. Still, he wouldn’t permit himself a reprieve, not if he was to wait for the partner with whom he would lead his people into the next century of prosperity. 

His eyes snagged on the grand doors as they were opened, but through the throng, it was impossible to pinpoint who had just arrived. Heartbeat accelerating, he maintained a pleasant expression as he completed the waltz. 

Yet once his arms were vacant, once he obeyed the intuition that had won him his crown in the first place, he saw her. 

In a field of vibrant jewels, she wore the night sky. Onyx so deep and unending, with stars in her hair. Her mask was a web of constellations. Beautiful, even with her face hidden. 

Feet carrying him to her in seconds, he bowed low over her hand just as a new song commenced. Their eyes met, and he was certain they both inhaled in unison. Melodies tangling in his mind, her skirts glided across the marble floor, glittering beneath the array of chandeliers suspended from the gold ceiling. 

“What brings you here, madam?” he asked as she returned from a twirl, her back against his chest. 

Her voice was soft, level. “I was promised bacon-wrapped mozzarella sticks, if I recall correctly.” 

“Ah, they are delicious,” he agreed, pleased by the feel of her hand in his.

Though her expression maintained its polite neutrality, her eyes shone. “And you, sir?” 

He made a show of pursing his lips. “Duty,” he answered simply. “And curiosity, like all others in this room. It is not every day sovereign princes select a queen for the people.” 

“And to choose from the high and low of society,” she murmured, inserting sarcasm into her tone. “A disaster in the making, I’m sure. A scandal of royal proportions.” 

“The anonymity would take care of that, I should think,” he said as they transitioned into a faster-paced dance. “For no one would be able to protest against true love.” 

She allowed a crack in her veneer and huffed a laugh, setting his heart alight. “Seems our prince is clever, to assuage all his people with a masked ball that precludes haughty indignation if he unwittingly chooses, say, someone he’s known his whole life, someone who isn’t” —she lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper— “noble.”

A bell chimed, and a spokesperson draped in formal robes stepped forward. “The prince will now announce his chosen bride.” 

He turned to the woman beside him, remembering the little girl playing with sticks outside his house, remembering all that she had been and was and would be. The crown he won had been a mere steppingstone in their plans. 

Proffering a hand, he asked her, “Well, my Queen, shall we?” 

“Of course, Your Highness,” she replied as she accepted his hand, a playful gleam in her smile. “Who am I to deny a prince?”