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Lo, the start of the season, dear reader. A time of hopeful, fortuitous beginnings when those blooms finally permitted to exhibit themselves may hope to capture the ardour of an admirer.
Alas, some blooms remain left in the shadows of interlopers who do not know how to leave things to their natural course. Be warned, esteemed parents, lest you drive your daughters into the all too welcoming arms of ruination…
— Lady Angler
The only difficulty with courting romantic intrigue, Flayn Saintverde found, was that it required another party to take a devoted interest in you. This she might have still hoped to secure—if not for the ever-stolid presence of her father, an archbishop, at her side. As it stood, she accomplished little more than sitting as prettily as she could as she smiled past her father on such occasions that his attention strayed.
Few met her gaze, and none came forward to make an acquaintance.
When her father rather looked back at her, her smile dropped with impeccable timing so that she might affix the most sombre of countenances.
“I am reviewing the goddess's canticles in my mind,” she told him gravely.
Privately, she was eyeing the scandalously low neckline of another debutante. The idea that she might similarly alter her wardrobe was of course not a topic of conversation that could ever be broached with her father for a variety of reasons.
That she had been allowed to debut at all this season had been ordeal enough, several months in the making.
“Would you have me wither from neglect, father?” she first beseeched him while they broke their fast together. “Like a bloom never given the opportunity to be admired before an audience?” she pressed in the evening before the fireplace.
“We have little more than each other to recommend us in this cold and trying world,” she later declared as she helped him in filing away monastery records. “If you once more insist on reminding me of the danger and delicacy of our secret draconic heritage, I need only ask you: would you have me grow older with no supporters? I must make my mark and have some society.”
This last appeal finally proved to work wonders, aided by the fact that she’d carefully omitted her own heart’s desire for matrimony.
Little good it did her now to still be so cut off from any real marriage prospects. Reduced to a mere observer, she had little to entertain herself besides drafting new words for that secret pastime she had recently taken up. There was some relief, at least, in giving voice to her thoughts far away from the careful scrutiny of her father.
Even so, Flayn could hardly bear the tedium of the evening until, as if in actual answer to her prayers, an uproarious commotion broke out in the room adjoining.
The Bergliez have had their chance to play host for the season, and I’m afraid few will be looking for them to extend a similar invitation. The family might make better use of their time patronising the local boxing club, as the only entertainment on offer was a disruptive bout of fisticuffs that erupted in the parlour. Those involved included Lord Caspar Bergliez, his guest and purported boxing professional, Mr. Raphael Kirsten, and the younger Fraldarius.
My condolences to Duke Fraldarius after all his efforts to rehabilitate his second son’s image for the start of this year’s season. I doubt there can be any recovering his reputation for at least another year hence after his rendering Lord Sylvain Gautier unconscious. This, you see, is the hazard of intervening when fists are freely flying. Please do choose your battles wisely.
I also regret to say he was not the only casualty of the evening as Lady Bernadetta von Varley, so close to the action, fell away in a dead faint and upended a nearby table. Never have so many produced such a collection of smelling salts as Mr. Kirsten dashingly carried her to the nearest settee to recover.
I do so hope we see more of her this season, in spite of the excitement she has already suffered. Though I am sure some unnamed attendees might have been quite jealous of such solicitous attention…
It was a full fortnight before Flayn was again permitted to intermingle with society; it might have been longer if it was not for a Church benefit where her father’s and her own absence would have been noted as remiss.
Tragically, there was little benefit to the society for Flayn’s own purposes, trapped as she was by the company of her father’s peers and with hardly a marriageable candidate among them.
Sir Alois Rangeld, at least, was as genial as a man could be, but his sense of humour remained an unspeakable trial for anyone to bear. It was a stroke of fortune then that today she was not held as his captive audience. That honour lay with the return of an old friend, a one Jeralt Eisner.
Mr. Eisner himself might have made for interesting company if he did not remain preoccupied with his child who seemed terrifyingly ill-prepared for society, though they were now entering into it so late in life. More than once they failed to address a new acquaintance by their proper title or otherwise eschewed all social decorum, standing silent as others bowed or curtseyed at them. And yet to Flayn’s increasing confoundment, this newcomer only seemed to further intrigue both nobility and common folk alike through the simple virtue of existing.
It was all she could do to not wither with envy as her foremost conversation partner remained Professor Hanneman von Essar with his continual talk of his studies. It pleased her father, she knew, to think she was edifying her mind, but she rather thought she would sooner need to degenerate it in order to increase her social prospects. Thus she sought to remove herself at the first opportunity, and what better one could there be than when Miss Manuela Casagranda, former star of the Mittelfrank, closed out a stirring vocal performance at the other end of the room and came within their vicinity. By some wild but not unwelcome talent for incivility, she and Professor von Essar had hardly exchanged a word between them before they fell into a passionate dispute.
Relieved for her escape, Flayn withdrew her handkerchief, dabbing at her forehead to wipe away the perspiration gathered there. Her haste to put distance between herself and her father, however, only saw her tripping gracelessly as she manoeuvred around a settee.
One glance down showed that it was two legs sticking out from under the furniture that had so arrested her. A further look revealed that they belonged to Lord Linhardt von Hevring, his head pillowed on the book he’d brought from home and had been seen so rudely reading throughout the evening.
And to think he could be related to her, however distantly. Mortifying!
She had already crossed to the side of the room before she reached for her handkerchief again and came up empty-handed, but she could no sooner rue its loss than she was now veritably accosted.
Lord Sylvain Jose Gautier was still nursing the remainder of a blackened eye from the last time Flayn had seen him. His cravat was loosened, his jacket slightly askew, his hair ruffled as though in careless wantonness. A cross woman over his shoulder would have murdered him by sight alone if only she possessed such prowess.
He looked, in short, every bit the rake society professed him to be.
Surely this was her penance for inviting any possible romantic entanglement. To face one now in the present moment, she found herself quite unequal to its promise of depravity. If she were to be a ruined woman, let it at least be with a soul who would devote themselves to her entirely.
“We must not speak,” Flayn curtailed him firmly from behind her now raised fan. Even with such concealment, she took pains to hardly move her lips. “We have yet to even be formally introduced.”
This of course was no oversight on her father’s part.
“Miss Saintverde—” Lord Gautier produced, then stopped abruptly, surely at a loss to see her having taken such admirable command of the situation.
She risked a glimpse at him through her fan. “There shall be no seduction here. Sir, I bid you good day.”
“I was merely—” He waved something in his hand, but Flayn would not be tempted to spare him even a further glance. Her gaze had rather landed upon the approach of her father, his voice already calling out to her, and she unequivocally bolted once more.
She did not remember the handkerchief at all until the following day when it was anonymously returned to her home with an elegantly scrawled note: Since I wouldn't dream of approaching you directly.
Dear reader, new intrigue is afoot.
Let us start with the dashing Hero of Daphnel who is newly in town, turning heads and endangering hearts as always. Of note within her company also comes the esteemed Captain Leonie Pinelli in a great reversal of fortune from her most humble beginnings. What must be now going through the mind of her formerly betrothed, Lady Marianne von Edmund? They’ve shared but one brief exchange since reuniting while meeting on a morning ride in the park, but Lady Edmund’s abruptly galloping off gives us cause to suspect she might yet regret being persuaded away from Captain Pinelli’s offer of marriage.
Meanwhile, seeing everyone’s dear Byleth Eisner continue on in society is not unlike watching a mysterious aquatic creature flounder ashore. One simply does not know if it wouldn’t be better to see them return to the subaqueous abyss from whence they came or encourage them further upon land. Perhaps it is no surprise then that they have seemed to have formed an attachment with the equally enigmatic Jeritza von Hrym. Even when one chooses to eavesdrop upon their conversation, it is difficult to ascertain the substance of their courtship beyond such topics of violence I dare not put to print.
And who can hazard who might be secretly admiring the lovely Flayn Saintverde? It has not escaped this writer’s notice that her handkerchief, once lost, was soon returned with a note most telling. Take heed, mysterious suitor, that love always favours the bold. If you harbour any particular affection, it is better to make yourself known, no matter the determined obstacles.
The days passed intolerably. No anonymous admirer came forward and Flayn was forced to accept reality.
Surely her father’s overbearing presence had driven off her prospective suitor in spite of the encouragement she had written.
It could not be borne; she must work harder to escape his interference. So she set her sights on someone else within their circle of acquaintance that was both intriguing and entirely above reproach. If Miss Shamir Nevrand also managed to vaguely intimidate others, all the better.
It was a spectacular plan, Flayn believed, until it fell to immediate ruin. The conversation they shared was rather terse, and worse, Miss Nevrand had little interest in greater society and even less in advancing Flayn’s marriage prospects. In the end their time together amounted to little more than Flayn admiring Miss Nevrand’s archery jacket and form while she and her capable protégé, Mr. Cyril Azimi, took to the shooting gallery for practice.
Perhaps it was Flayn’s ever increasing despair then that serendipitously brought her new companionship when she least expected it. Sidelined and staring forlornly at an Aegir party, Flayn found herself to be standing next to none other than Miss Manuela Casagranda.
“Tough crowd, isn’t it?” Miss Casagranda said, drink in hand. “Don’t let it get to you.”
Flayn did not miss that Miss Casagranda was inebriated, her eyes feverishly bright, the colour on her cheeks pronounced. Still, any kind of friendly commiseration was indeed welcome.
Emboldened by her example, Flayn joined her in further drink and confessed, “I fear the season already has. Who knew how difficult it could be to find your place in society? Let alone romance!” Suddenly remembering with whom she spoke, she realised the folly of her question and blanched.
“It certainly is fickle,” Miss Casagranda said with a wry arch of her brow. “And with far too many pitfalls. But then you begin to get quite good at climbing out of them.” She smiled. “Chin up, Miss Saintverde. We all have our assets to display.”
Standing abreast of her companion, Flayn covertly fondled her own bosom and frowned further.
“Your stunning hair, perhaps?” Miss Casagranda suggested with haste. “And done up in the latest fashion!”
“It is quite remarkable, yes,” Flayn agreed, sufficiently placated for the moment.
Of course her father would then seek to ruin her happiness by stalking over. “Flayn,” he said. Then stiltedly, “Miss Casagranda.”
Flayn knew he only spoke to extricate them both, and yet marvellous, unfazed Miss Casagranda rather laid a hand upon her father’s forearm, rendering him momentarily speechless. “Your Grace,” she drawled with a new, winsome smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to take Miss Saintverde away just when we were finally getting better acquainted. I’m afraid we simply won’t allow it.”
As the season wears on, this writer must ask herself if she hasn’t been remiss. After all, why should our focus lie so singularly upon today’s youth? Far better if we also remember those long in bloom and still in need of admiration. Take Miss Manuela Casagranda, for instance, who has left her days in the opera company behind only to shine brightly amongst society.
What does it matter that she’s run off to elope more than once and still come back single? That she’s both dallied and duelled with members of Parliament and been turned out of drinking establishments without a gold piece to her name? These are stories of a life truly lived, for who else can claim to have dabbled in both politics and medicine and also be recognized as a virtuoso of art? Let us not count the number of seasons she has appeared in society then, but recognize her as one of its foremost pillars.
Of late, it seems her charms not only continue to affect Lord Balthus von Albrecht, but even our Hero of Daphnel. By all accounts, Miss Casagranda and Lady Daphnel met just last week, when they accidentally crossed swords while apprehending a party of ruffians. Such an encounter begs for a romantic conclusion, and I dare say they have looked quite intimate in conversation since.
Let us also spare a thought for Archbishop Seteth Saintverde. Of course one could hardly be blamed if they first found themselves overtaken by the allure of his most captivating daughter, so recent a debutante. But should her very single father not also see some earnest attention? Yes, his reputation as a stick-in-the-mud is not entirely unfounded, but this writer has it on good authority that he is an entirely honest one and would make someone very happy still. Suitors, I encourage you to make an advance upon him, for he is far too reticent to take the initiative himself.
When spring arrived at last, Flayn enjoyed it in the Gloucester gardens, preening to hear Lady Angler's name spoken around her and to know the circulation of her society papers had only increased since she’d availed herself of Miss Casagranda’s numerous connections.
In her company, Flayn walked backstage at the opera, played and wagered on wonderfully mindless card games, and even came to make the acquaintance of other young ladies, near to her in age. All this her father might have yet denied her, if not for those suitors who had indeed begun to descend upon him like common prey.
Hoping to slip away and reunite with the young ladies of Goneril and Dominic, Flayn silently prayed for today’s predacious widow to swallow her father whole. Regrettably, he escaped the romantic entanglement with both mind and body intact, but even so, she was resolute. There was nothing he could possibly do to prevent her from walking away from him.
“Lady Angler,” he then said meaningfully to her back.
Flayn halted midstep, her mind going blank as she began to heavily perspire.
“You're aware?” she said when speech again returned.
Dryly he spoke. “Did you think you could use the Church's printing press and keep it secret forever?”
“And yet you've said nothing?” she asked. “This—this can only be the foulest breach of trust and privacy!”
Her father remained vexingly unmoved. “Need I remind you that your words were written as public opinion?” Seeing her flounder, he took the opportunity to add, “Can I even be faulted for reading your papers when you no longer share any of your thoughts with me these days?”
“How can I, father?” she managed in a rising, fervent whisper, now indignant to the point she might very well slip into her former draconic image. “When you disagree with them all?”
Heads turned. For a minute they stood very awkwardly in foreboding silence until even the far too curious heir of Riegan looked away again.
“Perhaps I’ve been overzealous in trying to protect you,” her father allowed, voice audibly strained. “But the answer was hardly to drag me into the ton’s matchmaking circles. If the thought of marriage must absolutely be entertained”—it looked as if it physically pained him to speak further—“your prospects are still preferable to my own.”
Gone was her ire; she all but rocked gleefully on her heels to hear such an utterance.
“It may be too late to stop your tide of suitors,” she said glibly, rosy now with success. “But we will have to see how the rest of the season may yet unfold for us.” She made a point of surveying the gardens in full, then procured two glasses for them from a passing server, raising her own in a toast. “Either way, I shall have to write about it still.”
Her father’s objection was immediate, but Flayn was quicker. “You shouldn’t have let me continue on for so long and grow established.” She smiled, sipping artfully from her drink. “I dare say, we’ve both found solace in writing, haven’t we? You with your fables and me with my commentary.”
It was her father’s turn to be caught off guard, and Flayn swiftly plucked his drink back so that it might not spill over his front and wholly embarrass him. “Tell me, father,” she said primly. “Have you also considered publishing?”