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The carriage rumbled along London's streets. Its occupants were silent.
Romano gazed out the windows at the markets teeming with life and sound. The Twelfth Night was a holiday that marked the end of the Christmas season. Celebrated every fifth of January, this was when the faithful commemorated the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus Christ. The holiday was widely celebrated throughout Christendom, with feasts, games, and revelry.
London was no different. The streets swelled with people as the festivities went on. A small crowd had gathered around a theatre troupe putting on a play by William Shakespeare. Stalls lined the roads, with their colourful wares on display. Jugglers and acrobats performed their tricks to the elated cheers.
It made the silence in the carriage all the more stifling.
The others sitting with him weren't doing much better. There was a tension in Portugal's shoulders, though he sat perfectly straight and still, not to ruin his armour. It was a heavy steel plate inlaid with ornate gold scrollwork, in a style from the sixteenth century.
The British Royal Family was hosting a masquerade ball in celebration of the Twelfth Night. Everyone here was invited as they were Great Britain's allies.
Sitting beside Romano, Spain was dressed in shades of blue. His cloak was sewn from countless layers of indigo silk, studded with yellow diamonds to mimic the stars. His domino mask was cobalt blue. Coupled with his fake white beard and blue hennin, he looked like a wise, old wizard. He switched between glaring at Portugal and the window, but he didn't speak.
That was an improvement from before. He had complained endlessly on the journey by ship here about everything: the British, England, the food, England, the weather, England. Romano considered throwing him overboard. But Portugal snapped first.
“Will you shut up?” Portugal interrupted one of Spain's tirades. “I am sick and tired of listening to you whine like a spoiled child.”
“But—”
“You disappoint me,” Portugal said icily. Spain shut up. “I will not tell you how to treat your allies, but this one is my brother. Who has graciously provided you with the funds, men, and supplies for your resistance against France? I know I raised you to have better manners than this.”
Romano felt like he should say damn.
Spain was silent for the rest of the trip. Unsurprising. Portugal had raised him. That meant something. Even after all these centuries, he was still the only person Romano knew who could chide Spain. It was also how Portugal bullied Spain into doing a joint costume. Portugal was dressed as a knight, and Spain was his wizard companion.
What Romano didn't get was why he had to be part of this, too.
He wore a high-collared black overcoat, with hundreds of jewelled scales sewn on the fabric. A pair of curved horns sprouted from his mask, as if he were half-dragon. At least, that was the look Portugal was trying to go for when he forced Romano into this. Romano decided not to complain. Portugal was one scary bastard.
Eventually, the carriage stopped outside Carlton House, the Prince of Wales's townhouse. Holly and Ivy garlands were draped over the columns and doorways. Romano could already hear the music and laughter inside.
“Behave,” Portugal told Spain.
Spain glared at him.
“España.” Portugal jabbed his finger into Spain's chest. “I mean it.”
“Fine,” Spain muttered.
“What was that?” Portugal raised an eyebrow. Scary.
“I said fine,” Spain said loudly.
“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Portugal smiled, satisfied. “Now, come along. We have a ball to attend.”
Carlton Hall was even more splendid inside. Every inch seemed to blink with gold and silver, from the chandelier to the delicate wine glasses. Mistletoe and wreaths of flowers hung above doorways and arches. The ballroom was filled with so many people drinking and talking that it made Romano's head spin.
Portugal stood on his tiptoes and tried to look over the crowd. “Do you see Arthur?”
“No,” Romano said for the fiftieth time. Portugal had led them on a goose chase around the ballroom for the last fifteen minutes in search of England.
Spain crossed his arms. “You'd think the host would be here—”
Romano elbowed him hard. “Shut the fuck up, stupid Spain,” he whispered. “Do you want him to kill you?”
Spain hissed in pain and rubbed his side. “Romano! You're supposed to be on my side!”
“I'm making sure you don't die.”
Portugal groaned after scanning the crowd again. “Great. I don't see him. He must be arriving with the royal family.”
“With who?” Romano prayed he misheard. The royal family always arrived last. They could be waiting here for hours.
Portugal took no mercy on him. “The royal family. I should've expected this. They always appear together at state events.”
“You're jesting?” Spain blurted out. Romano wanted to face-palm. “You want us to wait for Inglaterra?”
“Yes.” Portugal narrowed his eyes. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Thankfully for Spain's continued existence, the doors to the ballroom opened. All conversation and music in the room halted.
“His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent,” the herald announced. “Accompanied by His Royal Highnesses the Dukes of York, Clarence, and Kent, and Her Royal Highnesses, the Princesses Elizabeth, Mary, Sophia, and Charlotte of Wales, together with His Grace, the Duke of Arcadia, and the Right Honourable Earl of Cotswold.”
The room bowed as one. Romano and Portugal lowered their heads slightly in respect. Spain followed. Regardless of his grudge, he wouldn't jeopardise Britain's support for the Peninsular War.
The Prince Regent led the royal family and their entourage. Each member was extravagantly dressed in silks and lace and precious gems. Once the Prince Regent led the opening dance, nobles swarmed to the dance floor. The ball had officially begun.
“Alright, gentlemen.” Portugal turned to them. “Let's go to Arthur!”
“How?” Spain said in disbelief. “I didn't even see him.”
Romano couldn't comment. Although the southern Italian states shared a long history with England, Romano had never personally met the Nation. The English always rebuffed any offers by the Pope or his kings.
Their reason wasn't a mystery to Romano. When his grandfather Rome conquered England, the then little Nation disappeared for a thousand years. Everyone and their cat knew how protective the English royals were over their Nation. It was only natural that they tried to keep him away from Rome's grandson.
Portugal rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously you're fucking blind.” He ignored Spain's splutters and tugged them into the crowd. “Come along, the night's not going to get any younger.”
Portugal was a stronger bastard than Romano had initially assumed. He managed to drag them through the crowd to the opposite side of the ballroom.
“Matthew!” Portugal's eyes lit up with warmth. “There you are!”
A behemoth of a man with curly golden hair stood several places away. He turned around at the sound of his name. When he saw Portugal hurrying towards him, he grinned. “Uncle João!”
Despite the domino mask covering half his face, Romano could tell that “Matthew” was extraordinarily handsome. Broad-shouldered, tall, and with striking purple eyes. He wore a burgundy waistcoat and high black leather boots. A dark green cloak was draped over his shoulder, and atop his golden curls perched a top hat decorated with peacock feathers. Romano assumed he was cosplaying a gentleman thief.
There was something familiar about him, but Romano couldn’t put his finger on what.
"My darling nephew!” Portugal happily threw his arms around Matthew. “You've grown so much since I last saw you.”
“That's what you said last time,” Matthew said exasperatedly. “It's only been half a year.”
“Really? I could've sworn you've gained a few centimetres.”
Romano doubted a few centimetres less would've made a difference. Matthew was a veritable giant. He towered over most people in the crowd. Who the fuck had sired this boy? A bear?
“Ahem.”
Matthew's four companions were staring at them unamusedly. Some were outright glaring. They all had red hair, green eyes, and a large build like Matthew. Romano resisted the urge to gape. What the fuck did they feed people in England?
“Portugal,” the one with copper hair dressed like a shepherd, stiffly greeted.
“Gingerbread men,” Portugal replied, equally frosty.
The one with shoulder-length auburn hair snarled. He looked like a leprechaun. “Why, you fucker—”
“South!” A man with a ponytail grabbed his arms. They had to be twins, although he was dressed like a magician. “Not here.”
“I don't know, North.” The biggest bastard of the four cracked his knuckles. He was dressed like those Celtic barbarians Grandpa Rome used to fight. “He’s fair askin’ for it.”
“Asked for what?” Portugal brought up his gauntlet fist and sneered, proving his relation to Spain. Their self-preservation instincts flew out the window when they were furious. “What, bagpipes?”
“Break it up!” Matthew put himself between Portugal and the gingers. “Violence has no place in a ball. If you wish to sort out your grievances, do so literally anywhere else, or I will be telling Mama about this.”
Romano had a suspicion who Matthew’s mother was because both sides reluctantly backed off under Matthew's glare.
Matthew smiled apologetically at Romano and Spain. “I apologise that you had to see that. We're not usually so uncouth—”
Behind Matthew's back, the leprechaun raised his middle finger at Portugal. Portugal responded by drawing his thumb over his throat.
“—My name is Matthew Kirkland, the personification of Canada, and these are my uncles. Scotland.” The Celtic barbarian grunted. “North Ireland.” The ponytail magician smiled. The leprechaun didn't even bother. “South Ireland.” The shepherd waved. “And Wales."
Portugal cleared his throat. “Since we're doing introductions.” He jerked his thumb at Spain. “This is Spain, my brother. He's a menace in the kitchen unless you like olive oil on everything.”
Spain cheerfully waved it off. “¡Oye! Don't listen to him. I cook everything with love.”
A few moments earlier, he had been complaining about everything British; now he was laughing and smiling as though nothing was wrong. Spain was good at disarming people. There was a reason he became an empire.
Portugal surrendered to Romano. “This is Romano, the personification of Sicily.”
Romano scowled. “Tch. I didn't ask to be introduced by you.”
“Don't mind his foul mouth. It's his default state,” Portugal said to Canada. “Anyway, I heard about your ennoblement from your mother. Congratulations, Matthew. It was no surprise, but I’m sure it pleases you all the same.”
Ennoblement? Romano didn’t like the sound of this.
Canada faltered. “Really? Are you not surprised? So many were.”
Portugal waved a hand. “Those idiots were the foreign ambassadors. Anyone with eyes can tell you it was a long time coming. You’ve won so many victories for the Crown that they had to reward you.”
“Ennoblement?” Spain prodded.
“Our wee nephew here was made the Earl of Cotswold last week.” Wales grinned at Canada. Romano remembered that the herald had introduced a noble with that title. “In recognition of his success in the war. Isn’t it impressive? His own lands and earldom at seventeen.”
Correction. Romano hated the sound of this.
“Technically, I’m two hundred and five,” Canada argued. Merda. He was an infant.
Scotland scoffed. “So? They made Nelson a baron for his victory at the Nile. You’ve won far more victories an’ fought in more battles than he ever did.”
“Ah, now, an’ the way you handled Trafalgar was impressive, lad.” South Ireland clapped Canada’s shoulder. “You deserve this, you do.”
North Ireland took a glass of champagne from the tray of a nearby butler making rounds. He raised the glass. “To the Young Lion!”
Canada blushed. “Uncle Connor, please! People are staring!”
Years of experience kept the alarm welling within him from showing up on Romano’s face. Now, he knew where he recognised Canada from. When the British rested in Naples after the Battle of the Nile, Lord and Lady Hamilton had thrown a banquet in honour of their victory. Romano remembered seeing a golden figure laughing and chatting with Nelson and the Hamiltons at their table.
This was the Young Lion the British had been boasting about to anyone who would hear. England and France’s firstborn. The colony that had been given sole command of the British military while his mother secluded himself and did fuck knows what. When Canada was first given command, Europe had thought England had gone mad. Even Romano had a good laugh with Veneziano over the idea that some boy, still wet behind his ears, would lead the British.
Then the reports began rolling in: Camperdown, the Nile, San Domingo, Trafalgar… For thirty years, the British Empire was Napoleon’s only true adversary. The Royal Navy was uncontested in the seas after winning great naval victories at Trafalgar and the Nile. They seized multiple French colonies and wore down France at home by funding their allies with their bottomless treasury. All under the orders of this boy.
Spain smiled, but Romano noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations, Canadá. Inglaterra must be proud.”
Romano echoed the same hollow congratulations.
“Thank you.” Canada smiled.
“Speaking of your mother,” Portugal said to Canada. “Where is he? I have to compare costumes with him.”
That was why Portugal had dragged them here?
“Mama is with D—the Admiral,” Canada said. If Romano hadn't been listening, he wouldn't have noticed the slip.
“What? Why?” Portugal squawked. “I thought he was still at sea.”
“He came home for Christmas.” Canada shrugged. “I wouldn't go looking for them. They're on a date.”
“What,” Scotland said darkly. Romano belatedly remembered hearing rumours of the British Isles beating the shit out of England’s admirers. The German states had been black and blue for months after propositioning England.
“Great. We’re supposed to take a holo with Ailpein, Gormlaith, and Lorcán,” Portugal groaned. “Whatever. It’s not the first time I crashed one of their dates.”
“What do you mean by ‘first time’?” A shadow crossed Wales’s face.
“I’ll see you later, Nephew.” Portugal patted Canada’s arm, oblivious or uncaring to the growing rage in the British Isles. “I’m going to go find your mother.” He walked into the crowd, not before muttering, “Hopefully, their clothes are still on.”
Canada stiffened and eyed his remaining uncles. “Oh, no.”
Scotland rapidly turned purple, red, and a dangerous bright colour that Romano didn’t even know the name of in a matter of seconds. “His what?”
“Absolutely not.” North Ireland’s smile vanished entirely.
“Uncle Alasdair, Uncle Connor, Uncle João was just joking,” Canada tried to calm them. Good effort, but futile.
“Tch! That Portuguese bastard would nae be jokin’ about this,” Scotland snapped, already turning on his heels. “Come on! We need tae find England.”
The British Isles moved as one, cutting through the crowd with frightening efficiency. Conversations died as they passed. A few humans took one look at their expressions and wisely stepped aside.
“Uncles! Uncles, wait!” Canada chased after them. “It really isn’t what you think…”
Spain watched them go, uncertainly. “Should we follow…?”
“No.” Romano swiftly decided. “Someone else can handle those crazies. I need a drink.”
“Do you think they've found him yet?” Romano asked. He leaned against the wall as he observed the crowded ballroom.
Spain turned to him after he claimed another glass of champagne from a passing butler. “Who?”
Romano huffed in response. “The tea bastard. It's been thirty minutes since those red-head giants went to find them, and there's been no sign of them.”
“Definitely not, or we would hear the screams.”
Point taken. Romano would be surprised if they didn’t murder England's lover on the spot.
“What interests me more is Canadá,” Spain said. “What are your thoughts on him?”
“He's dangerous,” Romano immediately said.
“Our kind tends to be.”
Romano snorted. “Spare me, Spain. It took us centuries to get to where we are today. But that boy? I wouldn't be surprised if he was born with a sword in his hand and a head for war.”
Their generation consisted of some of the most powerful Nations in history. Their wars and politics could decide the fate of the world. But before they were empires, they were children struggling to even put food in their bellies. It took them centuries to develop the tactical acumen that let them build their empires.
Not in decades.
And yet this boy had successfully foiled Napoleon for thirty years (a feat no one else could boast) while expanding the British Empire. He clearly had the full support of his mother and the British, given his recent ennoblement. He was young now, but in a few centuries, they could be looking at a threat across the Atlantic.
“How blunt.” Spain laughed. He took a sip from his glass. “But you're right. That boy…he shows a military genius that I've seen from only a handful of people. He even reminds me of Rome.”
Romano stiffened.
“When did Rome start conquering? Three hundred? Four hundred?” Spain clicked his tongue. “And this boy is barely two centuries old.”
“Grandpa would like him,” Romano admitted. From what he had seen and heard, Canada was everything Rome wanted in an heir. An excellent statesman, diplomat, negotiator, and warrior. He and Veneziano had always fallen short of their grandfather's expectations, albeit in different ways. It was darkly ironic that Rome's much-desired heir was the son of the only Nation to escape him.
“The old man would love him,” Spain corrected. Romano hated how he was right. “It's bad enough that he has the brains to back up his ambitions. Now, he has the British Empire's army and resources at his disposal. Inglaterra has created a monster.”
“It isn't forever. Only until this war ends.”
“And what happens when it does?” Spain demanded. “The Grande Armée was decimated in Russia. France does not have the resources or men to make up for that loss. He will lose this war, and with him gone, there will be no one else who can challenge England.”
“Or the boy,” Romano slowly said.
“Exactly!” Spain waved his arm in emphasis. “Either we bow to Napoleon, or we bow to England and his son. I dislike both these options.”
“What does the romance bastard think of this?” Romano asked. “Canada is his son, too, is he not?”
“Francia is—” Spain sighed. He looked tired and lost. “He's proud of his son, but I don't think he even knows what he wants anymore.”
Romano didn't know where to begin unpacking that. He regretted pursuing this line of conversation.
Spain drained his glass. “Well, regardless—”
“Irmão, there you are!”
Portugal emerged from the crowd with a group of people. A princess, a wicked fairy, and a king. They were all incredibly beautiful and incredibly tall. Romano wondered what the fuck was in the water in Britain.
“We need you to take a holo of us.” Portugal gestured to his companions.
“Where's England?” Romano asked.
“Somewhere locking lips with his Romeo.” The man disguised as a king shrugged. Romano was dismayed to realise he was taller than Scotland.
“The scandal!” The man dressed as a wicked fairy mock-swooned. The lady disguised as a princess caught him in her arms, even though he was twice her size. Impressive.
“Get up, you idiot,” the lady shoved the man off her.
“Gormlaith!” the man whined.
“You heard her, Ailpein.” Portugal smacked Alpein's arm. “Forget about them. We'll find them during supper.”
“Ow!” Ailpein rubbed his arm. “What is this? Bully Ailpein day?”
“Every day is bully Ailpein day,” Gormlaith and Portugal chorused together.
Ailpein slumped dramatically on the man disguised as a king. “Lorcán, they're ganging up on me.”
“There. There.” Lorcán patted Ailpein's back.
“Who are you people?” Spain exclaimed, tired of being ignored.
“They're my friends,” Portugal explained. “Anyway, we need you to take a holo of us.”
“I don't even know what a holo— Hey, what are you doing?” Spain said as Portugal dragged him into the crowd, uncaring of his protests. “Release me! Don't you— Romano, save me!”
“Don't worry. We'll bring him back,” Gormlaith promised as Lorcán nodded in agreement.
“See you later!” Ailpein waved enthusiastically.
They disappeared into the crowd before Romano could react. Bored without Spain or Portugal and his strange friends, Romano decided to roam around the ballroom.
He kept his ears pricked for gossip as he passed various nobles. Most of them were discussing the war against Napoleon. Some British nobles were boasting about Canada's victories. One lady curiously swooned over some admirals named Edward and Richard.
Romano was bored enough that he decided to join the dancing when someone bumped into him.
He turned to snap at whichever idiot didn't look where they were going. “What the fuck—”
A beautiful woman stared up, startled, at him.
His mouth went dry.
Romano had never been one for poetry despite Rome's many attempts to teach him the arts. But this woman was…radiant. A jewelled tiara gleamed amidst her golden chignon, its peridots a perfect match for her bright green eyes. She was dressed in a gown of white silk so fine it seemed like only wisps of smoke clung to her body. It matched the white lace mask that covered the upper half of her face.
”My apologies.” The lady wrung her hands in a panic. “I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?”
That snapped Romano out of his stupor. He cleared his throat. “Yes. No harm done.”
The lady smiled in relief. “Thank goodness, I would hate to ruin someone else's evening.”
Romano raised an eyebrow. “Do you make a habit of bumping into people?”
“What? No— That's not— Oh, you're messing with me.” The lady realised when she saw Romano smile. “I was actually referring to myself when I spoke about a ruined evening.”
“Why?”
The lady glanced at the dancers swirling past them. “I was on a date with my husband tonight. He's been fighting in Spain for the last several moons, but he was given leave to come home for the holidays. This was supposed to be our night, but my brothers ruined it.”
“What did they do?”
The lady scowled fiercely. “They attempted to castrate my husband.”
Romano blinked. Well, that escalated quickly.
“Or at least, they're trying to. They haven't caught us yet, but we had a few close calls. We separated to throw them off our scent. I don't even know where my husband is now.”
If Romano had a piastra for every time overprotective brothers tried to crash their siblings' dates tonight, he would have two. Which wasn't much, but it was weird that it happened twice.
“I'm sorry that happened,” Romano said at last.
The lady shook her head. “Don't be. It's not your fault. It's those stupid bone-headed brothers the Fates have given me. They treat me like a child even though I have several of my own.”
Her voice took on a bitter edge as she curled her fists. She glanced around the ballroom again, as if searching for her husband. The light in her eyes dimmed the longer she couldn't find him.
Romano had nothing to do with this. As unfortunate as this woman and her husband's situation was, they meant nothing to him. He could go join the dancing, rescue Spain from Portugal and his weird friends, or get another drink.
He had no reason to help her.
…But it would be rude to leave a lady in distress.
“Take the next left, then go right. There's a door that leads to the servants’ passageway.” Romano had thoroughly explored Carlton Hall in his boredom earlier. “You can wait for your husband there. If I see him, I'll direct him to you.”
The lady brightened. “Truly?”
Romano shooed her away. “Go before I change my mind.”
Eventually, a man dressed as a pirate captain appeared in Romano's section of the crowd. His ears were pierced with gold hoop earrings that matched his colourful rings. He was subtle about it, but to the trained eye, it was clear he was frantically searching for someone.
When Romano tapped him on the shoulder, the man turned around. “Yes?”
“Are you Ari's husband?” Romano asked, using the name the lady gave him.
“How do you know that name?” the man demanded. He was as beautiful as his wife. Tousled black curls fell loosely over his brow, and his features could've been chiselled from marble. He was so tall and broad that he loomed over most people in the ballroom. Che cazzo. Something was definitely in the water in Britain.
“Your wife told me,” Romano replied. “She's waiting over there in the servants’ passageway.”
A grin grew across the man's face. He thanked Romano before quickly hurrying towards the servants’ passageway.
Now that Romano's good deed for the night was fulfilled, he decided to roam the ballroom once again. This time, he saw Spain, Portugal, and Portugal's weird friends standing in a corner. Spain was yelling at Ailpein and Lorcán, who seemed to be messing with him. Gormlaith and Portugal ignored them as they tried the finger sandwiches.
Romano started towards their corner. On his way, he heard someone—it sounded like Scotland—practically snarled, “What do you mean you cannot find him?”
“He's not in any of the rooms, Alba,” Wales said.
“Or in this hall,” South grimly agreed. “We would've noticed, alright.”
“Well, he's somewhere in this goddamn buildin’, for Christ's sake!” Scotland growled in frustration. “Search again!”
Romano never thought he would pity a Nation he never met, but dealing with four overprotective brothers breathing down your neck sounded like a nightmare. Romano was thankful that Veneziano was never this annoying.
Just then, out of the corner of his eyes, Romano noticed a flash of white. The lady from before and her husband were creeping around the edge of the ballroom—obviously still trying not to be spotted by overprotective brothers. They were giggling and swinging their joined hands like the picture of sweet romance.
The lady noticed him looking. She lit up and waved. Her husband copied her.
Romano waved back.
At least someone was happy tonight.