The Royal Castle is brilliant, or not, Blaire couldn't gather for the life of her. Camera flashes threaten to blind her peripherals and no matter how hard she tries to use her hair, shouts like:
"Get the hair out of your way!"
"Show your face!"
"Lottery kid, look here!"
"How does it feel like to be a Cinderella?"
"Pose for the camera!"
"Look here! Hey! Lottery! Look here!"
-- only propel her to stand straighter and walk faster.
She had been advised to not interact with the media. The gossipmongers had a tendency of twisting any conversation for their monetary benefits, so, it was beneficial to be defamed without saying a word. For one's silence would be their biggest proof.
The dusky pink skies were left behind as Blaire follows a maroon carpet up a staircase. Asper had told her that she would be announced upon entrance.
If Blaire had a coin for every time her name was announced, she would have two coins. Which isn't a lot altogether but strange that it happened twice in less than twenty-four hours. She sucks in a deep breath, ordering her palpitating heart to take a back seat. 'It's okay, I can do it! Only 4 years! It's not a lot! I can do it and everyone else would be happy! I just have to lay low!'
The doorman opens the gold embossed white doors and she's greeted with the sight of a magnificent golden balcony. She steps forward and the lap of luxury welcomes her in with soft orchestral music, scents of spice and the warmth of candlelit chandeliers. Why are they cutting back on electricity bills? Blaire wonders.
"Ahem."
Startled, Blaire jumps to the side. There's a small man sitting on a stool with a scroll in his hand. "Oh, hello, I'm sorry I didn't see you there!" Blaire exclaims.
"Name, madam?" the man squeaks, disregarding everything else.
"Oh, um, would you mind not announcing me? I'm planning to lay low. It would really be—"
"Are you Reina Mallarky?"
"Huh? What? No, no, I'm—wait, please, can I just not go in—"
"Phillipa Kent?"
"None, come on—"
"Blaire Winston?"
Blaire blinks, pulling her lips in a line.
Then, in a voice as resounding as a nuclear missile, the miniscule man shouts from his place, "INTRODUCING, THE LOTTERY LADY, MISS BLAIRE WINSTON!"
'Oh, gut me, why don't you?' Blaire thinks as the party collectively whips their heads to the balcony.
Act cool. Act cool. Act cool. They don't know anything about you. All I can do is smile and lay low. I can do it.
Blaire stretches her mouth in an elongated smile, teeth on show, while her brows are drooped and eyes drenched with thoughts of death. Her heart's moving at a pacing incomprehensible by her brain. Her hands are clammy against the clutch and her feet are shaking as she heads down another set of stairs. They're black marble, she realises, polished hard enough to reflect the bedazzled choker on her neck. The cleaners here must be paid a lot, she deduces.
As soon as her thoughts stray, her foot stumbles off her heel. It's a millisecond worth of mishap but the alarm in Blaire's eyes showcases the guilt of being caught while looting the royal treasury. She looks up and is greeted by curious eyes and whispering mouths.
"Lottery girl."
"The one in the picture."
"She seems rather plain."
"The nose! It's the same!"
"Last season clutch."
"The dress is wearing her."
"Her hair looks miserable, oh my!"
Blaire smiles, blinks and waves her hands. Her eyes catch sight of Courtney and widen in recognition. She wants to step forward but Courtney turns her back on Blaire.
Blaire gulps and curtsies, awkwardly, as Juniper had taught her.
Suddenly, trumpets blare over the balcony. "INTRODUCING--!"
Heads whips upward and Blaire takes the opportunity to sprint into the masses in an attempt at blending in. She's beelined to the back of the obnoxiously large ballroom, where a sequence of buffet tables lay deserted. She wants to pick up a cake. It looks deliciously creamy and rich with all the ruffles and toppings. Cakes were such a luxury in her hometown. They'd have to save up a whole year to afford three for each birthday in her family. Annalise would have loved it here. She wonders if her mother, Annalise and Maisie would be watching her. They would have seen her awkwardly struggle down the red carpet.
How embarrassing.
Miabel would be proud of her, nonetheless. Annalise and Maisie, on the other hand, they would have teased her to world's end.
If she were able to gain a good social standing, Annalise would be able to attend Charmity without relying on the lottery system. It would make her so happy…
"Coffee?"
Blaire jumps, yet again and twists her foot as it falls off her heel, again. Beside her stands an apologetic looking waiter with a tray of intricate golden cups in hand, "My apologies, M'lady, I did not mean to startle you." He bows.
"Oh, please, no no, it's all good, I'm not hurt at all!" Blaire exclaims and, upon impulse, to disprove his guilt, she raises her foot and twists and turns her ankle, "See? All good."
"Ehh…." The waiter utters, hastily looking around.
Blaire looks up to witness awkwardness in the waiter's face. She realises her blunder and apologises, "I'm sorry."
"Coffee?" the waiter asks again, pretending the last two minutes did not happen.
"Yes, thank you," Blaire picks up a cup. She'd barely eaten a morsel all day and the scent of the milky white coffee in her cup had her mouth salivating. She wanted to slurp it all in a go but deduced that she needs a more secluded corner to do so.
Her eyes dare to look up and scan the ballroom. Suddenly, her gaze locks with a man leaning againnst one of the walls. He's tall enough to oversee the masses, dressed in a black suit and tie, blending in with the wait-staff. Yet, his striking blonde hair and slender navy eyes make him stand out in an observatory skim. He's staring at Blaire, unbridled, sipping on a glass of wine through his full lips. Upon realising he's caught her gaze, he smirks.
The sudden gesture implores Blaire to twist on her heel. She hastens, mind abuzz – did he see what I did in front of the waiter? Oh, how embarrassing! – feet unstable, gaze heated by the flush of her face. Unprompted, she bashes into a person, her coffee cup tips onto him, gasps strangle the air she was breathing and a shiny golden crown comes into view.
Blaire steps back, a flurry of apologies as a crowd circles around her. "I'm so sorry, oh my goodness! Please forgive me! I did not mean to! I was jus-"
"Stop touching the Crown Prince!"
Blaire whips her head up and takes three steps back.
Well, frickity frackity flying fucks!
The imposing presence of the Crown Prince of Bersileron looks down on her. So much for laying low… His piercing silver gaze gnawed at Blaire's gut, wishing her to wither away like the speck of dust he deemed her to be.
"This coat was piece commissioned by my mother," the Crown Prince states, after waiting a minute for the girl to fall on her knees, "From a country that's yet to open its borders for trade." He added but to no avail. The girl remained statute-esque with her head hung low. "It's threaded with pure platinum—"
"I can wash it. Um, if you don't mind, Your Majesty…?" Blaire interrupts, unsure.
"Your Highness," the Crown Prince chides.
"YES, SORRY! YOUR HIGHNESS!" Blaire repeats, unprovoked and embarrassed.
The Crown Prince drags his tongue against the insides of his mouth. His toes wiggle with unrestrained exhilaration, within the confines of his shoes. The crowd is busy passing harsh judgements on the lottery girl's fate, yet, she's scrambling still.
"I—uh, coffee stains aren't hard to remove. I can get rid of them, rub them with some lemons—"
"Lemons!" the crown prince repeats, thoroughly entertained. His brows are raised and mouth pulled in a bright smile that strains his jaw and lets his dimples on show.
The crowd riots into laughter.
"Uh—if it works, it works…? I mean, surely you guys would have better stuff—what am I saying? I'm sorry, I'll get it washed in no time!" Blaire babbles and raises her hands forward to hold them out. She wiggles her fingers, gesturing him to surrender his coat to her. Sadly, she'd forgotten that the coffee cup was still in her hands.
So, unbeknownst, Blaire has an empty coffee cup shoved in the Crown Prince's face.
"No," he replies calmly, plucking the cup out of her hand, "The coat was meant to be donated to the Tier 1 museum to help fund orphanages around town. You've ruined it now, Lemons, I believe there's no better apology than a monetary compensation instead."
Monetary compensation.
Monetary.
Compensation.
Orphanage fund.
Money.
Blaire looks up and squirms at the small blob of coffee splattered on his ivory, probably diamond encrusted jacket.
"H-how much is it?" she asks, afraid to hear the answer.
"16 billion only." The crown prince smiles, knowing the damage he did to her soul.