The dance
Now this is one of those clichéd romantic cheesy stories that you should read while listening to classical music, the waltzing kind. Hello, I’m Olivia, and this is how I fell in love with my lover.
Because I live in London, I am routinely asked to parties. The most recent party was very exciting; the prince of England was to be wed, and all eligible females were invited to dance with him. It’s similar to the American fairy tale Cinderella, only I don’t have an evil stepmother.
My outfit for the evening was a small-waisted, deep royal blue, wide-skirted gown with gold particles of glitter that looked like stars dispersed about. This was also a masquerade party, so I had a blue and gold mask to match my gown.
The carriage ride there was luxurious. I step into the royal castle, my heart starts racing, and I want to run. I am not used to this kind of party. Every girl is dressed in light colors and bouncy dresses. I am immediately the odd one out. I mostly wander around looking at art and occasionally watching the dances and joining in. Not only that, but I get warm inside, so I wander until I find the garden.
There is a man sitting in the garden and I try to hide before he sees me. He laughs softly, “There is no use hiding, I saw you enter.” His voice is lovely, deep and smooth. “I apologize for disturbing you, I will take my leave now” I curtsy and turn to leave.
“No, it’s alright, I could use some company.” He gestures next to him, and I walk over. “Harry” he tells me. I suppose he wants me to tell him my name, but we have just met. “We have just met. Why would I tell you my name?” I ask him.
“You look lovely, I just want to know more about you,” he tells me. He holds his hand out to me in the offer of a dance. I take his hand hesitantly. He spins me around the royal garden trying to pry more information out of me, and just to be nice, I do answer some of his questions.
“So how old are you, lovely lady who won’t tell me her name,” I glare at him, “I am 21 if you must know.”
“Oh, I must.” I giggle at his reply, for it gives me a fluttery feeling in my stomach. I worry that I am falling for someone I don’t even know.
“Tell me then, kind sir, how old are you?” He mimics me when he answers. “I’m 23 if you must know” I laugh. “Oh, it’s like that now, is it?” I make him spin me, and he twirls me back into his chest, dipping me towards the ground.
“You’re very pretty, you know” he tells me, his voice soft and sweet. “How do you know that? You can’t see my face,” I bat my eyelashes at him, and he winks. “I just know. It’s intuitive.” He picks me back up, we start waltzing again, “so you really won’t tell me your name?” he asks as we twirl about the garden.
“Nope!” I laugh and he groans. “Come on, can you at least take off your mask, so I can see your face?” he asks as we both sit down to rest on a lovely white bench. “Now, why on earth would I do that? This is a masquerade party, and taking off my mask defeats the purpose of owning it in the first place.”
“Ok, I’ll give you points for that, but I’ll take off my mask if you take off yours”
