It’s 4:03 when I finally extract myself from a meeting about declaring the official moss of Sveloria. It was surprisingly heated, even though I can’t tell one type of moss from another. The proponents of one moss — I don’t even remember which — felt that the other moss was too reminiscent of Sveloria’s Soviet past. The proponents of that moss felt that the first moss presented too strong a monarchic image, and that choosing the wrong moss sent the wrong political message to the rest of the world.

My job, as the crown prince, was to sit there, take their concerns seriously, and pretend that I could see any difference at all in these two mosses.

The king has started sending me to meetings like this that he doesn’t wish to attend. In a way, it’s good practice. The official moss of Sveloria is state business, after all.

At least the United Svelorian Front attacks in the north seem to have stopped. Maybe my father was right. I’d rather be hearing about moss than about more burned farmhouses.

It’s just that moss is state business I couldn’t care less about, particularly when all I can think about is being alone with Hazel again. Her letter is still folded into my pocket, delivered to me this morning as I listened gravely to the concerns of a business owner who felt he was being taxed too much.

I didn’t hear a word that man said.

By the time I get to the door outside the chapel, it’s 4:05 according to my watch, but I don’t worry. I like to let it run a few minutes fast so that I get places on time.

There’s no sign of Hazel, and I relax a little. I doubt she would come, see that I’m not here, and leave again in just a few minutes. Besides, this part of the palace doesn’t get much traffic, so it’s a nice respite from my day.

I walk to the end of the hall and look out the big, wrought-iron window there. Since I’m on the ground floor, this window also has thick iron bars across the outside, and the windowsill is a couple of feet deep. Even though my mom and I lived here when I was younger, the royal family didn’t officially summer here until I was eight or nine, after the civil unrest had ended. I remember curling up in these thick windows and looking out at the beautiful scenery.

That was when I learned all about the castle’s murder holes, the heads on spikes, and the deep dungeons with secret exits. As a kid, after watching the country nearly crumble, knowing that I was living somewhere designed to be defended made me feel safer than I’d felt in a long time.

I check my watch again.

4:15. I frown and look down the hallway, my other hand going to the letter in my pocket.

Did she change her mind? I wonder. Did she get held up?

It’s not good manners to keep the Prince waiting, I think.

I’ll tell her that when she gets here.

Minutes tick past. 4:20, and I’m starting to think that whatever happened, she’s not coming. I tell myself that she was held up somehow, but there’s a kernel of worry somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

What if she’s changed her mind since last night? What if she was just being polite when she kissed me back because she’s afraid of me?

I swallow hard and take a deep breath, remembering her hand on the back of my neck, pulling me toward her. The way she pressed herself against me, throbbing erection and all.

That was more than politeness, I tell myself.

I glance down at my knuckles, still bruised and purple. My lip is barely swollen anymore, but still split, and I don’t know how many people believe that I got the injuries sparring with Niko. Most people here don’t question what I tell them, but I haven’t seen my father more than in passing for several days.

I know he wouldn’t believe me for a second.

4:30. My heart sinks, but she’s not coming. Something has happened, and as I walk I tell myself over and over again that it’s something beyond Hazel’s control and not that she changed her mind.

For all you know, there’s a messenger somewhere in the palace looking for you, I tell myself as I push open the door to a stone staircase.

I only get one flight up before a door above me swings open. I can’t see whoever it is, but they’re clearly in a huge rush, thundering down the stairs. It sounds like a herd of elephants.

Elephants wearing heels.

I stop on a landing in front of a window, arms crossed in front of my chest, trying not to smile.

Svelorian women don’t stomp down stairs.

A moment later there’s a flash of blue as she whirls around the turn in the staircase, one landing above me.

Hazel glances down at me, stops suddenly, and clears her throat.

“Kostya,” she says, a little out of breath.

“This is terribly rude,” I say, and force myself not to smile at her.

Hazel makes a face and descends the last flight of stairs. She tucks her black hair behind one ear and then she’s standing a couple feet away from me, a polite distance. Her dress is a patterned blue, perfectly tasteful and demure, but all I can think about is what’s under it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, still breathing a little faster than normal. “Did you know there’s a masquerade ball the day after tomorrow?”

“Is it that soon?”

“You throw masquerade balls here?” she asks, like I’ve completely missed the point.

“I don’t throw them,” I say, looking down at her. There’s a window behind me, and anyone at all could come into this staircase at any minute, but I still have to fight the urge to bend down and kiss her, unzip her dress and slip a hand inside.

Shit, my dick’s already at half-mast and rising quickly.

“I don’t mean you, Kostya, I mean the royal you,” she says.

“I believe this one is hosted by my mother, the Queen, and Yelena Pavlovna,” I say. “And I really did forget it was that soon.”

Hazel’s eyes narrow at Yelena Pavlovna.

“Miss Pavlovna hosts events at the palace?” she asks, cocking her head, her voice cooling just slightly.

I don’t correct the wrong form of address, because I can tell that Hazel’s driving at something, but I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s moving one step ahead of me here, and I’m stuck trying to figure it out.

“She’s hosting this one because it was her idea, and she talked my mother into it,” I say carefully.

“Is she close with your family?” Hazel asks. That teasing look is gone from her eyes. Her voice is bordering on a whisper, and there’s something I can’t read on her face.

“Her father is one of the richest men in Sveloria,” I say. “He runs the state-owned oil company, and he and my father are... associates.”

I wouldn’t say my father has friends.

“Yelena tends to get what she asks for,” I go on.

“And she asked for a masquerade ball,” Hazel says. “With gowns and masks and dancing and shit.”

“She thinks this is a fairy tale,” I say. “Yelena’s twenty-two. She doesn’t remember the civil war or the bombings or the fighting in the streets, she just remembers growing up in a mansion with servants. Her whole life, her father has been rich and powerful and she’s been his little princess. Now he’s angling for his daughter to actually be royalty.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can tell from Hazel’s face that there’s a million things she’s not saying right now.

“It’s not working,” I say. “I don’t care what my father thinks, I’m not interested in Yelena no matter how much he tries to push her on me.”

I pause again.

“I think I’m her date to the masquerade, though,” I say reluctantly.

The corners of Hazel’s eyes wrinkle, just a little.

“You think?” she says, softly. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me.

“I get told a lot of things,” I admit. “I don’t always pay attention to the unimportant ones.”

“This ball seems pretty important,” she says, the corners of her eyes just crinkling. “At least, it had better be. I just got felt up by a seamstress for half an hour.”

That shouldn’t be a sexy thought, but my cock twitches anyway.

“You’ll be in attendance?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “But you’ll have to figure out who I am, since I’ll be wearing a mask.”

“I’ll just look for the girl doing shots of vodka and waltzing wrong,” I say.

Hazel laughs.

“I know better than to do vodka shots now,” she says. “And I’ll have you know I learned to waltz for my best friend’s bat mitzvah, only eleven years ago.”

“Do you remember how?” I ask.

“I’m hoping it’ll come back to me,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m about to embarrass all my dancing partners.”

I hold out my left hand and bow slightly.

Hazel raises one eyebrow and looks at me.

“It’s an invitation to dance,” I say, still holding my hand there. “I thought you knew how.”

“You know we’re in a staircase, right?” she asks.

“Are you declining?” I ask, and let myself smile, just slightly. “It’s very poor manners to decline a dance with a royal, you know.”

“How many times are you going to use that line?” Hazel teases, taking my hand. “With you, it’s always royal this, royal that.”

I slide my other hand around her back, cupping her shoulder blade, and Hazel frowns, then rests her arm on top of mine, her hand just above my bicep. Our sides are touching lightly, and I swallow, reminding myself that there’s a window just behind us, that we’re essentially in public.

“See?” she says.

“We haven’t done any dancing yet, zloyushka,” I say.

“But this was better than you expected,” she says.

“I’ll count off,” I say. “One-two-three, one-two-three...”

We both try to step forward and kick each other. Hazel bursts into laughter, and I grin down at her.

“Shit,” she says.

“Aren’t you glad I’m teaching you to do this now?” I ask. “You could have kicked an important official.”

“I doubt they’ll let me dance with anyone important,” Hazel says, still laughing. “Everyone here knows I’m a walking disaster. I’m sure I’m only invited because they had no choice.”

I count off again, and this time she gets it right. We waltz around the landing very slowly and I count to three in English, over and over again.

When we’re back where we started, still in formation, I pause for a moment.

“You ready for something new?” I ask.

“Okay,” Hazel says.