9:52 p.m. Friday, May 7, [1926].

La Place de la Bourse, Bordeaux, Nouevelle-Aquitaine, France. An exquisite ballroom equipped with chandeliers, dining tables, and the grandest of Gabriel's indoor architectural eye.

For the past half hour, nothing but the finest of orchestral music has filled the glass domes of the pièce. From the cheerfully-spirited Intermedes de Xerxes by Lully to the Berlioz's classical dance in La damnation de Faust. And enjoying this ear feast? One of the largest crowds of nobility at these balls to date.

There must be at least a hundred different women from both this province and the next. Perhaps even some from England or Spain or Italy. The variety in tonight's pickings doesn't seem to go unnoticed by the King, currently chowing down on a chicken leg on his throne. The queen, meanwhile, as queens may often do, seems to scan every little detail of every potential little daughter-in-law out on the ballroom floor.

The prince shakes this one's hand and suddenly his mother's pupils go nearly vertical in hostility. "She doesn't have child-bearing hips," her eyes seem to say. Or, he bows to this fine lady and suddenly it's a head shake that reads: "Inbred, no doubt." It's as if the women has an eagle eye for dowry.

Not that the prince cares. Not at all. If he could find a bride tonight then maybe he could go to bed early. But then he'd have to deal with the consequences of courting the first broad he saw in the morning. He loves sleep, but not that much.

And so he stands there, hands behind his back as the long line of ladies come up one by one to introduce themselves and their prospects. This was what? The sixth ball the queen had thrown since his eighteenth birthday? The introductions at this point were muscle memory for him. And despite that, he still couldn't be bothered to put in the effort.

And then, quite suddenly, Carmen Suite No.2 is sadly cut short by a loud

Clatter. Gasp.

Every eye in the ballroom, except for one-eyed Oncle Étienne eating shrimp at a table, turn to the commotion, staring at what had interrupted their evening.

A servant rapidly takes a towel and tries to clean up the mess left behind on both of their clothes, but the guest seems to refuse, insisting it was their fault. The guest brushes their attire off, tsking at the mess of red wine now staining their clothes. And they've completely failed to notice the attention they've garnered.

Soon enough, Bizet starts back up and the hypnotic swaying and waltzing starts again. But even still, the prince's eyes linger on the guest rushing off out of the open doors to the gardens behind the estate.

'How peculiar.'

He drops the hand he had been shaking idly and snaps his fingers, summoning his right-hand man to him.

"Your highness?" Hugo inquires, standing at the prince's left side.

The prince, still transfixed on the sight of the gardens in the distance, whispers something to Hugo that causes the man to stutter as the prince runs off.

"Rémi! What are you- get back here at once!" The queen shouts. But it's no use. He's a man on a mission now.

The red sea of nobles and suitors and chaperones part for him, watching his every hasty and long stride towards the hedges in front of him.

Once he gets outside, it's immediately three times as cool. Maybe it's because the night air is so chilly. Or because the air of the ballroom is so stuffy. Or perhaps both. In any case, he begins to wander the gardens in the search of the enigma that crashed his ball.

The skies are clear tonight, not a single cloud out, and the moon is so full and bright that there doens't seem to be a need for the lamposts to be lit. As he walks, he breathes in the natural scents and takes in the green sights he'd come to know so well over the years. Though his father rarely allowed it, he would spend as much time as he possibly could in these gardens, exploring, living in them. But even mother got mad when he'd return covered in dirt and soil.

If he could just find this person and return swiftly, maybe the queen wouldn't be as furious this time. So he picks up his steps, the old stone shifting beneath his footsteps. And he spots the fountain just outside of the hedge maze. And the person sitting at it, staring in the water? Covered in a red wine stain.

They franctically use the water to clean up their attire, but it really isn't much use. Still, the effort makes the prince chuckle.

It's his chuckle that draws their attention, causing them to quickly stand up and face the prince.

Beautiful. Fucking. Eyes.

They quickly curtsy to him, albeit very sloppily. Maybe it was because of how hastily they did it. He understood. He'd be flustered in his presence too. Or maybe it was because they didn't have a whole lot of experience curtsying. He would rather believe the former. A commoner at the suitor's ball? His parents would be furious. But, just to make sure...

"Bonjour. I must say, that was quite a display you put on in there. But I'm afraid it's not much use trying to rid of the stain now, your clothes are beyond even one hundred washes," he teases, approaching the fountain and sitting along the stone. He reaches out and puts his hand into the falling water. "I do not believe I recognize you. May I know the name of my party crasher?"