As her gaze sweeps across the ballroom, she’s reminded of the first party she’d ever attended as Zoya Fox. There, she did not attract the attention on her now; she was simply another pretty young thing in a pretty dress that didn’t fit quite right. It had been a test, too—how would she fare, thrown to the wolves not of hunger and grime but of velvet and brocade? August had introduced her around before stepping aside, as if to say, show me what you can do.
( Look at her, standing here. Look at how far she’s come from. Is there better proof than this? )
Similarly to that first ball, she’s faced with a sea of strangers. It causes her no unease; the art of mingling is one she’s perfected since that night of plastering on saccharine smiles and speaking in even more dulcet tones. Be nice. Be sweet. Be everything you’re not. So what is she now? She ponders the question briefly as she laughs at something a masked man has said, and does not come up with an answer.
She feels a set of eyes on her, and when she turns her head just so, she sees someone who might be able to tell her. The world suspends itself for a moment; they don’t move, and neither does she. I looked for you then, she thinks, recalling that first night surrounded by glittering strangers yet feeling utterly alone.
Maybe she is always searching for them; maybe they will always find her.
Then she smiles, and the world moves once more. Slipping away from the masked man, she closes the distance between her and Rahat. “Yes, this is much better than a white sheet.” She reaches out a hand, smoothing down their jacket lapel. It is a gesture she has done countless times before. It has never meant anything. ( Can you pretend it still doesn’t? ) “The cape is a nice touch. It’s not a crown, but it’ll do.”
THEY’RE NOT ONE to exaggerate, but for a moment, it had felt as if all of time itself had come to a standstill, as if everyone around them had become frozen in place, fading slowly out of view until only Zoya stood before them, a mere few strides away, looking as stunning as ever. Rahat does feel stunned, the way they haven’t in too long a time. Gazing at her now, they see it clearly, the very thing they’ve been attempting to push away since the nights spent together in her home last November, the two of them mutually in pain over Polly’s disappearance, both at a loss for what to do next. It reveals itself to them, like an old photograph slipping out from between the pages of a long-forgotten journal, and in an instant, Rahat is younger, much younger. And Zoya is too, and as they stand there, they remember.
She is an up and coming actress, a rising star, taking on bigger roles with every passing production, moving closer to the forefront for her curtain calls, earning louder rounds of applause each time, smiling as she bows gracefully onstage. They are a student, still one even after years of schooling already finished, learning as much as they can about the strange and uncanny path they’ve chosen for themself, and they watch her performances, are given special seats now that they’ve mended their friendship, taking some of the best views in the house as her guest. And though they’ve never seen her as anything other than a friend before that moment of realization, something had changed then, in a way that bothered them for how different it was — how unlike them it seemed to feel the way they had felt.
And yet, all too quickly, Rahat had quashed the feeling, had swept it under the rug in denial of it, refusing to allow themself to succumb to the idea. Improbable to begin with, likely to throw a wrench into the connection they’d only just found again, and the whirlwind week of daydreams and visions they’d had of the two of them walking hand in hand by the coast had been all but cast aside for something more real, something more practical. Rahat would not allow themself to fall for her, the way so many other admirers have, and they would not allow themself to become one face among many in the crowd, staring longingly up at someone too bright and distant to reach. And one more time, they endeavor to call to that same conviction now, to stop from falling in, to keep from daring to see her beneath a different light than they always have. Rahat knows their place. Knows precisely where they belong.
Rahat allows for a lopsided smile to come to them as she approaches, everything around them resuming once again as soon as they decide to push their thoughts back. She closes the distance between the two of them, and Rahat sees her in full detail, everything about her meticulously-chosen outfit, her immaculately made hair now closer than it was previously. She reaches out, casually, almost thoughtlessly, to smooth down their outfit, and comments something they’re only disappointed they hadn’t predicted themself. “Polly made it. I deserve none of the credit.” They hold tightly onto the smirk, school their expression, keep their emotions manageable, before briefly tilting their head over to her.
“You look radiant,” they say, at once casually and meaningfully. But Rahat, being Rahat, downplays it with an added remark. “As always, of course.”
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