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“Your mouth is open,” Ava supplied. He snapped it shut — “Oh, umm, this is for you,” he presented the lavender bouquet to Brahmi who accepted it like it was a live-wire bomb of precious jewel stones.

She brought it to her chest and hugged it close.

He rose to his feet and presented the second one to Ava.

The deep fuchsia flowers complemented the pale colour of her dress, and the shine in her eyes.

“Thank you,” her fingers tightened around the ribboned stalk.

“Thank you, Sam!” Brahmi quipped, remembering her manners from her mother’s cue.

“May I have the honour of escorting you two princesses to the ball?” He held out both hands. While Brahmi’s fell instantly into his, it took Ava a second longer to give her his. When she gave it though, he closed his fingers firmly around it.

————————————————————

His driver rolled their car to a stop outside the old chateau he had chosen for this evening. Its windows were lit with hundreds of golden fairy lights and candles, creating that old-world glow. The iron gates swung open at their approach, and Brahmi gasped so loudly it made Ava and him chuckle.

“Why are there no cars except ours?” She asked.

“Because this is a private ball,” Samarth answered. “Arranged in your honour.”

“For me only?”

“You and Mama.”

Her broken-toothed smile was blinding.

“I don’t know how to ball dance,” she dropped.

“I can teach you, if you want.”

“How do you know ball dance? Did you go to Bal des Débutantes too?”

Samarth glanced at Ava over her head, then back at his daughter — “No. I was invited many years ago but I was playing polo on that day.”

Her dreamy face went thoughtful. “That’s a difficult choice.”

“Very,” he agreed.

“Mama was also invited but didn’t go.”

“Why?” Samarth asked.

“She was playing cricket.”

“Was she?” He glanced back up at her again and the truth was written stark on her face. She had chosen not to attend because she had promised her life to a fool in her head years ago.

“Anyway,” he stressed. “Now you are both invited for a private ball. Ready?”

“Ready!”

“Ready, Ava?”

She nodded.

His side of the door was opened and Samarth got down, then held a hand out for his daughter.

She took it elegantly, slowly learning the etiquette of walking in her heels.

He loved the lady-behaviour and her little poised nods.

But she reached a little higher than his waist and he suddenly didn’t want her to grow up. Not so soon at least.

Samarth swallowed the feeling and reached one hand inside for Ava. With both his ladies on his arms, he led them inside the grand ballroom.

It had been transformed into something out of a child’s dream: Polished wooden floors. A velvet-draped dais where a string quartet tuned their instruments. Clusters of white roses and night-sky blue hydrangeas. Glass lanterns casting soft constellations across the ceiling.

A world where a girl like Brahmi could believe she could fly.

They stopped at the entrance and the ma?tre d’ stood ready with two jewelled tiaras on a platter.

Brahmi gasped. Samarth picked up the smaller tiara with diamonds studded in its rim and bent down to slide it into her temple.

Her mouth opened in a long oval O, her eyes rolling upwards to see the sparkles.

He couldn’t help it, he reached down and kissed her temple.

Her eyes came to him and she kissed his cheek.

He chuckled, then rose up to pick the larger tiara.

“I’m good,” Ava tried to get out of it.

“Please, Mama! See? Mine looks so pretty, doesn’t it?” She twirled, holding the tiara up with one hand. Ava couldn't keep a straight face.

“Come on, Raje,” he pleaded, tiara held close to her temple. She stilled. Her big eyes blinked at him. And he went on to slide the tiara into her temple, waiting for her to resist. She did not.

“So pretty!!” Brahmi clapped her hands together.

“Isn’t she?” He agreed, standing back and admiring Ava.

“I love this surprise!” She held the tiara with both hands now. “Can I keep it?”

“Brahmi.” Her mother warned.

“Of course you can. It is yours.” Samarth cut her off. Then low in Ava’s ear he added — “It’s real, make sure to store it safely when you get home. Both of them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why did you get a real tiara…?”

“Because I want her to always remember this night. Because I want you to always look at it and remember what it means.”

Her gaze set in his and a long moment elapsed between them. Then the string quartet struck a soft chord. Samarth turned.

“Come now, the first dance is about to begin,” he took both of them by their hands and escorted them delicately to the table for three laid with flutes of sparkling water with raspberries. He saw from the corner of his eyes how Ava smiled.

“Mademoiselle,” he seated Ava and bowed to her. “The first dance is a Father-Daughter dance. May I borrow Brahmi?”

“If she would like to go,” Ava sat back, looking at their daughter.

“I would, I would,” she held her hand out even before he had opened his. Samarth laughed, taking it gently into his and leading her away.

“You know, my father is in South America with the horses?”

“Hmm?” His voice went hoarse as he stopped in the centre of the ballroom and stood in front of her. The quartet crescendo trailed to a stop, signalling the beginning of the song.

“Can I have the honour of this dance that is meant for your father?” He asked.

“He is not here, so yes.”

He bowed and she did something that resembled a curtsy but was so cute that he would take it over a curtsy any day.

“Come here,” he pulled her up on his shoes and held her in his arms. “You go three steps to the side,” he tapped to the beats to demonstrate “Then three steps back,” he went back, making her giggle. “Three steps to the side, then three to the back,” he continued, circling them in the centre.

“I know I know!” She jumped down from his shoes and he nodded — “Ready?”

“Ready!”

Samarth took her gently and stepped to the side.

She went with him, a natural. Then he went back and she fumbled, laughing just as graciously in her misstep.

She could laugh at herself again and again after goofing up and he had a feeling that she would preserve that spirit all her life — the classic quality needed to be a royal.

The quality he had slowly and steadily imbibed from his own father.

“Slow, Sam!” She laughed as he went with the beats. Whenever she fumbled, he would just twirl her and smoothen the misstep over. They went round and round, he took her in his arms and swirled her around, her giggles loud and musical. His heart was beating to it now, not the quartet.

When the song ended, he dipped her low, kissed her forehead, and escorted her back to her seat, setting her down like a tiny, precious jewel. He picked a flute of sparkling water and handed it to her. She took a sip, then made a face as tingles burst on her tongue.

“It was a pleasure, mademoiselle.” Samarth bowed his head to her.

“Monsieur,” she bowed back, such a natural now. He reached down and kissed the top of her head. Then turned to the woman whose face was again a still sea.

He held his hand out. “Avantika Kumari Raje of Gwalior," he asked, only loud enough for her ears. “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”

She glanced from his eyes to his hand. He knew she would decline. Still he kept his hand out, ready for the sting of that rejection, craving it even. It was his duty to keep coming to her doorstep, and an honour to even be worthy of her rejection. He would keep doing it again and again.

“My ball will remain incomplete without you,” he announced earnestly.

Ava’s eyes dropped. Her hand rose. His chest stuttered. Her fingers slid into his like a sigh giving up.

And in the middle of the glowing, secret ballroom — under the music and the light and the unbearable weight of eight lost years — he pulled her up and into his arms, and began to rewrite history.

They glided to the centre of the ballroom, their eyes locked, their feet in sync even if their bodies were apart.

“Do you need a lesson on my toes?” He asked, their bodies already closing in to bow to each other.

“Will you be able to hop around with my weight?”

“What’s wrong with your weight?”

“It’s a lot of muscle plus baby weight.”

“Mmm? But this still did not grow,” he tapped the top of her head and found her still surface broken.

Before she could retaliate and attack his thankfully closed throat, the quartet struck and he lifted her in a twirl.

She gasped, laughed, then quickly touched her feet to the floor and matched his steps.

This one was a fast song. He hadn’t danced the ball in decades, only learned it as part of the international royal etiquette.

She was flawless at it though, at times pushing him into his lead even before he realised she was.

“Have you done this too often?” He asked.

“No. Why?”

“You are making me look like a frog.”

“Stop hopping then.”

“Kiss me and make me a prince.”

Ava threw her head back and laughed. “How many times did you practise this joke?”

“Not nearly enough times for this reaction.”

Her laughter melted. As did the song. It trailed into a slow, soft number. Samarth drew her closer to himself by the waist and took a peek at their daughter from the corner of his eyes. She was being served a platter of hors d’oeuvres.

“Thank you, Ava.”

“For coming?”

“For existing. For making her exist. For still existing in my world after all that has happened. For taking a dream we both made and giving it a life.” His hand trailed up her back and cupped the back of her head — “I never stopped dreaming of you, even when I stopped dreaming for myself.”

Her head dropped. Dropped, dropped, dropped until her forehead rested on his chin. He slowly pushed it up and opened the alcove of his throat for her. She went in.

“Raje?”

“Hmm?”

“I am not stopping this time.”

No response.