The timing of the Vampire Balls never seemed fortuitous. The last one had been held far too soon after Ruffina's death. The one in Austria in 1615 was far too soon after Claude's. But once arranged, they were nearly impossible to postpone. There was far too much planning involved, too many delicate negotiations, too much security.

Blaine and Olivia, still grieving for their friend, attended. It was expected, and there was to be a Council meeting afterwards. But nobody, not even Hans, expected Genevieve to attend the ball.

Hans' castle in the Austrian mountains was one of those fairy tale confections where you expected to see a long-haired princess in every tower and unicorns gambolling in the gardens. It was a far cry from the grim stone walls of Chateau de Monet. Olivia, even though her heart still ached from Claude's death, smiled at the sight of gaily coloured banners snapping in the night wind.

It was the height of Jacobean fashion; velvets, ropes of pearls, slashed doublets and jewelled shoes. All the Princes descending upon Austria seemed to have stepped from the pages of the same fairy tale as the castle. Perfumes wafted through the air.

Not everyone mourned Claude, either. Blaine's eyes narrowed as he saw Rodrigo and Ingrid laughing together, climbing the stairs arm in arm as if a married couple. What an ungodly alliance that would be! Bad enough they plotted together at council meetings. Lothar, Ingrid's consort and successor, trailed behind unhappily. Blaine caught Olivia's mouth twitching at the sight–she despised Lothar.

Hans, who always looked tired, greeted his guests regally as they arrived. He kissed Olivia on the cheek and pressed Blaine's hand.

"No word from Genevieve?" he asked anxiously.

Blaine shook his head, his eyes sweeping the room. Zalyina of Russia was talking quietly with Kalonice of Greece. Monique of the Low Countries had swept over to join Rodrigo and Ingrid as they entered. Yves of Switzerland was watching them curiously. Nils of Scandinavia had brought Paavali, his pale successor, and was pointing out features of the castle to him.

Olivia, beside Blaine, gave a little sigh. How could anyone rejoice, with Claude so recently dead; how could they have a ball without Claude? He had been a fine dancer; how much she had enjoyed watching him with Genevieve. Blaine knew what she was thinking and gave her hand a squeeze. Somehow, they would have to get through this.

Then, incredibly, there was a stir in the room. Even Princes gaped in disbelief. The newest Prince had come to the ball.

Oh... gods. Blaine's heart went out to her. Genevieve looked... fragile. Proud and tall, head erect, but utterly fragile, like a soap bubble. He moved towards her to offer her his arm, but Carmine... Carmine! was there first. The Italian Prince bowed and offered to escort Gen across the room. She quietly accepted, gave Blaine a regal nod, and the two crossed the floor so that she could greet Hans. She hesitated only once, when she saw Ingrid and Rodrigo whisper to each other, but Carmine whispered something in her ear and they continued.

After greeting Hans, Genevieve looked close to collapse. Again Carmine moved before Blaine could, and fetched a chair for the widow, and brought her a glass of wine. Such kind attentions drew jealous murmurs from Rodrigo and Ingrid. Rodrigo, in fact, made such an unkind remark about Carmine having designs on France's Prince that it took all of Blaine's self-control not to challenge Rodrigo to a duel. Blaine instead settled for an angry reply and stalked off.

Kalonice of Greece went to speak to Genevieve, and Carmine finally left her side. The ball commenced, though it was likely the least joyous one in the history of the Council to date. The dances were all slow and without heart in them. The usual gay chatter was subdued. Even unquenchable Blaine found it hard to be cheerful; every time he looked at Genevieve, magnificent in her grief, his heart bled.

Carmine did not hover over Genevieve, although he did stop by her chair several times for conversation. Narrowed eyes watched this attention, jealous lips speculated on what it might mean. It was observed that Gen often turned to gaze at the Italian Prince when he was dancing with other women.

Blaine was surprised when Carmine approached him in quest of a private conversation. The Italian Prince requested, almost humbly (for Carmine) that Blaine give Genevieve some quick pointers before the Council meeting began the following evening. Carmine feared the wolves–Ingrid, Rodrigo, Monique–would be circling so obvious a target. Blaine agreed, surprised at what seemed to be genuine concern for the newest, most vulnerable Prince. Carmine thanked him and strode off to ask Olivia to dance.

"You've been very kind to Gen," Olivia observed under the cover of the music.

"She deserves kindness," Carmine replied. "She will get precious little."

"You deserve kindness, too, Carmine."

He met her eyes. "Ah, Olivia. How fortunate Blaine is. Does he realize that?"

"I remind him every night."

To everyone's surprise, most likely including Genevieve's, Blaine managed to get her to dance with him. She trembled for a terrible moment, then mastered herself. She was Prince. Ah, but the look in her eyes would have given Blaine sleepless nights but for one small impediment.

She also accepted a dance with Carmine. Blaine, now dancing with his wife, watched them but Carmine was a fox. If he had any designs other than kindness to a grieving widow, they were invisible to observers. Afterwards, he bowed and left her side. She'd said something to him, but neither Blaine nor Olivia could hear what.

Genevieve excused herself to her host after that dance. Olivia whispered something quickly to Blaine and went with Gen.

Genevieve seemed slightly lost, and not in the physical sense. Olivia was nearly overwhelmed with pity for her. She could not imagine losing Blaine. At least she would not have to worry about being thrust into being Prince; Diccon was successor. Gen had loved Claude so very much that his death must feel like part of her heart was gone.

Arm around Genevieve's slim shoulders, Olivia followed Hans' servant through the castle to a princely guest bedroom. It was hours yet til dawn, but Gen had obviously had enough. To have even come to the ball showed a core of steel few had suspected.

At last they reached the room. The servant bowed them into it and left them, assuring the ladies he was at their service and would be just outside should they need him.

Now that she no longer needed present a strong image for the Council, Genevieve nearly collapsed. Olivia, swearing she would not tell anyone, even Blaine, undressed her like a child or doll, helped her into a nightdress, and tucked her into bed.

"Will you tell me one thing, Gen?" she asked as she drew the covers over the exhausted French Prince.

"Quoi?" Genevieve asked, tonelessly.

"What did Carmine say to you, when he whispered in your ear?"

A smile, but one without humour. "He said, 'Courage. For France.' He gave me courage."

There was something, almost, in Genevieve's voice, that made Olivia look at her. "Oh, cherie, you don't love Carmine?"

"Dieu, non," came the reply. "But he was very kind. As are you. Thank you, Olivia."

"I would do anything for you, Genevieve."

Olivia offered to stay til almost dawn, but Genevieve refused to allow her. Insisted she go back to her husband and the ball. Then the French Prince sank her head back onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.

But no tears fell. More troubled over this lack of weeping than she could really explain, Olivia bent over and kissed Gen's forehead, then found the servant to guide her back downstairs. Never had she less felt like returning to a ball. But it was expected of her, and she did it, shaking her head at Blaine's murmured, well-meaning questions.

She watched the others as she returned, near-hatred for Ingrid and Rodrigo in her heart. How could they whisper and laugh? Were they heartless?

Blaine saw the look Carmine was shooting at the unholy pair, as well. He remembered something Claude had said, that he felt they could safely leave Ingrid's fate in Carmine's hands.

"Make it soon, Carmine," he muttered.

Olivia stared at her husband. "What?" she asked.

"Never mind. I've had enough, Olivia. With Gen retired, I think we can safely make our excuses to Hans as well. Let's to bed."

"Yes, all right."

______________

At the Council meeting the following night, Genevieve showed no sign of her collapse after the ball. She was all ice and steel. She did not flinch when Rodrigo accused her of being too young and emotional to be Prince. Nor did she demur when Ingrid pointed out that she had only one fledgling, and Princes were supposed to be masters. She rose to each challenge magnificently.

Blaine, watching her, couldn't help feeling that Claude would have been proud of his wife. She was a true Prince. Even Monique was, grudgingly, admiring Gen's performance.

Rodrigo and Ingrid were the only ones on the entire Council who objected to Genevieve being named Prince of France. The motion of acceptance passed. Not only had she proven that she was truly Claude's heir, but there were, really, no other candidates. No doubt Ingrid and Rodrigo had hoped for that, that they might split France between them.

"So sorry you won't get to claim France, old chap," Blaine told Rodrigo once the meeting broke up.

Olivia, Kalonice and Zalyina had gone to speak to Gen. Other Princes were milling about, waiting for a chance to speak to the new affirmed Prince of France. Blaine caught an enigmatic glance from Carmine.

Rodrigo snorted. "I will get my chance," he said, "when the widow's legs are spread for me."

Swords were permitted Princes and consorts at meetings, but Blaine never wore one. The military facade had never interested him. Now he deeply regretted such an oversight.

"If you ever say anything like that again, Rodrigo Longoria de Quinones, I shall behead you on the spot. Excuse, me, I need fresh air."

Ignoring Rodrigo's thunderstorm expression, Blaine stomped over to rejoin his wife and the other women.

"A word, Gen," he said quietly.

She looked at him and moved slightly aside with him. "Oncle Blaine?" she asked.

"Watch Rodrigo. Be careful of him."

The French Prince raised an eyebrow, and turned to look at Rodrigo. "Why?" she asked.

Blaine leaned forward to ensure noone else, even with vampiric hearing, could listen in. "He wants you, Gen," he said. "As a possession, not an equal."

"I see," Gen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Thank you for telling me."

"Forewarned is forearmed. I am confident you can handle him, though."

"Yes," she said. "Do not worry."

Blaine nodded and said, "I wasn't going to. You are Prince."

Genevieve smiled. "Yes. I am Prince."