where the world will never find you -- open

[Sirra Black]

'What are you doing here, Sirra,' she whispered low to herself. She stood just inside the ornate doors that led into the ballroom, watching the colors blur and swirl around her. How in the world she let herself be pressured into this one was beyond her. The whole palace knew about the ball tonight, and all of the servants were atwitter. It was a masked event, and they could easily slip among the royalty and never be caught. Put the mask on, steal a dress and dance away until just before midnight. Run away before the clock struck and you would never be caught. Sirra had slipped the dresses out of different rooms for the other younger girls but never imagined she would find herself in one, and be standing here among the very people that she hated the most in this world. The rich and spoiled, people who couldn't see past the tip of their nose. No, she most certainly did not belong here. One hand pressed against the wall that stood behind her.It was only a few steps to the exit, all she had to do was turn and go, yet something held her here. Perhaps it was the danger of getting caught in such an act. In the time she had spent with the royal family, the most excitement she gained was stealing something more for dinner, not exactly an activity that started the blood pumping.


Music drifted through the background, its presence almost like a ghost this far back. There, but barely noticeable. To her it lacked the feeling of music back home. She had never been one for dancing, but to hear the rhythmn of the music as she moved through the streets was unlike anything else she had ever heard before. To watch the lower classes dance bare feet in the dust was beauty, this to her, was nothing but a show. A show put on that lacked all the passion that music was supposed to have. A room full of cowards who hid behind a mask was all that she saw.


Yet here she was, committing the same sin of hiding who she was from the world. From behind the elegant, yet simple black mask she observed the room. Her hazel eyes were sharp, attentive to every whirl of a skirt, or flash of a jewel. How easily these people danced without a care, it would be a simple task to slip one of the expensive jewels from their wrist. But what good would it do? Stuck in this foreign land she would have no use for it. Her hand curled slightly into a fist, only a brief moment before she let it relax against the folds of her skirt. The dress was simple compared to the rather excessive ones that seemed to be so in style. A red color that complemented the darker tone of her skin. Very little jewels covered the front of it. Gloves covered her Haydn's, hiding the scars that marred them, and the rougher texture that signified that perhaps she wasn't supposed to be mingling among these kind.


A scoff passed her red painted lips before she moved across the room. Despite the folds and fabric of her dress she moved swiftly, her steps silent. Not that it mattered, no much could be heard about the mass of people that danced in the room. Suddenly overwhelmed, she couldn't take the amount of people, the closeness of them. She moved outside, to a balcony. As soon as the cool night air hit her skin she closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been so long since she spent a night beneath the stars, with no rules. As free and wild as the wind that tugged at her hair now. It was tied back, held with ribbons, twisted and curled so much that it no longer felt like her own, but a sort of wig that laid there. Pieces of hair had fallen loose now, and moved in the light breeze that drifted through the air.


There lingered some people here, but they kept to themselves. No one glanced up to see the woman who had emerged from the part to stand against the railing. Lovers strolling made up most of the couples that sat on the benches, or moved out towards locations of more privacy. The air was fresh, held nothing of the staleness of the ball room. No ladies perfume choked her here, there was only the gentle scent of flowers from the garden. "What are you doing here?" she asked herself softly once more underneath her breath. She had always known she didn't belong among these people, so what had gotten into her tonight?

[Ivan Silvashko]

On-duty servants across the palace were bracing themselves for disasters, while anyone lucky enough to have earned an evening off through this ball was who knew where. Rumour had it several servants were sneaking into the ball itself - what a terrible idea. If they were caught they were risking their jobs and their homes in the castle, and if they weren't they would soon find out that it took more than a dress and a mask to fit in with nobility. Any who passed the harsh criticism of looks had to contend with strict etiquette and mannerism that, while completely natural for a person who'd been brought up using six forks and learning the proper honorific for every human being who might cross their path, was often completely unfathomable for lowly servants. What was the goal, in the end, anyway? To impress a nobleman (or woman), and then... never speak to him or her again? Did they really expect the immense complication of rank to be swept away by life at first meeting? Chances were their target was already betrothed. It was all trouble with no possible beneficial ending.

Of course, the very idea of abandoning one's station to impersonate a higher rank was abhorrent in principal to Ivan in the first place. He had no business in the castle most days, but tonight he'd been asked to help with the decoration of the ballroom. He narrowly avoided being drafted into serving drinks by stuttering out something about draping the hedges out front with some silly, wispy little fabric that sparkled in the right light. And then, unable to simply let things be, he'd hung candles (with utmost caution, needless to say) among the branches of the hedges, so that the fabric sparkled from any angle. He had been planning to slip away after that, missing the beginning of the ball by mere moments, when a harried-looking serving woman had thrust a platter of cheese into his hands, pointed at a table, and said, "Go!" He'd gone without a thought.

This was how he'd wound up lurking in a corner of the grand ballroom, completely underdressed even for a servant in his shaggy jacket and too big tunic, his hair flying in all different directions from an earlier bout of windiness on the grounds. He was trying very hard not to be noticed, and was doing a reasonably good job of it until a man had suddenly cried out, "Jovan, where is Jovan!"

Everyone within a ten foot radius froze and turned to stare at the man. He was easily identified as an old duke of Russia, who was at the moment very, very drunk. Several servants rushed to him, their concern virtually tangible, but he waved them off with increasing distress until he was sobbing as only the thoroughly inebriated can manage. "Silvashko, Silvasko, you horrible disloyal dog," He cried out to room, and not for the first time Ivan cursed the ignorance of nobles. Could they not be bothered to familiarize with more than one palace hand? Improper dress be damned, Ivan decided, striding away from the safety of his corner. The moment the duke clapped eyes on him the wailing receded and a large, wobbly hand reached out to clap him on the shoulder. "There you are, Jovan, my boy! I've been looking for you!" He said happily, a dramatically changed man from ten seconds ago. Ivan did not bother to correct the man, but gently inquired after the problem.

The duke had forgotten.

With a smile to all those watching the scene, Ivan transferred care of the man to his personal servant, and slipped away from the crowd that had accumulated. He headed immediately to the exit, hoping to find his way to the woods where he could surely find something to do for the next few hours. As long as he was away from this madness, he did not mind.

Unfortunately for him, the path to the door was completely blocked first by swirling dancers, twirling to the music in rhythms more complex than he cared to contemplate, and then by chatting, snacking men and women who he dared not approach in any way. He stared hopelessly across the floor to distant liberty, feeling distraught at the idea of being trapped here in this room, victim to judgmental stares from anyone who caught sight of him. He stood silently cursing his horrible luck when all of a sudden a gap opened up in the middle of the dancefloor; if he could only make it there quickly, he'd be out in seconds!

Of course he got only halfway to the pass before the first couple plowed right into him. Both the dancers and he were thrown off balance, headed in different directions but both stumbling dizzily. Then the next couple collided with him, and he was stumbling in a different direction, and it continued this way until he was too addled to figure out where exactly he was. But he smelled fresh air and surged toward it, somehow reached a pair of doors that brought him to the relative saftey. With a dramatic sigh, Ivan leaned against the wall of the building, just outside the vast room. He glanced back into the building to see the dancefloor in chaos, men picking completely indignant women up off the floor and others yelling at each other (clearly searching for whoever was at fault). Reaching into his pocket hastily, Ivan pulled out his hat and pulled it down over his head. Not a perfect disguise, but maybe now he could slip away.

He walked only a few steps forward before he was stopped again. A soft voice had called him out, had asked him what he had been hoping to avoid answering - "What are you doing here?" He pulled a face and turned to the woman addressing him, only to see that she was turned away from him. Puzzled, he stepped toward her.

"Er, pardon me? Were you talking to me?" He asked, head cocked to one side, ready to bolt if necessary to avoid the wrath of a higher rank. Normally Ivan would never disrespect a noble by turning his back on them, but right now he was already in enough trouble, and he didn't want to be there, and he was really getting a little worked up. "Because I never meant to be here, really, if I was supposed to be here I would have dressed nicer, except I was only supposed to be hanging a few lights and, um, and stuff, and I've been trying to leave only it's so crowded I can't quite get away, and I will certainly leave if you want me to..."

He trailed off, flustered. She hadn't asked for his life story, for God's sake. He hoped she would spare him with little more than a scornful look. Then he could go chop wood or something. Forget about his social awkwardness by working himself to exhaustion. Oh yes, good plan.

[Sirra Black]

The voice cut through the night, the sudden presence of a person there catching her off guard. For the briefest of moments, her heart stopped, worried that she had been caught and picked out as a servant. That was the only reason she had in her mind that someone might speak to her tonight. She turned swiftly, perhaps far too much so for someone who might be here under normal circumstances. She should have heard the subtle movement of someone approaching her, should have sensed the breaking of the air or the sound of breathing. Living with royalty was desensitizing her, and the fact that she was loosing her senses irritated her. She needed to get away ,escape, but for now was trapped in this country.


But her moment of panic was wasted as soon as she turned to face the man who had disturbed her moment of peace. A servant, but not one that she knew. Unless some noble thought it would be entertaining to dress as a servant that night. That would seem strange, but she had found that those of noble blood often did things that made little sense. His words began to tumble out of his mouth, such a waste of the stables. It seemed he was talking for the sheer pleasure of hearing the words come form his lips. His body hummed with the sense of nerves. It was more than a small bit obvious that he would rather be anywhere else on earth than standing here beside her. It seemed her disguise worked once more. The man thought her to be of social standing, and there for was regarding her as much. He hinted that all it would take was a simple word and he would be gone from her presence.


It was only then that her ears picked up the sounds of distress that emitted from the ball room. A quick glance told her that the dancers seemed put out, as if something, or someone had disturbed their peaceful motions. Her eyes moved back to settle on the servant before her. Was he the cause of this mess and now looking for an escape? It would explain for the useless words that he spilled only just a moment ago.

"My words were not for you," she muttered before turning her gaze back towards the sky. Her accent was noticeable, her word rolling off her tongue easily. She was lucky enough to have lived with a higher society, so formal speaking did not feel strange to her. Keep it short, distant, and stiff. It was the way to keep people at bay. No matter if this was a servant. She could just as much get into trouble by letting him know that she wasn't supposed to be here as she could by letting a noble know.

[Ivan Silvashko]

The woman seemed completely unimpressed with Ivan, and completely disinterested. Typical foreign noble - he could hear now, her Spanish accent - never able to spare a thought for lowly servingmen. Not that he really wanted her to think of him much but oh, too late, she'd heard the disruption in the ballroom and was looking into it, looking back at him, adding two and two together (not that Ivan could do math, of course). He wondered if she would get him in trouble, call a guard to have him removed.

No, a few passing words and she was turned away again, eyes fixed on the night sky. Ivan followed her gaze for a moment, wondering what on Earth she could find more fascinating out there than in the ballroom. Of course he had no interest in balls and dresses and who was eating what, who had had too much to drink, who the most handsome man at the ball was - but he was a man, first off, and second a servant. As far as he knew this was all nobles ever did to entertain themselves, and she really ought to be dancing around like the rest of them or at least observing the action so that she could tell her friends back home about in a ridiculously long letter with all those flowing cursive letters with those carefully dotted i's. Ivan had only seen one letter from a lady to her friend, but it had been ridiculous enough to fit the wealthy personae, and therefore had become his expectation from all women of a rank higher than commoner. Besides, the sky never did anything different. It was always the same billion blinking lights farther away from him than he could even imagine. Maybe they were more fascinating for a person with a higher level of education.

Ivan turned his eyes away again, ready to seek out the nearest exit and make his break for it, when he noticed something strange about the gown the woman was wearing. He spoke without thinking (a rarity for him, but he was clearly more loose-lipped tonight than usual), "Hey, I think Lady Viacheslav has that same dress!"

The moment he said it out loud, a frown crossed his face. Yes, the lady did. And now that he thought of it, this woman did not look like any of the Spanish nobility he'd ever seen around the palace before, and he thought he'd gotten a pretty good look at them all, as they'd all arrived while he was transferring a rather forlorn looking little tree from the front garden to the back, replacing it with a robust young sapling. Unless they had sent another carriage with Ivan's knowledge, this woman was not a member of the convoy from Spain. And it was highly unlikely that they had. And this woman was wearing a dress that Lady Viacheslav also owned. Ivan's eyes narrowed. He sensed that something unwholesome was afoot.

It was none of his business, but he couldn't help himself.

"What's your name, my lady?" he asked, his eyes narrowed.

All thoughts of a quick escape pushed from his mind, Ivan was now the one doing the critical scrutinizing. He noted that the woman was wearing very little jewellery, especially compared to the majority of other women he could see even just glancing around the balcony. The dress seemed a tad plain for the occasion, and although her mask and hair fit the bill, as far as Ivan's untrained eye could determine, the more he thought about the less the woman seemed like she belonged. Why would she be standing out on the balcony alone at a function designed for dancing? Why would she let the wind tousle her perfectly, painstakingly place curls if she had no companion to share the night air with? He thought about the way she'd seemed surprised when he'd approached. That must mean that she was neither expecting to be approached, nor waiting for someone else. In fact, she had drawn his attention with "What are you doing here?' She hadn't been speaking to him. To herself, then?

It was all very suspicious. Ivan was rather pleased with himself for spotting it.

[Sirra Black]

With her dismissal complete, she thought for sure that the servant would move along. That was what they were taught to do after all, wasn't it? Leave so that they weren't even breathing the same air when their presence wasn't desired. It was the rule that she most enjoyed about being a servant, because more often than not, their presence in a room was undesired. She had no want to observe how these people lived as nothing more than a shadow on the wall. Her only want was to get as far away from that air that they breathed as possible. It was rank, filled with lies and deceit. There was no one to trust in the world of nobles. Not that there was anyone to be trusted in the world at that point. She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the railing, and placing her chin in her hand. Her eyes may have been focused on the sky, but it was oh so obvious to her that the servant was not doing as he was supposed to, and staying quite stubbornly there.

With his nervous habits she figured that he would take the first moment that her gaze wasn't on him, and flee. If he had any intelligence, that was. Though she sensed him there, she didn't look at him. Even if she was on the same social rung as him, he was of no matter to her. Perhaps that would come across as the snobbish, noble attitude, and only help to her disguise. Or so she had hoped when she heard those damning words.

Nothing in her gaze betrayed her, her eyes did not flicker, but for a brief moment which would have been virtually invisible to the servant. She pushed herself from the railing to face him. Though the evidence was against her, she did have to give him credit for being so observant. The average person wouldn't be able to pick out a dress worn by a noble only on one occasion. She offered nothing in response, just fixed her eyes on him for the briefest of moments. It didn't matter, soon more words tumbled from his lips.

"My name is of no importance before the hour strikes midnight," She answered simply enough. Though simple, there was a touch of ice in her tone, something she could never quite get rid of. But she could see the wheels turning in his head. He was starting to put it all together, starting from the words that she had spoken to herself. She should flee just as he should. She should remove herself from the ball before the truth was put out there, but the threat of danger only seemed to hold her there. The knowledge that perhaps she might be put in a situation where she would have to fight her way out, well it was far too exciting to pass up. Though, perhaps this servant would be easily fooled by her words.

[Ivan Silvashko]

Ivan was starting to regret his hasty words as the woman once again turned her icy gaze upon him. He swallowed nervously, fingers fidgetting with his sleeves, but refused to look away. He was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, and if she was innocent then she should have no objections to his asking. After all, in the case of his being mistaken, Ivan was convinced that he could easily wriggle his way out of trouble with a few well-placed words. Could he really be persecuted for being on guard for the honour of his beloved Russian nobles? Well, yes. Security wasn't actually his job, after all. And if he offended the Spanish, it could spell years of bad trade and hostility. Maybe he should back down. He really should back down. Only that dress -- he was certain Lady Viacheslav had that dress! It was a long story.

From the day he'd discovered his father's identity (the kitchen staff who raised him had waited until he was thirteen to let him no that his father was not dead, or even at sea, but within palace walls; perhaps not a very strategic move, as at thirteen boys are wont to be angry and over-react often, particularly in regard to their parents), Ivan had taken an understandable, but perhaps slightly unhealthy in an obsessive kind of way, interest in the man. Working as his father's inferior had provided him plenty of opportunities for observation, but it was the rare moments of idle time that truly intrigued Ivan. Now that he was without a family, what did he do when work was done? Who did he share spare evenings and meals with?

The lady Viacheslav was well-known throughout the castle for being frivolous and silly, as well as completely unheeding of ranks. Ivan really should not have been surprised that she acted as free with his father as she did, but he'd found himself riveted at the sight of her calling out to him, placing a hand on his arm, showing him a new, heavily-jewelled bracelet her great-uncle the Duke had gifted her with for her twenty-sixth birthday. Even more interesting was the way Jovan Silvashko smiled at the young woman, something Ivan hadn't seen in many months of watchfulness. Words were exchanged between the pair, more smiles, some significant glances, and suddenly the expressions passing between them were growing more and more suggestive. And then the young lady turned away in the direction of her chambers; when she reached the end of the hall she'd beckoned to the man who stayed behind, eyes never leaving her shapely form.

She'd been wearing that very dress.

Ivan's stomach twisted at the memory, but his ardour strengthened. He shook his head at her dismissive answer, saying, "Surely a proud young noblewoman as yourself should happily disclose her name to a servant of the hosting family? The handmaidens sometimes ask who wore the most beautiful dress, and wouldn't it be wonderful if I could tell them about how one stylish woman I met had taste almost as... as... tasteful as one of the ladies of our palace?" This was truly Ivan's best attempt at flattery. Could he truly be blamed for having been raised to hold his masters in reverence? (again, the answer is yes).

[Sirra Black]

Sirra kept her wits about her, even when she could see it all lining up in the young man's mind. A damn fool she had been, had she not just been thinking it a few moments before? Of all the girls who had planned to dress tonight, she would be the one caught, beaten and punished for it. Marked as a fool, and caught for the first time in her life in an immoral deed. Over what? A night beneath the stars where she couldn't even be herself. It wasn't as if she had arrived as some girls did - wishing to waltz the night away with a prince and become part of a secret romance. She hadn't hoped to get close to royalty, or gotten ahead of any other servant. So what had she done this for? To escape? No. She knew the answer even if she wasn't admitting it to herself now. As she shed the clothes of a servant, and bathed her skin in the warm scented oil, she knew what she was doing. For a moment she was allowing herself to travel back. Unlike the rest of the girls who had giggled and trashed about as they gotten dressed, in love with the new exciting fabric of the clothes, it was a ritual that felt all too familiar to Sirra. For just a moment, if she closed her eyes she was back with him again. Back to that only time where she could call herself happy. She had been blind perhaps, but ignorance had been her bliss.

What a fool she was to think that slipping on a dress would bring back that feeling of happiness. What a fool was she to think that Evan would appear here now, his warm and outstretched to take her away from this life as a servant. She'd rather be on the god damned streets than here, trapped to bow like a coward to another human being. And now, she was about to be found out. Spotted as a fake, and punished accordingly. Marked as the one who had ruined the fun of other servants on this night. She wasn't a fool in that sense - this servant would most certainly tell. She knew it in the way he spoke to her, the way he pried. Why else would he care but to go run and tattle to the nearest noble that could offer him some sort of reward.

Sirra closed her eyes tight, leaning her head back slightly so that the wind could brush back the locks of hair that had fallen into her eyes. The servant's voice cut through the moment of silence that had passed through them, jarring her for now, out of her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open and she turned to face him completely know.

"I am not so fickle," She spoke after a moment. Her tone was frigid, keeping a clear distance between herself and the man. And very clearly making sure that he knew there was no way she was letting him blackmail her, or have any hope of becoming friendly to her. It was almost insulting, to think that she would be concerned with who had the most beautiful dress of the nobles. Was beauty not subjective? But, she had to remind herself the presence in which she found herself. Yes, the nobles may sit at the top, but their hearts and souls were nothing but bottomless pits of the superficial and vain.

[Ivan Silvashko]

The smells of the night wafted across the balcony; the scent of food from laden tables within the hall, the spicy perfumes and body oils that drifted off the bodies of women, the damp grass that spread across the grounds in perfect green waves. It caught Ivan's attention as a particularly strong gust blew by, nearly knocking off his cap, ruffling leaves on trees that smattered the expanse of land before the mismatched pair. The result was heady, filling Ivan's head with thoughts and sounds and he took a moment to wonder how anyone could make a life out of these events, could base their lives around them. It was utterly baffling. The issue at hand was that this girl, standing beside him, couldn't possibly understand it either.

He decided it was time to stop dancing around the subject and cut to the chase.

"So, is the life of a servant so unpleasant to you that even an evening's escape is worth the risk of dismissal?" He didn't say it unkindly, didn't say it like he was accusing her. And he really was genuinely curious. What was she hoping to gain? He turned his face away from hers, leaned his back against the railing, looked back into the masquerade ballroom. The couples continued to swirl in a constant, repetitive motion that was nearly sickening. Each one looked nearly identical to the last - different colours, but essentially the same. They had perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect hands. They'd never worked a day in their lives, had no looks to spare the servants waiting on them hand and foot. Did Ivan consider it unjust? In truth, it simply wasn't his place to say. He wasn't naturally a passionate guy. Monarchies, aristocracies, the rich lording over the poor, all simply the way things were. He wasnt' going to get upset over it. He didn't consider it worth it.

He glanced back at his unwilling lady companion, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He should have been gone by now, and even now that he was certain she was a servant pretending to be a noble, even now that he'd accused her out loud and there were no more outs from this point on, he was neither returning to his duties or running to the authorities. He was just staring at her. Wondering about her. Prodding gently, looking for answers. He wasn't a hostile person, wasn't a judgmental person, wasn't the type to betray a peer. Wasn't the type to betray anyone at all. But what he was, was inquiring. He wanted to know; why had she come here, especially if she'd planned on isolating herself from others? If she'd planned on being cold and distant to whomever she encountered? If he asked, he suspected the answers she gave would continue to be fleeting, continue to be stubbornly evasive.

"I think you've got pretty awful luck, you know. I bet there are plenty of girls just like you who snuck into this ball. What are the chances that I happened to walk by you just as you were speaking, happened to know that dress you're wearing, happened to put it all together?" He tipped his head back and regarded the sky. Maybe there was something in it that was fascinating. The fact that it was so big. The fact that the stars were where they were. Was that a coincidence, too? Or was it all part of something bigger, that if only he could take enough steps back he would see? Big thoughts for a small, lowly young man. He smiled slightly and shook it all off, saying simply to the Spaniard, "Fate is such a strange thing."

He kept his eyes up, roving from dot of light to dot of light, before he finally settled his gaze on the moon. He suspected that by the time he looked down again she'd be gone. It was the kind of impression she gave off. The woman who's there one minute and gone the next, without so much as a first name. But then, she'd stayed this long, hadn't she?

[Sirra Black]

"You are bold to ask such a question," She spoke in return, instead of answering his question. He was bold, Sirra had to give him that. He was no longer dancing around the issue at hand, and that took some bravery. She lifted her gloved hands from the railing and turned to face him fully. Her gaze was no longer focused on the stars that were distant. Unattainable. She didn't answer his question straight away, she let silence settle between them once again. Why did he want to know such a thing? It didn't make much sense in her mind. Why would he care for the reason she chose to do this. What good would it do him? He should be running for the hills, to the nearest Spanish noble to get her in trouble. She wasn't too much worried about punishment. At the worst they took away her meals. But she knew how to get by without eating.

She knew that look he was giving her then. He was trying to find something out about her. Perhaps he was just a curious individual, though it was odd that someone came across such a person. The only reason people asked questions was to find something out for their own benefit, but she had yet to discover this man's. But, he was sharper than the average. He had noticed this dress out of countless others that a noble would wear. They never appeared in the same garment twice. She would be careful not to miscalculate the abilities of someone again.

As she suspected, it wasn't long before he spoke, even if she had gone on not to answer his question. "Fate has never been kind," She said. Though the way she spoke it suggested it wasn't in answer to his statement, and not for him to respond to altogether. Was fate not cruel to her? It put her in a life with no parents, gave her a false love, shoved her on the streets, and then finally into servanted. Though, the fact that her life was controlled by factors outside her own hands didn't settle well. Could nothing she do change the life that was chosen at her birth? The concept of fate bothered her. If fate was real, then it made her decisions in life useless thoughts.

Still, through out all this, she never answered his question. She never said that she was a servant or not. If the man was smart enough to gather it, then he should know it without confirmation. If she spoke the words out loud, there might be someone who caught it. And if this servant didn't betray her, then there would be another who would rat her out without a seconds breath. Although she was not afraid of whatever punishment that would persue her, she was not actively seeking it out.

[Ivan Silvashko]

The masked woman continued to evade his questions, continued to deny - no, not even to deny, simply deflect - the accusation that she was a servant playing dress-up. It was starting to irritate Ivan. A lot. He didn't understand why she wouldn't give up the game when it was so clearly lost. The more he thought about it, the more the frown grew between his thick eyebrows. He'd just been curious. And really, this was quickly becoming ridiculous. He hadn't reported her so far, so why would he go do it now? She didn't seem to get that as servants they ought to be allies on some level, and according to unspoken codes that had always been followed in Ivan's lifetime, servants supported each other, covered for each other, and although they never did so while the nobles could see it, they stood united in small ways that helped them get by. Perhaps things were different in Spain, but even if they were this woman was simply being unreasonable.

Bold, she called him, well she was awfully bold to be so callous. The more she provoked him with her whimsical, substanceless little additions to the conversation - "Fate has never been kind," as if she was one of the Roma, telling fortune for coin at the carnival - the more likely he was to lose his temper and push her off the balcony. Of course, that was a terrible idea. It would look, to others, as if he'd just offed a noblewoman, and if he told the story he'd be punished for not alerting the authorities immediately. Best not to draw attention to them... But the boy could dream.

Ivan scowled in irritation and turned his back to her. She seemed a lost cause. "So you're dressed up as someone else, I've caught on to you, and you're not going to deny it? You're not going to react at all? You're just going to stand here, staring dramatically into the night, refusing to talk to nobles and servants alike? That makes a lot of sense. Get dressed up and go to the ball so that you can act snobbish and rude. Attend a social event to be anti-social. Alright, I get it." He pushed away from the banister, frustrated, sick of Miss High-And-Mighty pretender. Perhaps his outburst was a little uncalled for, and the mature thing to do would be to leave the scene calmly, with less insults, to not lash out. But maybe it was just Ivan's age showing through his grown-up looks. Hard work had added years to his shoulders and face, but had not quite aged his mind to fit.

He had not ventured more than three steps, however, when the very drunk duke who had started all of the evening's troubles for Ivan in the first place staggered out onto the balcony, waving his crystal champage glass in the air and blinking blearily about, looking for a familiar face to fraternize with. At this stage of inebriation, a servants were not below rank enough to be objectionable as companions (then again, neither were hedges) and Ivan immediately spun round again. He experienced a stroke of good luck when he spotted an only slightly crumpled mask on the ground by his feet. He slipped it over his face and, for good measure, pulled up the collar of his jacket. He swiftly resumed his place at the mean lady (yeah that's how he thought of her what's it to you, et cetera)'s side, and tried to appear as if they were in conversation. He laughed loudly as a final detail to his disguise, watching from the corner of his eye as the duke peered at him for a moment, and then dismissed him as a stranger.

The young servant sighed in relief as the elderly man trundled off to speak to a statue on the opposite side of the porch. He relaxed visibly against the balustrade. Then he remembered his distasteful company, and gave her his best frowned. "I still maintain that you are an ill-mannered cow." He said, in a polished sort of voice, nose elevated slightly. Then he stepped sideways, hoping to evade any physical attacks. She was a woman, after all, and who knew when her testy moods would turn violent.