Underneath the layers of sophistication, the polite clashes and political jousts, the Coronation Eve had always been a sordid affair. As the future queen gathered her skirts and set off towards her lover, the party swirled and parted.

She passed gray, sagging diplomats, bold with drink. They drawled on about their positions for the kingdom, their own special insights. As their female counterparts looked on in disapproval, these men gave in to their elderly, sputtering arousal. They would shuffle and grin, clumsily paw at the daughters of their political rivals. Each delicate glass they drained was whisked away by the scuttling waiters and waitresses, their hard shoes clacking against the marble floor in their haste to replenish both food and drink.

From an upper balcony came the strains of music, bland and appealing. The melody was a quick, peppy thing, and the revelers responded in kind. Across the halls, various dances were taken up with gusto: the Two-Twist, the Spraydance, the dull, shuffling Bluetown Step.

From experience, the future queen knew that the band would get bolder as the night wore on. They would begin to play rougher, more pungent sounds- traditional strains of music, heavy with the history of the seafaring commoners. For a single night, the aristocracy would shed taboo, throwing themselves into steps considered pagan and dirty. There was a time where the sight of the Summerspin, or the Calling of the Waves would leave a noble accused of blasphemy, disgraced without exception. But it was the late Queen that had changed things, just a little; a sparking, messy blast of a fisherwoman who had swept all their feet out from under them, and stolen their hearts as they fell.

...

It had taken her longer than expected to reach the prince. She'd been caught in eddies of well-wishers, had to force her way out with gentle smiles and beaming nods. Words of joy and awed excitement for her new life, waiting just ahead. She was just as strong an actor as the prince- possibly even better- and so she buried her concern under layers of frilly pomp.

These feelings would not rise to the surface, even as they met to clasp hands and embrace amidst their cheering, drunken subjects. They alone could feel the discomfort, like rancid electricity that sparked and hissed in the space between them. But still, they would not show it.

It was a blessing, then, that the prince and his queen were expected to turn in early before the coronation. After endless conversation and sips of tart champagne, the pair left with grace, whisked away by coach to the royal quarters.

They were not the only ones who held their spurting relief. Without the pressure, the presence of the royals, the revelers could let loose. The dignity and poise of the ambassadors and generals, the ministers and priests- they crumbled, regressing into the rucking, boisterous commoners they held themselves above.