Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You will not accuse me of lying when I say that there is no season more exciting than the start of a new one for young debutantes. April is beginning, and with it comes not only the beautiful spring, but also the desperate mothers flocking to the most exclusive emporiums to obtain the finest dresses for their beloved daughters.

They say that when flowers begin to bloom, we can only expect fruitful change—and what better than in this new season, which arrives with high expectations.

Although the matches do not look promising, matchmaking mothers place all their hopes on a single person: the prince.

His presence in London has been scarce in recent years due to his constant travels abroad, but I know from my reliable sources that His Royal Highness is back, and that the queen is in search of a grandchild to dote upon, and a wife worthy of the court.

Will one of these debutante ladies be the lucky one to marry Prince Morningstar?

All that remains is to extend my best wishes to all daughters—and to their ambitious mothers.

Society Pages

Lady Whistledown

Truth be told, Lucifer had never considered himself a lover of royal duties. Daring, brave, and adventurous, he had always chased after happiness. Yet the latter seemed elusive to him, an abstract concept whose meaning he longed to understand. Despite his determination to find it, the notions of happiness, romance, and fulfillment remained ambiguous. He wondered if plunging into the game of royal courtship would lead him to discover what he truly desired.

But the pressure of the crown weighed on his shoulders. He was painfully aware of what society expected from him—especially what the queen expected.

Thus his path, a very unfortunate one, painted the ill-fated prospect of marriage.

He did not want to marry.

As a sign of his utter displeasure, the prince sighed, losing count of how many times he had done so, for it was the only way he could complain about such a crude act of society—at least in a silent manner that still fell within acceptable manners.

He did not want to marry!

"Your boisterous sighing will not make me change my mind, dear," the queen said, not bothering to lift her eyes from her copy of Lady Whistledown.

"Can’t we wait until next year?" he asked, longing—begging—for a positive answer.

"We’ve already discussed this, Lucifer," her tone was tired. "I have given you plenty of time to explore the world and enjoy yourself. It is time for you to give me grandchildren and fulfill your duty."

He avoided snorting or rolling his eyes. A prince did not do such things.

"You gave me five years, and you truly don’t know how grateful I am," he tried to sound desperate, "but it’s still not enough. There are more places I want to go and more things I want to do."

He felt his voice tremble with the tears threatening to spill, and he nearly felt the urge to kneel before the queen.

"Lucifer"—nothing good followed when she said his name like that—"I cannot believe you’re throwing a tantrum over this."

He bit his tongue to stop himself from uttering something improper and let himself fall into the sofa beside his mother. He knew the posture was not dignified, but he could not help feeling frustrated.

"Mother," he used the word rarely, "I beg you."

The queen massaged her temple with patience.

"I beg you to settle down," she paused, looking at him with horror, "and sit properly, for God’s sake."

Lucifer puffed out his chest and straightened his back with supernatural speed.

"I understand, but if only—"

He didn’t even have time to defend himself. The queen made that gesture. It was time for him to close his mouth and lower his gaze like any other subject.

"This conversation is over. You will attend tomorrow night’s social event, and that is final." She cast him a look that could have banished him to Hell. "Obey your queen."

Even if he had the words to keep insisting, defeat was evident—now and forever. The door opened, revealing the queen’s royal servant, who whispered something in her ear. She nodded.

She set aside the page of Lady Whistledown she had not released even once during their argument, and rose from her comfortable chair.

"I’ll see you later, dear," she said in farewell. "And please, think about your future."

She left after that, abandoning him to the overwhelming sensation of having lost a fierce battle.

He did not want to marry.

There were things that required extra labor and relentless determination in the life of a simple musician.

Alastor knew very well that if he wanted to fulfill his dreams, playing at the New Orleans carnivals and working nights at his mother’s restaurant playing jazz were not exactly the catapult he needed to reach the top.

He wanted more—he always wanted more—and he was so tenacious that he was sure he would sell his soul to the devil to obtain what he desired.

And he knew his longing lay outside New Orleans, far from Louisiana, beyond the Mississippi River, and of course, across the ocean.

He saved a lot. Enough to escape the United States and travel directly to Europe. His mother had said goodbye with tears in her eyes, but with a wide, supportive smile on her lips.

He promised to write her letters every day and to send a bit of money each month.

Alastor marked April second with an X on the calendar—it was his sixty-fifth day on British soil. He was lucky to find a reasonably priced place west of central London, in Kensington. The culture shock of such a move was significant—not only the sad, gloomy ambience that seemed to deepen the longer he stayed.

New Orleans was colorful, festive, even a little loud. But London was the complete opposite: conservative and formal. If social class was already sharply marked in America—despite Louisiana’s cultural mixture—the gray city was wholly under the power of the aristocracy.

It was disgustingly, unbearably insufferable.

But it was where he wanted to be. To play the piano for the nobility. To become a respectable musician, urgently sought after to bring art and entertainment to those pompous balls.

Alastor managed to work as a butcher in the mornings, as a French tutor for middle-class children in the afternoons, and at night, as a pianist in a popular bar with a questionable reputation.

"Alastor!" shouted that shrill voice.

He would have recognized it anywhere.

"Mimzy!" he exclaimed, saying the dancer’s name.

"You won’t believe what I just heard," she hid her smile behind her feathered fan, "you are going to love this!"

She looked so excited. Alastor maintained a polite smile, always attentive with ladies, just as his mother had taught him.

"Oh darling, if this is about that club again—"

"No! Forget that," she handed him a sheet with an announcement from the Royal Household. "They’re looking for people like you. I know you’ve wanted this for so long, and I heard that the court’s music master is organizing an audition to recruit musicians."

Alastor read attentively, feeling his heart pound, unable to stop his smile from growing wider. His chance was appearing before him.

"You said you studied at a renowned academy in America—you have to go," she encouraged him. "This fourth-rate bar has had more customers thanks to you. And you speak French—they’ll want you at court."

"You don’t know how grateful I am."

"Buy me a drink tonight and your debt is paid."

"Is that a deal?" Alastor offered his hand.

Mimzy accepted with a smile. "Deal."

Back home, he wrote a letter to his mother telling her that very soon he would be playing at the royal palace.

Lucifer felt like a failure.

Something completely beneath the image of a gallant prince. He stormed through the palace’s deserted corridors, his brow furrowed with determination as he headed toward his older brother Michael’s office.

He shoved the door open, as if it were to blame for his foul mood.

The elder of the two jumped at the sudden entrance.

"Brother!" he said, wearing that infuriatingly cheerful smile. "Why do you look like you’re about to behead someone?"

"When do you plan on having children, Michael?"

His brother’s smile faltered.

"A ‘hello, how are you’ and a cup of tea would be nice before such an interrogation, don’t you think?"

Lucifer sighed wearily and sat across from him. He leaned his head back against the chair and let out a groan; venting about their mother after an argument was something that happened far too often for his liking.

"Maybe if you start working on an heir, the queen will stop pestering me about marriage."

Michael looked utterly dumbfounded.

"The queen is asking you to marry?" he signed a few documents here and there, then gave Lucifer his full attention. "The youngest Morningstar?"

"Yes," Lucifer replied irritably. "Is that what you took from all this?"

"Hey, believe me—we’re trying."

"Try harder!"

"Lucifer, my dear brother," the older-brother tone made Lucifer close his eyes before he could even roll them, "do you even hear what you’re saying?"

"Michael, I don’t want to marry."

Before his brother replied, Lucifer straightened his spine, looked at him seriously and said:

"At least not right now." He kicked the air like a child, something that would have scandalized the queen. "I don’t feel ready to court some spoiled, prim little lady, and those obsessive mothers scare me."

Michael snorted with amusement.

"Don’t laugh."

"I’m not laughing."

Lucifer crossed his arms with a murderous glare.

"Well... yes, but—"

"But?"

"You must be reasonable, Lucifer." Michael returned to his usual heir-to-the-throne aura and looked at him. "You’ll be thirty in a few months. The queen has been indulgent, letting you travel the world and do whatever you wanted..."

The elder sighed and shrugged apologetically.

"You must return her kindness."

Lucifer hated how right he was.

"I know, I know," he muttered in defeat. "I have duties to fulfill."

"Look on the bright side," Michael said, more cheerful, "Lady Whistledown has already shouted to the four winds that you’re looking for a wife."

"And what exactly is the bright side of that?"

"The job is easier than you think. They’ll come hunting for you—you just pick the one you like best."

That sounded disgusting.

Once again he kicked the air in protest, making Michael laugh.

"It’s either that, or letting her choose your future wife."

The second option terrified him.

Chapter Text

Despite his inability to be impressed by the opulence of others—something tied entirely to his disappointing childhood—Alastor could not look away from the grandeur of the palace.

It felt surreal to think he was there, stepping into what he had only imagined through the stories his mother read to him every night before bed.

He reminded himself quickly to write her a letter with lavish detail about the castles and how accurate those fabulous descriptions truly were.

As he walked through the palace’s imposing halls, Alastor made a mental list of every single thing in its place. His eyes, protected by a pair of round spectacles, drifted over everything within reach, from the intricate designs on the ceilings to the elegant moldings adorning the columns and walls.

The glow of the chandelier-like lamps illuminated his path, while the sound of his footsteps echoed along the polished marble floor, even reflecting his image perfectly.

His smile—one that rarely faltered—twitched into an uncomfortable grimace. All those expensive fabrics and finely carved furnishings flaunted an unmatched luxury, one he could never taste even if he were born a thousand times.

He noticed the artworks decorating the walls, and of course, the portraits of monarchs from past generations. Each of them seemed to tell a story as he walked by.

The courteous guide giving them the tour spoke with great respect, in an accent Alastor found both refined and amusing. He mentioned the queen and her contributions to the country, as well as her children, who somehow always tried to follow in her footsteps.

Seven, to be exact—though he only knew that because of the plaque on the wall. He frowned with interest upon noticing the bored and weary expression on one of the young princes.

He wondered how miserable the life of someone with blue blood must be, to feel so wretched in his own privilege—so much so that he could not even pretend for the sake of a simple family portrait.

To Alastor, who had grown up in a much more modest environment in New Orleans, all this luxury and extravagance was almost exhausting.

Beside him walked the other two musicians who had passed the audition alongside him. In them, the emotion and wonder were far more palpable.

The cellist and the violinist, equally enchanted by the Crown’s opulence, exchanged glances as they followed the guide who—still rambling—led them through the labyrinth of salons and reception halls.

At one point, they stopped. Alastor looked through the enormous window with interest; from there he could see the lush gardens surrounding the palace, filled with all kinds of flowers that seemed to be guarded by curious marble statues.

The afternoon sun bathed everything in a soft golden light, creating a dreamlike scene straight out of a fairy tale.

He was truly dying to write to his mother and tell her everything he was seeing.

As their tour continued, Alastor felt increasingly aware of the magnitude of his new position. He had left behind his life in New Orleans to pursue his passion for music, and now he found himself walking through the very halls once tread by kings and queens.

And by a sad little prince.

The guide—whose name was far too elaborate to remember—led the group of musicians to the end of the palace’s main corridor. He stopped in front of an imposing wooden door and turned to them with a friendly smile.

"Gentlemen, we have reached the end of our tour," he announced politely. "The ball organized by Her Majesty, the queen, will begin shortly. I kindly ask you to prepare yourselves to delight the guests with your music."

The door opened, revealing a dazzling ballroom decorated with glittering chandeliers and exquisite floral arrangements.

"Very well, gentlemen," continued Mr. Guide. "The musicians will be positioned on the platform at the back of the hall. I wish you great success in your performance tonight. The rest of the royal ensemble will arrive shortly."

Lucifer looked at himself in the mirror, very critical of his own appearance. He looked beautiful—he knew it well. So many compliments throughout his life had made him a little vain.

White was his color; it contrasted beautifully with his shining, gold-like hair and his eyes, which resembled sapphires brimming with youth.

The problem wasn’t how charming he looked that night. What tormented his peace was the queen’s request.

He adjusted his bowtie once more and unbuttoned the first button of his shirt as a protest against what he was expected to do. Lucifer always made sure to carry out small acts of rebellion—perhaps not obvious to the naked eye, but ones that gave him a certain sense of confidence, making him feel free and unbound, more powerful than society’s words and even the Royal Court itself.

He left his room and, sooner than he would have liked, arrived at the hall where the joyous gathering was taking place. He recognized a few faces—politicians and powerful individuals, drinking, talking, and laughing.

He wanted to leave as quickly as the young ladies of previous seasons had hurried toward him upon his arrival. And he very nearly turned to escape—

"Don’t even think about it," said a voice that stopped him.

Lucifer turned around, excited.

"Azrael!" he exclaimed, hurrying to embrace him.

Azrael was fifth in the Morningstar lineage. And secretly, Lucifer’s favorite brother.

"I thought you were helping the children in Botswana," Lucifer said, a little calmer. "When did you return to London?"

"I’ve finished my duties in Botswana, brother," he shrugged. "Mother has asked me to be your chaperone this season."

Azrael was the only one who usually called her that.

"I heard you’re looking for a wife," his playful tone made Lucifer roll his eyes. "Congratulations. I hope you find what you’re looking for."

"Not even I know what I’m looking for, Azrael," he sighed, exhausted. "You must know marriage isn’t exactly one of my priorities right now. I’m being coerced by Her Majesty." The last part was said with disdain.

"And that’s why I’ve come to help you."

Lucifer puffed in discouragement at the imminent lack of time. The queen wanted him married this season, wanted a good wife to represent the Royal Family, wanted grandchildren to teach, and above all, wanted to see him bound for life to the Crown.

He had never once considered the possibility of marrying, and now he was trapped at a social event searching for a wife.

"Don’t torment yourself in there," Azrael tapped his forehead. "Just look for what’s right and necessary."

Lucifer rolled his eyes—again.

"What are you talking about now?" he huffed, letting his eyes scan the entire room. "What exactly is ‘right and necessary’ according to you?"

Azrael wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they began to walk.

"It’s simple," he said, sounding eerily similar to Michael the last time. "You’re looking for a kind, well-mannered young lady who likes to read, who speaks at least two languages besides English, who likes music and plays an instrument, someone who can help you and give you healthy, strong children—perfect for the Morningstars."

Nothing in that picture sounded pleasant.

"A machine?"

Azrael smacked him lightly. Lucifer immediately rubbed the spot and glared, tempted to push him through the nearest window.

"You’re looking for someone to lean on," Azrael replied simply. "And if you want my complete honesty, you’re lucky the queen is giving you the option to look for her yourself."

The indulgent and generous queen. 

Lucifer wanted to stomp again, but it would hardly be dignified to throw such an undignified tantrum.

Happiness and love were abstract feelings. The terms “right” and “necessary” he only vaguely understood through Azrael’s definitions.

And what if by the end of the year he still hadn’t found a wife? Would they disinherit him?

No—she would choose.

"Then," murmured Lucifer, stopping in the middle of the ballroom, fully aware of the hungry gazes he received for being declared the best match of the season—according to Lady Whistledown, of course—"who do you suggest? You must know the market better than I do."

Azrael’s mischievous smile appeared.

He immediately regretted asking.

"I heard Lady Pembrok’s daughter is an excellent option." His eyes drifted discreetly toward the young woman in question. "She’s intelligent, charming, and comes from a respectable family. She also has a passion for music that could go well with yours."

Lucifer took a look, and she promptly fluttered her lashes and hid her smile behind a fan.

She was… pretty?

In some way. This was slowly killing him.

"Certainly charming," he muttered disinterestedly—something Azrael noticed at once.

"What about Miss Cavendish?" he suggested. "A classic, refined beauty. Dresses well, lovely smile… She also has an exquisite education in art and literature."

Lucifer examined Miss Cavendish from afar; her champagne silk gown shimmered under the flickering candlelight, highlighting her elegant figure among the crowd.

Though her appearance was impeccable, he couldn’t help but notice the anxious glint in her eyes—a spark reflecting her desperation to find a suitable husband.

It frightened him.

"You’re very picky, you know that?" Azrael scolded.

"I consider myself quite simple," Lucifer muttered irritably.

The taller man sighed with understanding.

"You know what you need?" his smile appeared again. "A good drink. Let me fetch a couple of glasses—I’ll be right back."

He tried to stop him, but Azrael was already walking away. Lucifer feared being left alone, worried a stampede of ladies would corner him. His blue eyes anxiously scanned the room, only to meet Miss Pembrok’s seductive stare, which made him swallow hard and quickly look away.

But in escaping, he only stumbled into Cavendish’s despair. Her approaching steps made every part of his body tremble with fear. He turned around quickly and walked the other way.

His good manners vanished somewhere in his anxious mind, and only one goal remained: escape.

He was acting the opposite of what a prince should be—of what the queen expected, of what he had been taught, of what made him part of the Morningstar lineage. Lost in the dark spiral of his thoughts, he suddenly found a small ray of light that caught his attention.

It was the notes coming from a piano, echoing through the hall. He turned his head toward the sound and desperately searched for its source—only to find that figure at the stringed instrument, with an intense, almost romantic concentration.

The notes pouring from the piano were captivating, filled with emotion and skill. Unlike the others, he stood out among the instruments, even overshadowing the exquisite music of his ensemble partners. Every chord, every arpeggio seemed to flow with a force and precision that left Lucifer breathless.

There was only him and the pianist.

And without any logical explanation, his pulse went wild and a growing excitement blossomed in his chest. He could only stand there, entranced by the image before him, watching in fascination as those agile hands glided across the keys.

He felt a mixture of embarrassment, excitement, interest—and an overwhelming need to rip off his bowtie because at any moment he might faint in front of everyone.

Was he new? Lucifer had never seen him before—this wasn’t his first social event at the palace since returning to London. He would’ve remembered him from sound alone. It was impossible to forget a musician of that level, especially one capable of making his skin prickle and his body tremble.

He was the most enamored-with-his-instrument pianist he had ever seen, whose melody could be compared to the Pied Piper—because Lucifer could not help but feel irresistibly drawn to him.

A strange comparison, even for Lucifer, because well—he certainly wasn’t a rat, and the stranger at the piano wasn’t a flautist.

He was dying to approach him, to know everything about him, to ask him to play for the prince alone. His mind drifted so deeply that his face began to burn red-hot.

He walked quietly toward one of the servants holding a tray of fruit.

"Your Royal Highness," the servant greeted kindly, bowing.

Lucifer took a couple of green grapes from the tray and brought one to his lips, trying to appear bored and uninterested.

But he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back toward the pianist—so selfish that he wouldn’t even turn around!

"Who is that?" he asked the servant, pointing subtly with his eyes.

The man looked confused.

"Excuse me?"

"The one playing the piano."

He didn’t answer immediately.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. Why wasn’t he saying something so simple?

"Did you hear what I said?" he demanded, annoyed. "I order you to answer my question—tell me the pianist’s name."

The servant broke into a cold sweat and stammered an apology while lowering his head.

"He is the new court pianist, Your Highness," he clarified before adding, "Mr. Alastor Hartfelt."

Lucifer tilted his head with interest, directing his full attention to the new musician.

Pleased with the information, Lucifer lifted the remaining grape to his lips, but instead of eating it, he simply let it rest softly against them.

Alastor.

Chapter Text

With every passing second, Lucifer felt consumed by shame—whether because of the situation he was in or because of what his own mind had exposed him to. He had been avoiding Azrael the entire night; he hid behind walls, in corners of the room, and blended into the crowd. His eyes were always fixed on Alastor, eagerly watching every movement, no matter how small.

Everything in him waited anxiously for something to happen, like when he was a child awaiting his birthday gifts, following the palace servants in hopes of hearing something that might ease his impatience.

But unlike when he had been nine years old, he now felt nothing but pathetic and nervous. He took a sip of cognac, and the burn in his throat felt like a reprimand demanding he regain his composure. All of that vanished when Alastor excused himself from his fellow musicians and stood from his seat. Lucifer watched him slip through one of the doors leading directly to the garden.

Lucifer patted his cheeks a couple of times and fixed his golden curls as best he could. Discreetly, he walked past opulent dresses and social laughter, following the pianist through the door he had taken.

The cold wind seeped into his bones the moment he stepped outside—something he welcomed, for he had begun to resent the overheated ballroom. He tried to make his footsteps light on the grass as he followed him into the small rose maze, majestic under the moonlight.

Lucifer swallowed hard as reality struck him: why was he following a stranger into a practically deserted place? Was he out of his mind?

The smell of tobacco became prominent, pulling him from his thoughts. He saw a thick cloud of smoke behind some bushes and did not dare go any further. He stood there, behind the foliage, like some kind of deranged stalker. Carefully, he peeked past the angel-shaped hedge, and it was then that he caught sight of the pianist’s silhouette.

His heart pounded as he watched Alastor with fascination. The warm moonlight bathed the musician’s tall, elegant figure, making his brown hair shine and highlighting the shape of his broad shoulders.

The way he held the cigarette between his fingers, and his lips as they drew in the smoke, made Lucifer feel parched.

He wanted him.

But fascination also became his downfall—Alastor almost discovered him when he suddenly turned. Lucifer hid his indecorous stare and, heart racing wildly, fled behind the leafy angel.

He prayed not to be caught, but nearly fainted when he heard the pianist’s approaching footsteps on the other side.

“Hello?” His voice resonated with a confidence that only captivated him more. “Who’s there?”

Lucifer held his breath as his heart slammed against his ribcage. Trembling, he wondered whether he should reveal himself or remain hidden, but then he remembered the queen’s endless reminders of how tenacious, brave, and righteous a prince must be.

He took a deep breath and finally stepped forward, emerging from the shadows of the rose maze with a timid smile on his lips.

Alastor looked surprised to see him. Lucifer wasn’t sure what reaction he had expected, but surprise was not the emotion he sought on that enigmatic face.

He couldn’t meet his eyes as quickly as he had wanted.

The pianist smiled, a charming dimple forming near his lips.

“The sad little prince,” he said with interest. He observed him for a moment, and then his expression changed rapidly. “Oh, right…” he murmured, suddenly remembering something.

Alastor made a rough bow toward him; it looked out of place, something he was clearly not used to. Even the tone in his voice—velvet smooth and distinct in its cadence—was unlike anything Lucifer was accustomed to.

“Your Highness, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he exclaimed as he lifted his gaze. “I’m Alastor Hartfelt, the new court pianist.”

Lucifer felt nervous and intrigued all at once. He stepped closer into the moonlight with small, steady steps—after all, no one could see them out here.

Straightening his posture, he lifted his chin slightly. He was nobility, he could not allow himself to appear like a desperate young man. Gathering his courage, he looked at Alastor with quiet pride and offered a polite nod.

"Mr. Hartfelt."

Then, after a brief pause, he continued, "You’re not from around here, right?” he asked, wanting to start a conversation.

Alastor offered a kind smile before bringing the cigarette back to his lips and exhaling the smoke delicately. He took his time responding and did not seem to care about making the prince wait—something that certainly caught Lucifer’s attention.

“Do I sound so very strange?” he replied softly. “I apologize if my speech seems unsettling, Your Highness.”

Lucifer let out a small laugh upon hearing him speak in a falsely polished, overly formal British accent.

For a moment, he wanted to mimic the young ladies hiding behind their feathered fans.

“Of course not, not at all!” he exclaimed, hoping he hadn’t offended him. “It’s just… you know…”

Alastor looked at him, still smiling, patiently waiting for him to finish.

“Your presence here stands out quite noticeably from the rest,” Lucifer murmured.

He immediately noticed the confusion on the pianist’s face.

“It’s not a bad thing!” he blurted out, stammering. “I think it’s actually a very good thing—please don’t misunderstand me; I meant no offense whatsoever.”

Lucifer inhaled deeply, trying to control his frantic heartbeat. He felt relieved when he saw the amusement in Alastor’s eyes, though the situation still left him intrigued.

“I understand, Your Highness,” Alastor responded with a polite nod. “Don’t worry, you have not offended me.”

Relief washed over Lucifer. He might have cried later had his clumsiness ruined any chance of conversation. He took a moment to breathe before continuing.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, offering a nervous smile. “It’s just that… well, these kinds of events aren’t exactly my natural environment.”

Alastor seemed intrigued.

“It isn’t?” he asked curiously. “Then what kind of environment do you enjoy?”

Alastor appeared genuinely interested, and Lucifer hoped the shadows hid the blush rising on his face. It was normal to receive attention—he was the prince, after all—but over time he had learned how false, opportunistic, and deliberately flattering most people were.

Alastor did not seem to fit those patterns. At least for now. 

“Well, to be frank, I prefer working on my travel journals in the safety of my room,” he murmured, as if revealing a secret. “Or coming here, actually—this corner of the garden is my favorite.”

For the first time that night, he displayed a sincere smile as he admired the beauty of the roses under the night light. The pianist’s deep gaze intensified upon him, making him feel smaller than he already did.

“How interesting,” the pianist replied to his ramblings.

“Interesting?”

Alastor nodded, crossing his arms behind his back and smiling as if he were hiding something.

“My mother always says one is never fully dressed without a smile,” he explained, still not taking his eyes off him. “And certainly, a smile suits you very well. Please don’t stop.”

How dangerous it had been to follow this man.

Lucifer had received all sorts of compliments throughout his life. He knew he was coveted and envied; he had always been confident in the beauty he carried with pride. And yet, despite all that, a shy blush spread across his cheeks as he looked away, feeling more vulnerable than he wished to admit.

Why did this humble and gentle compliment—from a complete stranger with no noble title—shake his heart this way?

“As for your earlier question, you’re right, Your Highness,” Alastor added with another smile. “I’m not from here. I’m from a tiny state called Louisiana, in the southern United States.”

Excitement surged through Lucifer’s blood, and he couldn’t help but step closer, drawn by interest alone.

“Really?” His enthusiasm was obvious—abandoning any semblance of princely charm, he now looked like a child with a new toy. “I haven’t had the opportunity to travel beyond Europe. I’ve wanted to visit America for some time now.”

Alastor remained silent, his eyes still fixed on him with that same gentle smile, only looking away when he realized Lucifer had noticed the intensity of his stare.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Alastor shook his head several times.

“Not at all. It’s just that… the way you talk about traveling… it’s endearing.”

Lucifer suddenly felt shy again—proof that he had exposed a part of his inner self.

“Forgive me… I think I got carried away.”

Everything he said seemed to intrigue Alastor further.

“I don’t understand, Your Highness,” the pianist said sincerely. “Why apologize?”

“Oh, I… I’m not supposed to be so enthusiastic about my interests. The queen holds decorum in very high regard.”

The pianist nodded, processing his words carefully.

“The queen isn’t here,” he replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

Alastor’s words felt almost blasphemous.

“The queen isn’t here, Your Highness,” he repeated with another smile. “In this corner of the garden, you can leave behind the protocols and masks—and simply be whoever you wish to be.”

Those words echoed in his heart, touching a very sensitive part of his soul.

“Don’t worry,” Alastor added, “I’ll keep your secret.”

Red warning lights flashed wildly in Lucifer’s mind. It had been dangerous to follow him into the maze. Now he wouldn’t be able to erase him from his thoughts so easily. He wanted to stay with this stranger among the green angels and colored roses, lost in time and hidden from society’s eyes.

Lucifer wanted to say something—anything—to keep the moment alive; a bold comment or whatever it took to keep hearing his voice. But the words died on his tongue when a distant voice called the pianist’s name urgently.

Alastor took one last drag from his cigarette and offered an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “Every second of our conversation was… truly enriching. Unfortunately, I must return to work.”

He made that awkward bow once more before stepping away—but Lucifer grabbed his arm before he could leave, his skin warm to the touch despite the freezing night.

“Wait, please,” he murmured.

Alastor turned to face him again, surprise painting his expression.

“The next time we meet,” he said softly, “you may call me Lucifer.”

Dear and gentle reader,

What a spectacular night the queen has gifted us! She so generously invited us to her palace to enjoy a delightful ball, fine liqueurs, and exquisite hors d’oeuvres.

There is no better way to begin the season than with such a warm and gracious welcome. And although Her Majesty’s benevolence has given society much to discuss, all eyes remain fixed upon the young Prince Morningstar.

His presence was but a gentle breeze in autumn—did anyone glimpse him during the splendid evening? Or does his disappearance mean he has perhaps found the next member of the Royal Court?

Society Page

Lady Whistledown

Alastor stared at a fixed point—somewhere between a framed London landscape and a small mirror polished to a shine. He wasn’t quite sure which of the two he was paying attention to, nor did he care.

His hand did not stop brushing the part of his arm where the sad little prince had held him so desperately the night before.

“What an interesting reaction,” he murmured to himself.

He couldn’t stop replaying the events of the rose maze over and over again. His index finger tapped twice over his skin, and he furrowed his brow, unsure whether his words referred to the prince’s distress—or to himself.

One thing was certain: he hated when people approached and touched him without permission. Even the slightest contact was something he deeply abhorred. Yet Lucifer’s small, insecure hand gripping him with a fear he could not decipher had not bothered him at all.

The sensation lingered, burning, but captivating—and it intrigued him in a way that was driving him mad.

His smile widened before he took a sip of tea.

“Did you hear me?” The voices became clear once again.

“I’m sorry, dear, what were you saying?” He focused his gaze on Rosie, his closest friend since arriving in London.

Owner of an exclusive emporium and essentially the gathering point for mothers and their debutante daughters—a circus Alastor greatly enjoyed watching.

Rosie narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re very distracted today,” she said—not reproachful, but concerned. “I only asked who you thought seemed interesting.”

Alastor blinked a few times, confused.

“You said ‘what an interesting reaction,’” Rosie imitated in a playful tone. “Who were you talking about?”

He brought the cup to his lips again, giving himself a few seconds to think. Then he set it down on the table and leaned toward her carefully—he didn’t want a certain writer known for broadcasting high-society scandals to overhear.

“Last night, during the ball, I met Lucifer,” he whispered, earning a shocked look from his friend.

“You met the prince?” she gasped in another whisper. “Wait…” She narrowed her eyes at him and pointed accusingly.

Alastor raised a brow.

“Did you just call him by his name? Where are your manners, dear?”

He shrugged.

“He told me that the next time we saw each other, I could call him by his name.”

She nearly dropped her cup, stunned into silence.

“Now you are the one having an interesting reaction, Rosie,” he teased. “Why does what I said surprise you so much, hmm?”

The shrill clink of her cup against the saucer was answer enough.

“He’s the prince, Alastor.” And somehow, that explanation seemed perfectly sufficient for her—but not for him.

Alastor smiled slightly at her words, but they only tangled his mind further with memories of the night before. His thoughts insisted on recalling every moment.

The way Lucifer’s eyes sparkled when talking about traveling, or how frightened he seemed because he didn’t consider himself well-mannered enough for the queen. Or perhaps it was his obvious nervousness—eventually replaced by the boldness that led him to touch him.

“Yes, he’s the prince,” Alastor acknowledged, taking another sip from his cup. “That tiny, minuscule detail is what makes him interesting.”

Rosie arched a curious brow.

“And what exactly intrigued you?” she asked in a low voice, leaning forward as if ready to hear a secret.

Alastor pondered for a moment before replying. He searched for the right words, but after a few seconds, he sighed in defeat—unable to put it into words.