I had never prepared for a date before in my life. Dates and dating were for common folk. I was a princess. I didn't go on dates.
The only dates I went on were play-dates. …Also with Caleb - when my father visited his.
This situation was ridiculous.
But still, I stood in my room, staring at my reflection like it might explain the situation to me if I looked hard enough.
I straightened my posture and brushed my hair. I had to recast a Sol spell to keep the light going because I had been looking into the mirror for so long.
I adjusted myself again - perfect, just like my hair. Flawless.
What wasn't perfect was my expression. It was irritated. I had to calm down. An angry face showed no beauty, but even so, my own angry face was far more beautiful than anyone else's.
In court, a neutral or calm expression would be best, but on a date? I supposed I had to smile - maybe smirk - but forcing myself to smile was a difficult task.
I was dressed far too well for something like this. The fabric alone was worth more than most people's monthly allowance - soft, perfectly tailored, found in the back of my wardrobe. I didn't even remember packing it.
I only knew that it fit me flawlessly, understated but unmistakably expensive, the kind of thing that announced princess without ever saying the word.
I wasn't in court, so I resented that it still felt appropriate.
I breathed. A boy had asked me. That was the first strange thing.
When did something like that happen? It was a woman's role to choose. Even in ancient times. Women provided; men took care of the home.
The second strange thing was that the boy was Caleb.
Of all people. I kept circling back to that, as if repetition might make it less absurd.
How could I call myself a woman if I let Caleb do all the work?
Caleb, who had spent an entire day proposing to half the academy with the solemnity of a ritual. Caleb, who had then asked me out as if it were the most reasonable next step.
Caleb, who currently seemed to be unraveling in ways I couldn't explain.
My first date. Just… this.
In class that day, he'd looked marginally better. Less pale, at least. Still distant, though - like someone who had already accepted the outcome of something unpleasant and was simply waiting for it to arrive. Not calm. Resigned.
I told the girls - Catherine, Juliet, and Elizabeth.
Not because they needed to know - they already did. Like everyone else, they knew about the proposals; news like that traveled faster than sense. But the date part - that was new. They spied on Caleb, of course, keeping a respectful distance, which was still disrespectful at any distance. Like scared little mice they watched from afar.
I told them because I wanted to see their reactions. And, if I was being honest, to enjoy it just a little.
I took a private, petty satisfaction in seeing their jealousy, which was evident on their faces.
Their expressions were priceless, and the way they congratulated me was delightful, even if it was only a fake nicety. They asked where we would go, what I would wear, and so on. I kept it all to myself. They didn't deserve to know.
I only told them that we'd enjoy ourselves, and nothing more.
But I heard that Caleb spent the rest of the day with them.
Hmph. He should keep his attention on me, if I really was the target of his affection - which I couldn't blame him for.
My roommates, Pauline and Esther, were less restrained with their comments.
They lounged on their beds, watching me with open amusement as I adjusted my clothes for the third time.
"A date," Pauline said, grinning. "With a boy."
"I'm aware," I snapped.
"Isn't he the strange one?"
"Yes."
"Are you nervous?"
"No."
They exchanged a look.
"Why don't you two just shut it?"
They looked at each other again.
"I wish someone would ask me out this boldly," Esther said. "It's hard to get a grasp on what boys are thinking. Sometimes you think they're interested in you, but they're just being nice - or the other way around."
Then came the knock.
My heart did something profoundly unhelpful.
I smoothed my dress and went to the door - already annoyed with myself for caring at all.
Caleb looked wrong.
Not badly - just unexpectedly. He wore a dark, finely cut suit, the sort made for receptions and formal dinners, the neckline dipping lower than was decent for a classroom and showing far more skin than I'd ever seen him bare.
It was elegant, deliberate, and absolutely not his. I stared a second too long and decided he must have borrowed it from Edward; they were about the same size. Caleb would never choose something like that on his own.
He had flowers in his hands.
Roses. A ridiculous number of them. Deep red, fresh, arranged with enough care that I could tell he hadn't just grabbed them in a hurry. Caleb stood behind them, arms slightly tense from the weight, looking at me with that same quiet, resigned calm I'd seen all day.
"For you," he said simply.
He didn't fidget. He didn't glance past me or adjust his grip on the flowers. I searched his face for some sign of performance, some crack that would tell me this was an act. There was nothing. He looked like someone following through on a decision already made.
I took them because it would have been stranger not to.
They smelled sweet. To my annoyance, I liked it. I really did. The gesture landed exactly where it was meant to.
And that was the problem.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was all backwards.
He was treating me the way girls were meant to treat boys - grand gestures, flowers, bold sweetness. He stood there calmly, as if the outcome mattered less than the offering itself, and I hated how little leverage that left me with.
I should have been the one bringing something - initiative, confidence, proof that I had chosen him. That was my role.
The girl acted.
The boy reacted.
Pursued.
Evaluated.
Approached.
Received.
That's how things should be.
The world flipped upside down.
I stood there in my expensive dress, holding a bouquet. It felt backwards. Improper. Almost scandalous.
I looked back for a second and saw the enormous smiles on Pauline's and Esther's faces.
I frowned and turned my eyes on Caleb again.
"Don't you like them?" he asked when he saw my expression.
I almost bunched them up in my hands. "…I do."
The restaurant we went to was also excessive.
It was the kind of place people would have to plan for weeks in advance.
Where the staff spoke of reservations with reverence, like acolytes in a cult.
Caleb had managed to get us a table anyway.
The moment we stepped inside, recognition rippled outward. A senior server appeared almost immediately, smiling with practiced composure.
"Princess Io," she said, inclining her head. "Welcome."
I was glad they recognized me, but I wanted to be alone with Caleb, so I hoped the attention would pass quickly.
We were led to a nice table - not the best, pointedly so, but close enough that the intention was clear. Better lighting. A quieter corner. Complimentary aperitifs placed before us without asking.
As I deserved.
There were even candles - a useless gimmick, but it made the moment stand out nonetheless.
"Thank you," Caleb said politely.
He even pushed in my chair when I sat.
"You didn't have to-"
"I know," he said, almost a little sad.
The staff addressed me first, always me, their deference smooth and instinctive. Caleb was acknowledged only after, if at all, as though he were an accessory rather than my companion. The ease with which he accepted being overlooked irritated me more than any slight ever could - like status simply wasn't something he felt the need to claim.
We ordered - a dinner fit for a princess, even a glass of wine. My birthday had been two months ago; I was fifteen. I was an adult and deserved an adult meal.
Caleb ordered something light and only water to drink.
The food arrived quickly, as if it had been pre-prepared.
And when the server left, Caleb relaxed.
He wasn't distant in the way he'd been all week, but that didn't mean he was relaxed either.
He spoke thoughtfully, a bit more honestly than usual.
About classes. About the food. About inconsequential things that didn't touch whatever had been on his mind.
I waited for him to explain himself - for some reference to the proposals, to the spectacle he'd caused - but he never did.
Once, I edged closer, mentioning how strange the week had been. He nodded, agreed, and let the thought pass without elaboration. It was infuriating how gently he deflected me, as if he'd already decided when the real conversation would happen - and it wasn't now.
Still, he listened. Properly. When I spoke, he paid attention in a way that made me acutely aware of myself - of my hands, my posture, even the way my voice sounded.
This was all wrong.