to the health of married women, and their lovers

• Queen of Society •

Helene was sixteen. As she looked in the mirror, admiring beautiful reflection while Lilyasha (a servant) did her hair, she found herself bursting with excitement, and admittedly a bit nervous, for tonight was her big night. Tonight was the night that she came out in society, officially taking her place as a young, marriageable woman. Tonight was her first ball, and Helene could hardly contain herself. She had been dreaming of this night since she was a girl, had spent hours thinking about what it would be like to put on a ballgown and present herself into society.

"Helene Kuragina, it's a pleasure to meet you." she had said to herself in the mirror, making sure her curtsy was nothing less than perfect. Since then, she had only blossomed, and Helene now felt like she was no longer a girl, and yet, she did not yet feel like a young woman. She found herself somewhere in between, in that awkward age where one is no longer a child yet not quite an adult yet, and, though she had mastered her waltz and her mazurka, and could dance them both with grace, poise, and ease, she could not help but feel a tinge of nervousness for tonight.

There's nothing to worry about, she told herself. Tonight is going to be wonderful.

She looked in the mirror again, actually starting to believe it. As Lilyasha was finishing up her hair, Helene practiced her smile in the mirror, attempting to appear charming, confident, and, for interaction with the suitors, a little bit coquettish. However she chose to express herself, Helene was careful to never give anything away.

Finally, Lilyasha finished, and Helene sat at the vanity to apply rouge and a little bit of powder. Her hair had been set in a fashionable French updo, with the majority of her taut, dark-brownish curls piled high into an elegant bun, and a few loose curls delicately framing her face, topped off with a green feather headdress which accented her eyes, and matched the color of her gown for this evening.

She stood up, admiring her silky curls and amber-colored complexion in the mirror, and straightening her gown, a gauzy, metallic pale-green number, with delicate French beading and embroidery, which tapered at the waist and revealed a lacy golden panel underneath.

She was just through admiring herself when she heard her father's voice through the door.

"Helene, dear, shall we go now?"

"Yes, father. Give me a moment." She straightened her pearl necklace and walked down the steps, holding up her skirts and meeting her father at the edge of the stairs, on the landing.

Vasily offered her his hand, and she took it, as the two of them (accompanied by Ippolit) headed out into the troika.

"Why can't I come?" Anatole whined.

"Because you are not old enough, Anatole, we've been over this!" said Aline, and the two of them watched as the carriage sped out of sight.

But Helene wished Anatole were old enough, so he could make her laugh, and calm her nerves, which she could really benefit from right now. She had always been much closer to Anatole than she had ever been to Ippolit, despite the fact that Anatole was quite a bit younger than she was.

As the troika traveled on to the Maritskiy's, Vasily gave her a rundown of all of Petersburg society: the rich families, the old dames, the young women, and, most importantly, the suitors. Helene, as most girls had, had thought quite frequently about meeting and enticing young suitors. Like most, she pictured an officer, but her more sensible side knew that she might have to settle for a plain civilian if he was rich enough to sustain her.

Arriving at the ball, Helene looked around at the Maritskiy's fine ballroom, and tried not to show too much awe as she admired the gorgeous chandeliers and ornate French-inspired architecture. She examined the crowd, and tried to remember her father's lecture about all of the people in Petersburg.