[h2]I S A B E L L A[/h2]
[hr]
Isabella mentally raised an eyebrow at the Glavnyan prince's less-than-perfect English. Although Evalusians officially spoke Castellano, as well as a couple of indigenous languages and/or dialects, nobles were usually taught English as soon as they were old enough to read and write. As such Isabella had grown up around the language, though like Anastasiy, she did not have much practical experience with it. 

...Still, Isabella's English was much better than Anastasiy's, despite their respective accents. [i]A difference in upbringing, I suppose,[/i] thought Isabella, with just the slightest touch of bitterness. It was no surprise that Isabella's father had wanted her to have near-perfect English; to him, the only thing she was good for was an advantageous marriage.

Isabella forced herself not to dwell on such unpleasant things, and she tried to keep the irritation from showing on her face. Instead, she plastered a pleasant smile across her features-well, she [i]hoped[/i] that it was pleasant, at least, though who knew?-and nodded politely. "You are too kind," she said in response to his remarks regarding her gown, though there was nothing in her voice or expression to indicate any kind of modesty whatsoever. Isabella knew that the gown was lovely; it would have to be, given the amount of time that it took to make it. Besides, she had never been one for the timid glances or shy blushes or airs of false modesty that her father seemed to think all women should put on. [i]And so what?[/i] she thought to herself. [i]Why should I have to pretend? I know who I am and what I am capable of. Is that not enough?[/i]

Isabella dipped into a shallow curtsy after Prince Anastasiy introduced himself. "It is an honor to meet you, Prince Anastasiy," she said. "I am Isabella del Reyes, of Evalusia."

In the corner of her eye, Isabella spotted...well, her betrothed, presumably. His back was to her as he examined the refreshments, but Isabella could make out the white cowboy hat. 

[i]Of course, Of course he shows up in a cowboy hat, of all things,[/i] Isabella said silently, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew her father's reasons for betrothing her to Prince Quentin Houston of the Texas Sovereignty, of course, but that didn't make her any happier about it. She and Quentin were...very different, to put it mildly. He was this happy, goofy, carefree [i]clown[/i], whereas Isabella was decidedly ...[i]not[/i].

But he was also her ticket out of Evalusia, out of the oppressive stone walls in the mountains that were the only home she'd ever known, and if she had to live on a glorified factory farm the rest of her life to get out of there, then so be it.

At least, that's what she told herself. She had hoped for a different future, once. [i]Espérame[/i], Elena's note had said, the one that Isabella found in her jewelry box the day after her sister's alleged suicide. [i]Wait for me[/i]. But she had waited six years, and still, there was nothing. 

Of course, there also were those aristocrats Isabella had been in contact with, the ones who chafed under her father's rule and wanted to put someone else on the throne, but Isabella had her doubts about them, too. Who said that the person they replaced her father with-who would, undoubtedly, be some old man who had no business being there in the first place-would be any better? Isabella supposed that if said replacement was not so intent on currying the favor of the Catholic Church, or if he was not so downright sexist, it would be an...improvement. Nevertheless, Isabella was not particularly keen on putting her fate in the hands of these aristocratic revolutionaries who did nothing but talk, talk, talk. They spoke of constitutional monarchies and individual rights and freedoms, but who knew?

Yes, it would be safer to just quietly marry Prince Quentin and do as her father said. Unless...unless Elena decided to [i]do[/i] something. But with each passing year, Isabella was less and less certain that she could put her faith in her older sister. She had her theories, of course; although she had never voiced them out loud, Isabella had suspected that Elena was in contact with the popular revolutionary movement that was growing in the countryside, but who could truly say?

Isabella knew she was overthinking everything. Whether or not she ended up marrying Quentin or not, she had to at least pretend she would do it, for now. 

She purposefully glanced in Quentin's direction, before turning back to Anastasiy, an apologetic smile on her face. "I do apologize, Prince Anastasiy," she began, "but it seems that my betrothed has arrived. You will forgive me if I go find him, yes?" Isabella dipped into another shallow curtsy, then walked away, towards the refreshments that the [i]clown[/i] she was to marry was eagerly examining.

"Prince Quentin," she said, sidling up alongside him. "I am Isabella del Reyes, of Evalusia. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The words were stiff, formal, gritted out from between teeth tightly clenched together in the politest smile that Isabella could manage. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to focus on this moment and not on the million other things that she had to worry about. "I trust that your journey here was...pleasant?"

[i](Interacting with: [@MorningStar1399] [@OfWindAndRain])[/i]