Though they are achingly elegant and proper as they dance, something about his hand on her waist, her hand on his shoulder which causes all present to feel uncomfortable, as if they intrude on a private moment.

Perhaps it is because the Steward is rarely seen to smile so; perhaps it is the light in his lady wife’s eyes.

Onlookers whisper behind soft hands, creating rumours founded on jealousy, a courtiers’ dance with no honour or understanding of what they see.

Two observers are oblivious to these subtleties. They watch, wide-eyed, awed by their father’s grace and their mother’s beauty.