The Pawley's Ballroom, Uptown, Vienda
“It looks lovely, miss, it really does,” the human was chattering again, faintly nervous, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “You can’t even tell they took it in again, truly. You don’t hardly need that corset!” She reached forward, taking another loop of Niccolette's hair and pinning it up, carefully, against the mass already on top of her head. “Good, I think that’s just right. Now, miss, if you’ll just – close your eyes, let me finish with the powder there. A bit more red in your cheeks, perhaps, too.”
Niccolette closed her eyes, slowly, settling her hands in her lap. The woman’s chatter and the rain both were only so much noise, washing over her. She felt the soft whisk of the brush against her cheeks first, tracing faint circles against her skin. Her eyes, next, but she didn’t feel the faintest temptation to open them. The woman had quieted, focusing on her task, the rain was loud but steady, and if Niccolette focused, if she just focused, with her eyes closed, she could almost hear –
“Miss?” The human cleared her throat. “Miss, if you’d just – open your eyes, I’d like to see if the shadow looks all right.”
Niccolette opened her eyes, slowly, and turned her head back to the mirror.
Her gaze drifted – not to her own reflection, but to the dark-skinned figure visible in the doorway behind her.
“Enofe,” Niccolette said. Her voice felt strange in her throat. She looked away, back to the mirror, and reached for the sapphire earrings on the dressing table before her. She let them hang from her ears, glittering beneath her heavy masses of brunette hair.
“Oh! Sir,” the maid took a step back, grasping the sides of her dress and bobbing a practiced curtsy. “I – pardon me,” she stepped back again, looking between the two galdori.
“You look lovely, Niccolette. More beautiful than the waters of the Turga, more beautiful than the night sky,” Enofe stepped forward, slowly; he wasn’t smiling. He wore a long, bright orange Mugrobi style coat, with an elaborate collar, pale yellow silk pants beneath. “Are you sure you want to come tonight?”
“Yes,” Niccolette rose, slowly, brushing her hands over the satin fabric of the dress. Blue, she noticed. Dark blue. The ring on her finger was like a little spark of fire against it, catching the lamplight and shining it over the sheen of the fabric. She stared at it for a long moment, then, slowly, curled her hand up, tucking the fingers away against her palm, and looked back up at Enofe again.
“All right,” Enofe said. “Just – just come down when you’re ready. A few others from the delegation will join us in the carriage. We’ll all – we’ll wait for you.”
Niccolette nodded, once, slowly. She looked at herself in the mirror again, and ran one finger over her too-pale lips. She turned back to the maid, slowly. “Lip color, I think,” she said, sitting back at the table.
“Yes miss,” The maid hurried forward. “Of course.”
Behind her, Enofe watched for a long moment, then turned and walked away, closing the door to the hotel room behind him. Niccolette watched him go in the mirror, watched the light gleaming off the almost-familiar shape of his shaved dark head.
Niccolette knew she spoke to the other members of the delegation; she knew she spoke to them, and that they spoke back to her, but she couldn’t keep hold of the words. They were like the rain outside, steady and constant – a fact of life. She couldn’t stop them, not hers nor theirs. She couldn’t have said how they got through the rain, or how her dress was still dry when she reached the open doors. She couldn’t have traced the path that the carriage followed through the crowded streets.
She was aware of one of the other woman, a Mugrobi, leaning forward and taking her hand, her face soft and her eyes gentle. She was aware of the way the woman squeezed it, of the way her bare arm glistened against the amber fabric of her dress. Niccolette was sure she must have said something – hadn’t she?
The carriage rumbled to a stop, and Nicccolette wished that their hotel might have been a bit further from the party. It was Hamis – it was always humid in Hamis – but Niccolette felt desperately, miserably cold beneath the fabric of her dress; it covered her arms, it covered all of her, but she was as cold as if she were stripped bare beneath the rain. Umbrellas snapped open outside the carriage – the door came open – and then Niccolette was walking with the rest, somehow, over unfamiliar, strangely dry ground, and she couldn’t hear the rain; only the distant patter of drops against the fabric canvas overhead.
Niccolette knew she was meant to be listening, listening to all of it, but she couldn’t hear a thing.
“Niccolette,” Enofe was saying. “Niccolette.”
Niccolette looked up at him – only slightly up; he wasn’t more than an inch or two taller than she was. They were inside, now, she realized. She lifted one hand to her hair, gently, checking the curls. Why was she wearing it up, she wondered. It was better down – Uzoji had always said –
Niccolette snatched her hand away and shuddered. Her other hand tightened around the stem of the wine glass – when had she started drinking? It wasn’t full, and there was a trace of lip color against the glass. It must have been hers; no one else would have drank from her glass. She lifted it and took a long sip, careful not to spill even a drop against her lips, swallowing.
Enofe sighed.
“Nicco!” A voice from the crowd.
Niccolette looked up, eyes searching the mass of people glittering beneath the lights. There were so many colors; she didn’t think she could remember the names of all of them. It took her a moment to find the figure rushing towards her.
“Margaret,” Niccolette said.
“Nicco,” Margaret stopped a foot away, eyes wide. “Oh, sweet lady. I only just heard – I’m so terribly sorry. Uzoji was – he was –” tears glistened in Margaret’s eyes, and she reached a hand forward.
Niccolette extended her hand as well, squeezing the other woman’s gently. “Yes,” she said, quietly. “He was.”
Margaret managed a pale, wan smile. None of the tears, Niccolette noticed, absently, fell. “Come – if you don’t mind, sir?” She smiled at Enofe. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced…” her gaze flickered back to Niccolette.
“Of course,” Niccolette said. She turned back to Enofe. “This is Enofe pez Okorie,” Niccolette gestured with one hand, and tried not to see the glitter of it in the light. “Uzoji’s brother. Enofe, this is Margaret Lumsden, a friend from Brunnhold.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lumsden,” Enofe took Margaret’s hand and bowed over it, flawlessly Anaxi in style “Your beauty makes the lamps burn brighter.”
“Oh!” Margaret giggled. “Oh, all you Mugrobi are so – so very!” She paused. “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. Both of you.”
“Thank you,” Enofe smiled at her. “No one could have asked for a better brother. We can only be envious of those who will next be graced with the presence of his soul.”
Niccolette’s hand tightened on the stem of the wine glass. She finished the wine with another long drink, and set it down, a little too hard and unsteady on the windowsill.
“Nicco, you simply must come and say hello – we’ve quite a little group from the Brunnhold days!” Margaret laughed. “Enofe, of course, you’re welcome to join us.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Enofe said, smiling. “I won’t intrude, of course. Niccolette – I’ll be with the rest of the delegation. You know where to find me, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Niccolette looked away. She let Margaret take her arm, lead her across the ballroom; she stopped only to take another glass of wine. Colors whirled around her; light flashed overhead, the lamplight reflected in the glittering chandeliers, sparkling around the ballroom. They were all, Niccolette thought bitterly, sparkling; nothing more than shine. She looked up at the anxious faces staring wide-eyed at her, and remembered to smile.