The de la Cour Ballroom • King's Court
Evening on the 27th of Ophus, 2719
G
o,” said the clipped, sharply Bastian-accented voice. “Five minutes more, Anatole, five minutes more is all that I ask. That sad, wretched old man wants nothing more than to know that his son has a foot in the striping door with –”
“Am I your dog?” His voice was a low hiss.
“You are drunk,” Etienne said matter-of-factly. “You are being ridiculous.”
One hand settled on his forearm; the manicured fingers were cold even through the sleeve of his jacket. He jerked his arm away, lip twisting.
“You told me to drink in the first place.” Out in the hall, the lights were dimmer; Etienne’s round, boyish face was a landscape of disapproving shadows. “You told me I could not – I could not simply,” and he mimicked, as he did; he mimicked Etienne’s Bastian accent, “carry around the same glass of champagne the whole night.”
“Not so much.” Etienne’s lips were a bloodless press.
“I told you what would happen if I –”
“A gentleman of your class and age has restraint. I understand,” his voice was hushed and calm, “that the Vauquelin house has been going through – difficult times, to say the least. But there comes a time when a man must rejoin the world of his fellows.”
A little choked noise bubbled up in his throat. His right hand was still pinched around the flute glass, and his joints ached with the Ophus chill. For a moment, he wanted to fling it in Etienne’s face, until his coiffed and oiled mustache was a mess of broken glass and wine and blood.
He took a deep breath instead, his head spinning. He nodded once, slowly.
It was easier like this, with all the lights soft and strange, with some of the bite taken out of the cold air. He stayed the roaring in his ears; he fed it, knocking back the last of his champagne, and it quieted. He ran a hand over his face once, to remind himself of its strangeness. He fit the pleasant, thin smile into the lines of it, and he didn’t have to straighten his back, because it was already like a ramrod.
Anatole said nothing to Etienne, though the Bastian followed him back into the de la Cour ballroom, back into the world of men.
It was a perfect imitation of a Viendan house; he could’ve been back on Willow Lane, with the way the windows were mirror-black and shut to any hint of the salt-sea or the distant lights and calls of the Rose. The ballroom was circular, the chandelier dripping soft light from the vaulted ceiling; the waxed floor was dizzyingly-patterned with curling vines, radiating outward in deep reds and browns. Elaborate stairs led up to a mezzanine halfway up, empty now and wreathed with shadows.
There was less dancing than there’d been earlier, and he wove through and joined the gentlemen reclining at the edge of the floor. Sagging Favreau and his bright-faced Reformist lad, first; Mrs. Brunneau, then, whose son was of an age with…
It was more than five minutes.
He had another glass of champagne, because the last was beginning to wear thin; his head was beginning to ache, and he was crawlingly aware of himself. Of his pristine white linen necktie and his starched shirt and his waistcoat, of his polished black shoes that sparked and clicked on the ballroom floor. Of his voice, which he should’ve thought by now was thin and bloody-ragged, but kept on with its smooth basso, as if possessed by the incumbent's ghost. He hated it. He hated all of it.
He wasn’t sure what time it was, or where he was, or who he was when Etienne finally let him out of sight. He slipped up the stairs, his hand brushing over the vine-carved banister, up and up where the carpet was soft underfoot and it was a little darker against his headache.
He leaned on the railing, breathing deeply, looking down at the mess of moving coppery heads.
He was, then, creepingly aware of someone behind him. He hadn’t heard the footfalls on the carpet; at first, he thought, godsdamn the Bastian – but then he felt an unfamiliar field at the edge of his, a thin cloud of static mona. He grit his teeth for a moment, then smoothed himself out, ‘til he found the polite, thin smile again, this time with its faintest edge of a sneer.
He reached out instinctively for a caprise. “Good evening,” Anatole said, straightening from the railing and turning. “Mr. – Ewing.” If there was a flicker of surprise on his face, it was swallowed in an instant; he blinked, and kept smiling.
Shit, he thought. His name.
o,” said the clipped, sharply Bastian-accented voice. “Five minutes more, Anatole, five minutes more is all that I ask. That sad, wretched old man wants nothing more than to know that his son has a foot in the striping door with –”
“Am I your dog?” His voice was a low hiss.
“You are drunk,” Etienne said matter-of-factly. “You are being ridiculous.”
One hand settled on his forearm; the manicured fingers were cold even through the sleeve of his jacket. He jerked his arm away, lip twisting.
“You told me to drink in the first place.” Out in the hall, the lights were dimmer; Etienne’s round, boyish face was a landscape of disapproving shadows. “You told me I could not – I could not simply,” and he mimicked, as he did; he mimicked Etienne’s Bastian accent, “carry around the same glass of champagne the whole night.”
“Not so much.” Etienne’s lips were a bloodless press.
“I told you what would happen if I –”
“A gentleman of your class and age has restraint. I understand,” his voice was hushed and calm, “that the Vauquelin house has been going through – difficult times, to say the least. But there comes a time when a man must rejoin the world of his fellows.”
A little choked noise bubbled up in his throat. His right hand was still pinched around the flute glass, and his joints ached with the Ophus chill. For a moment, he wanted to fling it in Etienne’s face, until his coiffed and oiled mustache was a mess of broken glass and wine and blood.
He took a deep breath instead, his head spinning. He nodded once, slowly.
It was easier like this, with all the lights soft and strange, with some of the bite taken out of the cold air. He stayed the roaring in his ears; he fed it, knocking back the last of his champagne, and it quieted. He ran a hand over his face once, to remind himself of its strangeness. He fit the pleasant, thin smile into the lines of it, and he didn’t have to straighten his back, because it was already like a ramrod.
Anatole said nothing to Etienne, though the Bastian followed him back into the de la Cour ballroom, back into the world of men.
It was a perfect imitation of a Viendan house; he could’ve been back on Willow Lane, with the way the windows were mirror-black and shut to any hint of the salt-sea or the distant lights and calls of the Rose. The ballroom was circular, the chandelier dripping soft light from the vaulted ceiling; the waxed floor was dizzyingly-patterned with curling vines, radiating outward in deep reds and browns. Elaborate stairs led up to a mezzanine halfway up, empty now and wreathed with shadows.
There was less dancing than there’d been earlier, and he wove through and joined the gentlemen reclining at the edge of the floor. Sagging Favreau and his bright-faced Reformist lad, first; Mrs. Brunneau, then, whose son was of an age with…
It was more than five minutes.
He had another glass of champagne, because the last was beginning to wear thin; his head was beginning to ache, and he was crawlingly aware of himself. Of his pristine white linen necktie and his starched shirt and his waistcoat, of his polished black shoes that sparked and clicked on the ballroom floor. Of his voice, which he should’ve thought by now was thin and bloody-ragged, but kept on with its smooth basso, as if possessed by the incumbent's ghost. He hated it. He hated all of it.
He wasn’t sure what time it was, or where he was, or who he was when Etienne finally let him out of sight. He slipped up the stairs, his hand brushing over the vine-carved banister, up and up where the carpet was soft underfoot and it was a little darker against his headache.
He leaned on the railing, breathing deeply, looking down at the mess of moving coppery heads.
He was, then, creepingly aware of someone behind him. He hadn’t heard the footfalls on the carpet; at first, he thought, godsdamn the Bastian – but then he felt an unfamiliar field at the edge of his, a thin cloud of static mona. He grit his teeth for a moment, then smoothed himself out, ‘til he found the polite, thin smile again, this time with its faintest edge of a sneer.
He reached out instinctively for a caprise. “Good evening,” Anatole said, straightening from the railing and turning. “Mr. – Ewing.” If there was a flicker of surprise on his face, it was swallowed in an instant; he blinked, and kept smiling.
Shit, he thought. His name.
