Sometimes, when the sun paints England a soft gold and the gentle rain begins to fall, the entire world is alight with magnificence and everything that is awful and wicked fades into nothingness and all that remains on this earthly plane is the beauty of the sunset and the scent of wildflowers perfuming the evening air. The warm, red brickwork of Charles Grey's estate has been adorned with the trellised, rambling rose vines that are a country manor's due and the quaint, picturesque scene has been completed with a lawn of fine green grass and far flung beeches that surround a silvery stream spotted with bright red poppy flowers.
There is to be a grand occasion within this manor's gilded interior, with its baroque walls and hand-painted ceilings of ceremonial design—a party is to be held. There are many people invited, with some traveling a great distance to attend, and the bucolic scene of familiar gentility and raised elegance warms their blue-blooded veins and invites a special sort of vigor to overcome them. The aging queen herself is a great friend of this grey eyed earl and she has sent her youngest daughter, the duchess of Argyll, in her stead.
But from the far stretch of wood, past the silver stream and poppy flowers red, in the black encasement of shadow, a sapphire eyed demon watches the scene unfold. Some part of him has chosen to be there but he configures this desire to boredom. Hell is vast and empty and the sun is so very beautiful.
In the blink of an eye he has moved from his perch in the forest to a spot near the window, peering inside to see a ballroom of fantastic opulence. It is a painted shimmering, golden pearl, decorated with ladies of jeweled descent twirling about in their taffeta ballgowns and ostrich feather fans. The men are less obscene in their suits and velvets though the host wears only an outfit of white and silver, charming them all with his sheathed saber and a flute of champagne in one hand.
The demon has thin interest in the man and only watches him with vague curiosity, a faint expression of revulsion writ on his pale young face.
He turns away from the earl to focus on the other spectators and emits a faint huff of frustration when the object of his…affection? Desire? Nostalgia?…fails to appear.
By now the sky has been seeped in night—a bruised violet with a silver crescent moon and many sparkling stars of iridescent silver. The eventide has fallen and the ballroom seems to glow brighter, as if it has swallowed the ripe golden sun. It shuts the outside world away, ignoring Nyx and her mysteries.
They pay no heed to the black damask demon whose presence has been concealed—whether by will or magic.
The hour is close to eleven and the demon is tempted to turn away, to relinquish this last vestige of human emotion but the impulse—while strong—is drowned out by a wave of tender want that is almost painful to contain. He remains there, eyes watching, until he sees a fairy goddess dressed all in emerald, with rosy pale skin and lips of flower petals. She descends down the rounded steps with easy grace and seems to glow brighter than the dawn though her only jewelry consists of a single diamond ring, placed on the fourth finger of her right hand. Her hair has been done up, save one curl of yellow gold, and there seems to be the presence of spring in her eyes and hope on her tongue.
She is lively and sweet and a beam of convivial sunshine that cannot be repressed, not for all the darkness in the world.
There she is! Dancing with the queen's son-in-law.
There she is! Sipping champagne and laughing discreetly with two women of modest design.
There she is! Taking the hand of her fiancé, feet moving in rhythm to the centre of the dance floor, arms outstretched as if beckoning him near.
They twirl and spin and dip and sway, all in perfect harmony under the opulent chandelier lights that glow and sparkle like a thousand baby suns of gold inflection.
From outside the window, melding into the night, the demon watches with wistful remembrance because she has grown up to be more beautiful than his poor imagination could have ever envisioned. She is resplendent in her emerald silk, off the shoulder and so very fashionable (though he remembers a time when she wore flat shoes and dressed in pink and during their dance, her eyes were shining with unshed tears).
(He remembers that she wore no ring but a pink bonnet on her head; that her hair was still childish though her heart was—is—just as beautiful.)
She is wondrous and he is suspended in a strange limbo between life and death, watching as she moves through the passage of time with all the elegance of a woman cherished. He tells himself he could have never loved her well; that everything would have been a mirage of smoke and stardust.
(But he remembers so many things. He remembers sinking ships and giant bears and how life seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things if she were not alive in the end.)
When he knows the midnight hour has come, the demon rests his eyes on the girl—the woman—and impresses her into his mind, forever engraining gold, emerald, and pink into a heart that still beats—though for who, he is unsure. He stands there, watching her, and selfishly hopes she might remember him. That he might not be forgotten because he remembers the years she endured, dressed in black, crying over his name.
He whispers Elizabeth and sighs, eyes closing as he finally dissipates into the black night.
From within this gilded cathedral of light and cheer, Elizabeth Midford stumbles and frowns, eyes scanning the ballroom with an expression of strange concern.
"Lizzy?" Grey inquires, surprised that his ethereal fiancée could ever falter on the ballroom floor. "You really mustn't fall ill during your last night of freedom." He is playful and uncouth and smiles easily.
The spin around Lady Stanton and Lord Caldwell, twirl past the duke and his wife, until they are near the large glass windows that display a midnight too blue for memory.
Elizabeth.
She startles. "Did you say something?"
He smirks. "Don't tell me you've already gone senile."
She is about to respond, quip on the tip of her tongue, before she turns round, with sudden haste, eyes darting to the corner of the gold paned window. Nothing is there and Elizabeth, pushing aside the strange ache in her heart, turns back around and smiles.
"Quite the opposite, actually." She takes her fiancé's hand. "I've only remembered someone."
A/N: Title taken from the same song Audrey Hepburn sang in Breakfast at Tiffany's.
(Oh and this is set around 1896-7. Lizzy is around 22 years old. Grey is about 32.)