Dear Francisco,

I am going to start off complaining right away. You have been forewarned.

"Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn, where did you put that dress that was delivered yesterday?" I swear AE's voice was shriller than usual. But there was a motif – didn't she want me to be socially acceptable at the Covington's last time, too? And now this dress. It would be easier just to put it on…

But really, I wasn't sure AE would appreciate the way I got Leroy to pee on it. Seriously, did she honestly think that I would ever masquerade as an opera singer? (I looked more like a slut, anyway, in that dress.) Don't get me wrong – I have nothing against the opera, but it is simply not me. It would be better, in this case, to pretend I hadn't even seen it.

"What dress?" It went on and on like this, until she gave up, very fortunately, for my patience was beginning to shred. One can bear only so much interrogation from a disliked aunt, no matter what an act of charity it was for her to take one in in the first place. Therefore, I was free to dress as I chose.

As you probably figured, I had not been planning on attending a masquerade. I was not prepared with a beautiful, elaborate costume… Thus, I had to pull a few strings to get something in time. But the string pulling was worth it. Definitely.

I was an Eqyptian Queen. (Do the Egyptians actually have queens? What were they called? I shall have to look into this.)

Well, to be specific, I was Cleopatra. I mean, you can't really be any Egyptian Queen. And even Cleopatra's reputation was a bit… well, not-my-style.

And really, the costume was… perfect. Beautiful. Amazing. So… flowy, yet it still looked like Cleopatra. I didn't have a wig, and I wasn't about to die my hair, so I just left that go. And I still managed to pull off the ensemble… 

Aunt Eloise didn't even purse her lips at my costume, nor did she act exasperated. She didn't even really seem to notice. I stepped into our carriage, took a seat, and stared out the window on the drive. I contemplated life. I would elaborate, but really, what can one say of consequence about a carriage ride without interruption? Is the number of potholes one can feel beneath the wheels really a relevant detail?

I thought not. Therefore, I withhold from further commentary, except to say that we arrived at the Covington's in good time.

That was when the drama began.

Not immediately, of course, because a drama occurs over a period of time. My life, as you have probably noted, is not exactly an action adventure novel. This is a rhetorical statement, and, therefore, please refrain from comment. I don't need someone else reminding me how boring my life is.

Instead of being announced, as we would have been at a typical ball, we were merely greeted and allowed to go on our separate ways. The ball could already be considered well attended – that was one object for which I could commend Aunt Eloise; she always arrived a good twenty minutes late, when events were beginning to pick up. Usually it didn't matter; today was really my first chance to appreciate this.

Naturally, Maria and I took off immediately. We did not dance, but instead skirted the edges of the hall – or rather, I did not dance. Maria, on the other hand… and every time she danced, she'd give me one of her apologetic looks that really meant nothing and one of her little shrugs that she always gave Aunt Eloise that were supposed to mean, "I'm so sorry – I couldn't help it. Really." Pah. Did she think that I wouldn't notice that she was the one asking for each dance?

I mentioned that, and she pretended not to hear me.

Finally, it became ridiculous. "Maria – "

"Today I'm not Maria – I'm Juliet. From that sensational new playwright's tragedy." Maria flipped her hair over her shoulder in a girlish manner, and for a moment I wondered whether I was actually dealing with Maria, and not Juliet. Well, if she took her masquerade so seriously, good for her, I supposed. That's what being a spy was – a masquerade. It was kind of annoying that she wasn't normal to me though.

"It's lovely that you are acquainted with modern literature, Juliet. However, I would suggest that you go dance to find a Romeo, and consequently allow me to deal with this recruit alone."

I swear that as she was flitting (yes, I mean that) away, she muttered, "Who said anything about Romeo? It's Benvolio that I'm looking for…" I don't know. It could have been a figment of my imagination…

Or not.

And now the not-so-great task was left to me. Well, there was nothing better to do.

Then again, I was liking the looks of this masquerade. It was difficult to tell who people were, and I'd personally made sure that no one would be able to recognize me… would it really kill me to dance with Marc Antony? Just once…

He wouldn't even be able to recognize you.

Shut up.

He's really very nice looking. Probably a foreigner. No one from around here looks like that. See! You'd never see him again. And he wouldn't know you anyway.

I'm not listening.

Ooh, look at that impeccable waltz! And impeccable manners. Too bad he doesn't seem to like Gisele Deuxbury particularly…

I bet he can't –

He's walking over here!

Is not!

Is too!

Is not!

Ha!

The little voice in my head won the first battle, for Marc Antony was indeed coming over to the piece of wall I was occupying. He did look very nice…

See! I told you so.

…for someone several feet deep in masquerade makeup, clothing, and illusions. I didn't feel like asking him to turn them off, either; I preferred to be fooled. He was a foreigner, I decided. English, German, Austrian, whatever.

I let him walk up to me before acknowledging his presence with a self-righteous nod.

"Mademoiselle, it appears that we are complements of one another." That was all he said. His voice sounded slightly familiar, but I knew it was illusioned – as was mine.

I didn't respond.

My two personas were at a stalemate – one to one. Marc Antony laughed.

"Antony and Cleopatra… perfect. Would you care to dance? A lovely waltz is coming up." Antony held out a hand for me to take or deny.

Take it.

I didn't know you were such a softie, Gwen. I thought better of you.

Handsome foreigner who can't recognize you, nor you him – how could you go wrong?

Gwen! I am ashamed!

Hello? Where's the hopeless romantic in you I've cherished for so long?

That was when the voices in my head finally took control of my vocal cords.

"Nyes," I cheerily stated. It must have been the stupidest think Marc Antony had ever heard, but he dealt with it well, by taking my hand and pulling me – somewhat forcefully, I am not eager to admit – amidst the dancers. 2 to 1, in the favor of softie voice.

Maybe I am losing my touch. But it was just one dance. It couldn't hurt. And the waltz was a very nice one; Marc Antony had very nice musical tastes.

As we danced, we held little conversation. The little voice in my head talked a lot, but I did my best to ignore it. It had, after all, roped me into dancing with this – this person, of unknown origins or loyalties –

Who also seems to be quite attractive.

Like that. It was trying to ruin me. Draw me away from my purpose of finding Gregor and the new recruit.

Then again, the voice was right quite a bit. He did dance well – this was probably the first time I'd ever really noticed something like this about anyone. He had a nice jaw behind his mask as well – provided it wasn't illusioned, anyway. This was really the first time I'd ever truly enjoyed dancing – a stranger I could pretend was perfect (and could waltz), and me, unrecognizable for anyone to have prejudice. Maria was right, in a way. It was nice to be someone else for a few hours…

"Mademoiselle…?" The waltz had ended during my moment of introspection and Antony was requesting my name. Funny how I had just been pondering names, and how they ruined everything… (Well, kind of.)

On impulse I smiled, "Monsieur, I am Cleopatra. Trust me when I say that a rose by any other name does not smell as sweet."

I bowed.

I 'flitted' away.

That was style.

I didn't even check to see if Marc Antony would follow me, or stare. That was actually when I remembered that there was an actual point to not feigning sick for this masquerade – sick old lady. Yeah. That assignment. But who to ask…

I walked around for about thirty minutes doing nothing, but pretending to do something, because God forbid someone should ask me to dance. Anonymity was somewhat of a disadvantage in this manner – no one would ask Gwen to dance, but Cleopatra? Bring it on.

As if on cue, an elbow materialized at my side.

As if on cue, I jammed the owner of the elbow in the side with my own elbow.

As if on cue, the owner of said elbow ejaculated, "Ow."

I looked at the man I'd run into distastefully – Gregor. Upon further assessment, however, my distaste changed to puzzlement (I did not show this change in demeanor to Gregor, however) – If he had not lied to me (and it was very possible that he had), Gregor was the King's brother or something. Yet here he was, dressed all in black, in the uniform of a waiter, small white eye-mask disguising his eyes. It wasn't a masquerade either – that, or it was an excellent one – for he was carrying a tray of small glasses of some sort of profligate liquor. (A few of them were empty, and I had the occasion to wonder at whether this was an actual masquerade costume, and if he would periodically empty a glass to satiate his own gluttonous palate.)

"What, precisely, are you doing? Lurking in ballrooms doesn't suit you – you should stick to pubs. And what is with your – erm…" I hesitated to find the right word, "ensemble?" I smirked – sarcasm is much crueler than an unkind phrase.

Gregor did his best to shuffle his feet and look embarrassed, but it was all an act. His voice didn't hold any of his mock discomfiture.

"Follow me. Twenty foot radius," Gregor whispered urgently. I leaned back on my own feet for a few seconds, thinking.

"Why?"

Gregor glared.

"Honestly, why? Do you honestly think that I will follow you around? I want explanations."

"And if you follow me, you'll get some."

I followed him, even though his phrasing was not lost on me – "some." I did go about limit testing just to prove to him it was fully my choice to follow – stopping every once in a while to stand around, getting out of his special little twenty foot radius, etc. He deserved it, though. As I've said, many times before, Gregor is a jerk like no other. He takes the grand prize… then again, Freestep, Lamont, and Griffin come in close… I might have to reevaluate my scale. Anyway, Gregor (it just struck me that I'm not sure I know his last name – it provides a handicap, because without it I cannot be properly surly) was decently annoyed with me by the end of our walk.

He'd led me to a small upstairs apartment. It was rather cold looking, but a fire was burning in the hearth, and there was a nice view of the gardens outside the window. It was dark out, and the way the stars seemed to reflect the torches of light in the gardens was very picturesque.

I took a seat, and stared at Gregor, willing him to hurry up with informing for what purpose he'd brought me here. He took the cue.

"There's an elderly woman in the next room – she's very sick. She's sleeping right now, but there's something strange about her. I need help – you'll see. She collapsed on the Covington's doorstep last night, and I think she's dying. It was all I could do to make her my charge."

I looked at him blankly. Of course, it was very nice of him to whisper so as not to wake up the woman in the next room, but he'd just taken me to the quarters of some sick lady for no apparent reason.

Even so, I had no time to protest his unfair treatment of me, for Gregor took my arm and dragged me into her chamber, not even considering if she was contagious or not. I must say, he is quite a nice, chivalrous person, when he wants to be, but a touch of… obtuseness permeates all that he does.

My remonstrations died in my throat when I saw the woman. She was sickly in a sense that I don't think I'd had the misfortune to encounter before – sweat was plastering her hair to her face, and she was completely unconscious. Every few seconds her eyelids would flutter, and she might move slightly every so often, but she was demonstrative of sickly. The strange thing was, I don't think it was her pale face or her soaking hair that evoked pity in me – it was her posture, for even for an unconscious person, she looked as if she were about to die. She'd given up on life.

It was one of the saddest scenes I'd ever seen that didn't relate to me.

That was when I noticed the bottle on the bedside table.

I looked at Gregor dubiously.

"You've been doping her up?" I must say, my sympathy was immediately and possibly irreversibly washed away by incredulity – they'd dealt with an old sick woman by giving her whiskey, and by the looks of the bottle, quite a bit of it.

"Um…" It came as no surprise to me that Gregor didn't know what to say.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, suppressing the laughter that I knew would come. "Imbecile."

"What would you have done? Seriously, I'd like to see how you cope if a sick lady collapses on your doorstep."

"First of all, it wasn't your doorstep. Second of all, I wouldn't have given her whiskey; she doesn't seem to be in pain, just… well, she seems ill." That was my best comeback, I'm not so proud to say. Don't worry – I'll try to do better next time. 

We both stood there in silence for a few moments, then the woman let out a groan, and her eyes actually opened – they were a pale blue, unnerving, that you don't see in very many people.

She blinked, three times quickly, as if clearing her eyes, in the manner that Sleeping Beauty might have when the prince kissed her. Then she turned to Gregor and I, a starry light in her eyes.

"Please, let me speak with Gvensar… my baby… I have not seen her for years…" she had a thick, almost Russian accent that distorted her words, and her voice was pleading.

Gregor and I gave each other A Look.

"Gvensar, milady?" Gregor gently asked the woman, and knelt by her side.

"Yes, Gvensar Arielta Quasalion… I should never have let her go…" the old woman shut her eyes, and her face relaxed, as if she were dreaming. "I have something to tell her…"

"She's not with us right now, however if you'll describe her, I'm sure we can find Miss Quasalion…" Gregor trailed off, the last name dying in his mouth as it registered. "Madame," he continued, softly persuading, "what is your name?"

Completely ignoring the second question, Madame began to describe this Gvensar. "She is beautiful… stars flock to her face, and the sun sends rays to adorn her hair… when she smiles, the world is at her feet… my dear Gvensar…" She went on and on. It may have just been me, but as I listened to her long flowery description, I noticed that she didn't use any direct adjectives – no hair color (but it was implied to be blond), no eye color, no height… there were nothing but pretty similes and complex metaphors…

"You haven't seen her in years. You don't know what she looks like." This was not the time and place for my abrupt and vocal conclusion, but it didn't matter.

"Oh, but I do. I can see her face even now…"

"Then what does she look like?

"Dark eyes, I can't tell what color, just that they're dark. Her hair is every color, from black to blond, in stages, the lightest at the front. She has heavy eyebrows and eyelashes, and rose colored lips…" the woman's voice faded out.

Gregor and I gave one another Another Look.

In fact, we were in the middle of giving one another That Look when the woman's eyelids flew open, and she started hyperventilating. We both knelt, unsure of what to do.

"She's coming, oh I can tell! My Gvensar, here!" The woman took my hand and stared through me with her uncanny blue eyes. "I leave everything I have to you, my dear… I have no legal will. I don't own much, but this is what you will need."

I was getting intimidated, and it was tempting to draw my hand from her grasp, but curiosity got the better of me. That was beside the point; I was an heiress to a woman I didn't know. A poor woman, sure, but still; me, an heiress. It was a nice thought. Admittedly, she thought I was this Gvensar, but she'd addressed me as you.

I stared at this poor woman as she dug through her pockets for something, the struggle made ten times more difficult by the way she was overheating and weak. Finally, she took out a small box and pressed it into my hand, which she was clenching progressively harder. I still didn't dare take my hand away to find the contents.

"You're the last Quasalion, my Gvensar. The last. I love you – always remember that. I wouldn't have left you if I didn't have to…"

Her hand stopped clenching mine and her form lay limp in the bed. She'd died with her eyes open, staring out with their eerie ambiance. I couldn't close them; for what little time I'd known this woman, I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge that she was dead, and it had been on my watch.

Well, Gregor was there too.

But he didn't really count.

A tear dripped down my cheek, so I turned my face away. There was something wrong with this picture – I was stealing Gvensar's – whoever and wherever she was – fortune, her mother's dying words, all of it. I chided myself and tried to sweep away my guilt – it wasn't my fault that her mother had problems with hallucinating. Silently and furtively, I slipped the box into my reticule.

"Gregor, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what to do now. Everyone will understand – everyone who knows anyway. I've got to get back to the ball. I've been away too long already." I turned away, not awaiting his response, and dried my watery eyes. It was only then that I realized I was still in masquerade.

Huh.

I was downstairs amidst cheer and dancing and reds and golds again, amidst naivete and joy. It seemed so messed up that none of these people should know of an anonymous old woman's death – and really, if they had known, would they have cared?

Society is screwed. I'm glad not to be much a part in it.

Then again, here I was – Cleopatra, all decked out in red and gold myself. Figuratively, anyway. That was a nicer outlook on life – that maybe, we are all

sympathetic and empathetic behind our masquerades.

Then again, maybe not. The apocalyptic version was more in tune with reality.

Standing in my moment of introspection, I didn't notice that Marc Antony had approached me with a look of demure perplexity upon his face beneath his mask.

"Mademoiselle, would you care for another dance?"

In the end it's just one dance. And what is one supposed to do – must one mourn constantly for someone one never did truly know? There are times for principle, Gwen – this is not one of them.

He still couldn't recognize me.

I smiled.

"Monsieur, I hear that there is a perfectly lovely waltz coming up."

He smiled.

We danced, again, and we would've danced after that but for the fact that it is not becoming of a Young Lady of Status to dance with the same gentleman several times in a row and exclusively. Don't get me wrong – I wasn't falling in love or anything stupid like that; it was just that it was nice to pretend I had no care in the world but to make a few moments perfect in the name of another.

In hindsight, I think it was the 'name of another' part that really made the whole masquerade pleasant at all.

I stayed another hour (I had to leave before the unmasking, you see – that could have been an issue that would live on and provide me problems for years to come), and basically camped out beside the buffet line along the side. It wasn't really supposed to provide a full fledged meal for anyone, but it was adaptable. And the food was of an excellent quality.

I'm writing this the night of so that I forget nothing. Not that you want details, but I'm generous that way. In any case, the whole point of telling you the time was so that I could inform you of my opinion of masquerades knowledgeably.

I've decided they aren't so bad after all.

In fact, I believe I shall influence Aunt Eloise towards going to more of them. Unfortunately, they are not very often held, even here, in high society. Maybe I could get AE to hold one here, instead of the series of balls she was planning on. I daresay, any extension of my personal or mental being into society would please her exceptionally – she would be glad to humor me.

In any case, even though this did only cover one day in my life (not even that, really), I had to send it to you as soon as possible. Maybe next time I can give you a bit more than one masquerade, maybe not.

Oh. Drat. I just realized something – I still have no clue who that one new recruit is, or about Spiristor.

Ah, well.

Maybe I shouldn't have danced with Marc Antony.

That's another reason I'm sending this to you now – tomorrow I may not be able to stomach the amount of weakness I displayed tonight; I'd have to go into denial to you. But for now,

Thoroughly confused,

Gwen

Hello. Sorry for the delay in update; I was just inspired and wrote all of this in two sittings. Sorry that it's kind of out of character for Gwen - I really don't think it is, actually, I just think it's a facet of herself that she doesn't show often - but though I say truthfully that Gwen is not me, I could not say truthfully that I do not influence Gwen's conditions. For example, I love the concept of a masquerade - and here, that makes a showing. So yeah; not typical of Gwen, but it still kind of fits.

Sorry if there was little humor here. I don't really know what to say, but for the fact that this is the beginning of a semblance of a plot, really. Before this, I could go anywhere. After this chapter, there are only so many routes I can take. I had to think a really long time about this, but in the end, I think I made the right decisions regarding the conversations with Gregor and the Sick Lady, and even Marc Antony. Yeah, it's all very confusing, but in the end it works out - somehow. I've tried to make sure it does.

If anyone is reading this, I would like to ask a favor. Yeah, reviews would be nice, but I need to figure out the loose ends. What I really need help with is figuring out what and who and all that - so I welcome reviews and questions. What I mean by questions is this: you ask about something you don't know or find confusing. I won't answer your question unless it's already been answered, and I might hint at what is to be. When you ask questions, you force me to answer them in order to have follow through. Example: If you asked, "What is the significance of Lord Fairfax or Emily?" then I am reminded that they can't just vanish off the face of the Earth, and they have to play a role in the plot, so then I come up with one and hint about it and put in some nuances.

So, in case you haven't quite figured this out yet, I haven't really truly come up with a direct plot yet. Sure, I know what it will be about in general, and I have more of an idea of what will happen than all of you, but I really don't know. And that's why this chapter is kind of important - it blocks me in to a few plotline choices. So yeah, I suck as a writer - I didn't actually outline my book properly. Well, so far it's worked anyway. And I'm trying to outline some, now - now that this chapter is out, and I can't just blunder along happily.

So. Yeah. Please review. Thank you for your time.