.: SIXTEEN :.

...

Vienna, Violet Tuesday 1764

She knew she'd be spilling over with regrets when dawn arrived, but while the darkness still reigned, Amalia refused to care. And as the church bells chimed eleven – the sombre tolling a warning – she scooped up her midnight-coloured skirts and velvet cloak, slipped off her shoes and stockings and waded out into the fountain.

The last snow of winter had barely melted away – a few flakes still fresh over the cobbles, like the powdered sugar dusting the last batch of krapfen before Lent – and yet, even though the icy waters stole her breath away, at least they served to soothe her tired feet.

Amalia threw her head back and watched the stars blur as she spun. "Glücklicher Karneval!" she cheered to the handful of men dressed as harlequins crossing the square – the bells on their costumes jingling with each step. "Asteria shines on you!"

Irina raised an eyebrow behind her golden mask. She was perching on the edge of the fountain, leaning back against one of the bronze statues. "…Are you happy now? Now that you've dipped your toes in Destiny's Spring?" she asked as she smoothed a hand over the pink and saffron ruffles of her gown – her costume hidden beneath her black, velvet cloak. "What secrets does she hold in her waters? Hm? Love? Death? Fortu–"

"Feathers…" Amalia replied, wrinkling her nose as she waded over – hobbling past a few floating grey and white feathers.

The water sloshed and slurped up the sides of the fountain.

Irina smirked, "Well, I did warn you that pigeons like to use it as a giant bathtub, Mal," she said, snatching up the end of her cloak before it was ruined by the rising tide. She lowered her voice a little, "I won't bother telling you what the market men like to do in it–"

"Pardon?"

Irina sat forward, "Nothing – shall we go?"

Amalia looked aghast – her blue eyes wide within her silver mask, "What? But why?"

"Well, it's nearly midnight–"

"Nearly midnight! There's still an hour of Violet Tuesday left!" the archduchess complained, pouting as she paddled. "A whole hour left of Karneval. An hour before it's gone! Gone! Gone forever!"

Of all the feast days on the calendar, Violet Tuesday was the one that they looked forward to the most. It was final night of Karnival – the final opportunity for reckless indulgence before Lent began – and after a morning spent in prayer and confession, the afternoon was always a frenzy of feasting, wild games and performances by acting troupes to celebrate the end of winter, culminating in an extravagant masquerade ball where ladies – in a rare reversal of roles – could ask gentlemen to dance. It was the only night of the year where court rigmarole was (mostly) set aside, and – with the aid of a costume and a mask – you could be anyone you wanted to be, whether a Greek goddess or simply your true self.

But it was outside of the Imperial Palace – on the cobbles and down the alleyways of Vienna – was where Karnival truly raged without rein. There were parades during the day, where harlequins danced through the streets with bears on chains and rung bells to chase away the winter – carrying with them on their shoulders a coffin full of flowers that they'd dug up to symbolise the resurrection of spring. When the sun set, the city became wild and wanton with balls and parties where every indulgence and desire could be and would be fulfilled.

And so, they donned their masks and cloaks and stole away from the palace and the watchful eye of the Swiss Guards to see it all, Amalia dressed as Asteria of the Stars and Irina as Eos of the Dawn. They'd shared a bottle of champagne in the palace gardens, watched an acting troupe performing Molière outside the cathedral, and finally, had crashed a ball at the Schwarzenberg Winter Palace – dancing until their feet throbbed. It had been wonderful.

Irina sighed, "What do you mean, forever? It's gone for now, but it'll be back again next year," she said as she scooped up her friend's silver shoes – the stockings and silver, satin garters tucked safely inside.

"But who knows where we'll be next year, or if we'll even be here at all!" Amalia complained, frowning as she swirled her toes through the water. "Think about it, Rini; seriously. I might be married off by then; my mother's already scrambling to find a husband for Liesl, and Mimi's desperately trying to put off marrying our cousin - she's still terribly brokenhearted over Isabella's death, and-"

"Isabella?" Irina asked. "Your brother's wife?"

Amalia nodded scandalously. "...I'm not supposed to say anything, but they were lovers," she whispered.

Irina's mouth dropped.

"A blotch my mother's rather keen to cover up quickly - which means that I'll soon be next."

Irina looked up at her friend. She couldn't argue with that. She shrugged and nodded, "I suppose so…"

"What if this is to be our last Karneval together?" Amalia asked as she wrapped an arm around the statue of a naked, bearded God fishing from the fountain. She ran her finger down his gleaming, bronze chest, "Our last chance to have some fun! You know what they say! 'She who does not eat and drink on Karneval until her little finger stands, will not be full or happy all the year round!' Come on, there's still time to find a man and ask him to dance…"

Irina laughed. "I think you've had more than enough to drink," she pointed out as she hopped down onto her feet and dusted down her skirts. She held out the shoes, "And you danced with Prince Karl, remember?"

Amalia grinned at the statue and then kissed its lips. "…I did a little more than just dance with Prince Karl," she purred, clasping her hand over the statue's mouth. "Shh, don't tell."

"Alright, Asteria, come on; it's time to go," Irina chuckled, wiggling the shoes at her.

Amalia snatched them away. She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew, "Oh Eos, you unbearable stick in the mud! Won't you hold back the dawn for a little while longer, just this once?" she insisted as she tiptoed out of the water and then sat down on the edge of the fountain. She plucked a stocking out of one of her shoes and then hoisted her skirts up and over her knees - so high you could see the tops of her thighs.

Irina raised her eyebrows and quickly lifted the tails of her cloak like a curtain – shielding her friend from prying eyes. And to think of all the trouble she'd had convincing Amalia to steal away with her in the first place – she was certainly paying for it now. "The only thing I'll be holding back are your curls while you vomit into a chamber pot," she grumbled.

"Oh, come on! We can't leave before midnight!" Amalia insisted as she pulled on her stockings and clumsily tied a garter around each. "Look, there's a gaming house just around the corner – Der Blaue Karpfen – I've heard Joseph mention it a couple of times. He knows all the best places. Why don't we end the night with a game of chance?"

Irina was unsure.

"Oh please! One game! And then we'll go back. I promise!" Amalia pleaded, clasping her hands together.

And so off they went to gamble away the last hour of Karneval. And it seemed that quite a few people had decided to do exactly the same thing, because Der Blaue Karpfen – tucked away in the crypt of an old, baroque palace near the cathedral – was full to the brim and bubbling with music and laughter. Everyone was wearing either a mask or a costume, and so Irina and Amalia shed their cloaks without fear of being recognised and wandered from room to room meandering around the gaming tables – where masked men and women played games of dice and cards – and into the salon where there was dancing and drinking. As midnight drew near, beneath a haze of candlelight – and in cloisters shrouded in sheer, charmeuse curtains – men and women coupled like may flies in a nuptial dance upon champagne-stained chaise.

Amalia quickly sobered and sought Irina's hand as they watched the silhouettes swaying and stuttering like candle flames. "…You know what? Perhaps we should go back…" she suggested as a passing gentleman admired the diamond stars stitched into her gown and sparkling in her blonde hair.

Irina turned her head towards her friend's voice and yet her eyes remained transfixed; she'd never seen anything like it in her life – and instead of being outraged or alarmed, she found herself captivated. There was something alluring about it – in the same way she sometimes had to stop herself from touching a candle-flame or inhaling its smoke.

"…But we're here now," she replied with a slight shrug, idly fingering the gleaming, black pearls around her neck. She glanced over her shoulder at the felt table behind them, where a game of piquet had entered high stakes – the pot in the middle under the candles piled high with wax-bled bills, chips and jewels. "We might as well enjoy ourselves… you said it yourself, it might be the only chance we get."

Amalia took a breath and nodded. "Keep your mask on, Eos," she warned, before heading off in search of a drink.

Irina wandered through the madness as if in a trance, until she stumbled upon a table where two men were deep into a game of Mariage – her favourite game – and seemed to have drawn quite a crowd. They were seated on opposite ends of the table with the dealer in between and couldn't have been more different if they'd tried. The gentleman on the far side of the table was a fop – with whipped blonde curls, and a powdered face behind his mask, and more frill and lace embellishments on his pink jacket than she had on her own gown. He fanned himself with his cards and complained with a sigh that the game would last into the next century if his opponent didn't play his cards a little quicker.

His opponent – who appeared to have come dressed as a shadow – reclined comfortably in his chair and paused a moment longer. "Unlike you, sir… time is not my enemy," he drawled in a foreign voice as he finally plucked a card from his hand and threw it into the middle, trumping The Fop's card with the Jack of Hearts and winning the hand.

The Fop scoffed and shook his head as he scooped up his glass of wine and threw it back between painted lips. He swiped his tongue along his yellow teeth, sneering at his opponent.

The banker took the winning hand and piled it with the rest of the tricks taken by The Shadow, who seemed to be closer to winning the pot of chips, bills and diamonds in the middle of the table. "Two points to The Count, who leads forty-one to twenty-two," he announced to the small crowd's applause. "Count's lead."

A lady standing nearby fanned herself. "He's quite the predator," she whispered to her friend. "Do you know, he hasn't lost a game all night."

As the next hand was played, Irina edged her way around the table – switching sides until she stood hip to shoulder next to The Fop and could steal a glance at his cards, and – more importantly – The Count. Her lips parted as her eyes fell upon him for the first time – upon the subtle smirk playing on his lips as he rearranged his cards, the mischief peering out from behind his black, velvet mask, the simple but elegant cut of his black suit – as much a part of him as his own flesh – and the wild waves of dark hair tied at his nape.

Irina peered over The Fop's shoulder as he stole a hand from The Count, trumping his nine of spades with an ace, and bringing the score a little closer – forty-one to thirty-three. They'd killed the deck and were down to only the cards in their hands – the final few plays of the game.

The Fop chuckled. "I have you now, sir," he declared as he rifled through his remaining cards and then plucked out the seven of clubs – declaring clubs to be trumps. "You and your diamonds, I wager!" he added, nodding at the diamond necklace furled on top of the pot like a sparkling snake.

Irina peeked at The Fop's remaining cards. The seven was nothing more than a throwaway; he still had one big trick left to play – a trick that might very well win him the game.

The Count shrugged his lips as he threw down the eight of diamonds; it seemed he was out of clubs. "Don't wear them before you've won them," he warned as he leaned on one hand, one finger pressed to his temple and the other resting pensively upon his lips.

His eyes flashed up from the table and suddenly they were on Irina, sticking to her like honey – running slowly from the threads of gold brushed into her brown curls to the pink and saffron satin of her gown, intended to mimic the hazy hues of dawn sunshine.

Irina felt the skin at the nape of her neck prickle under his heavy gaze. A gaze that lingered on even when The Fop took two cards from his hand and arranged them neatly – side by side – on the table.

"Journeys end in lovers meeting," he announced dramatically. "A marriage – between the King and Queen of Diamonds to end the game."

The crowd applauded; melding a marriage between a King and Queen was the whole purpose of the game – and if you managed it, twenty points was the prize if they were in a different suit to trumps, which was precisely what The Fop had done.

"Beat that, Count!"

The banker chuckled as he collected the cards. "Bravo. Twenty points to you sir," he said, "You now lead the game, at fifty-three to forty-one."

Irina watched closely as they moved into the penultimate hand. The Fop had played all his winning cards, with only two throwaways left – the nine of clubs and the seven of spades. Not that it mattered; if he chose to play the nine of clubs then he'd still win the hand, as The Count had previously demonstrated that he was out of clubs himself and therefore destined to lose the game.

And so, The Fop confidently placed the nine of clubs down onto the felt. He shrugged and smirked, "…Do your worst, sir," he taunted.

The Count stared at the table for a moment. He only had two cards left and was guarding them close, holding them face down on the felt beneath his hand – his blunt fingertips tapping them.

Irina held her breath as he suddenly lifted his gaze, a triumphant glint in his eyes and upon his lips.

"…Very well," he said as he finally turned over the two cards to reveal the King and Queen of Clubs, a marriage in the same suit as the leading trump card and therefore the best hand in the game – worth a slaughtering forty points.

The crowd inhaled and – after the initial shock had passed – applauded The Count's ingenious strategy. He'd purposely pretended to be out of clubs and therefore vulnerable, luring The Fop into playing one, just so that he could meld a marriage worth enough points to win the game – stealing it right at the last moment.

Irina didn't join in with the crowd's delighted applause. She stood there staring at the cards, wondering why The Count hadn't declared marriage when The Fop had led with the seven of clubs the round before. It seemed foolish and nonsensical to her to hold onto the winning hand when he could have won a lot earlier in the game. The only explanation that Irina could come up with for such reckless gameplay was that – like a cat playing with a mouse – The Count had wanted to draw the game out, just to toy with his opponent.

Such arrogance both astounded and angered her. Perhaps it was how they played in whatever strange and foreign principality that The Count came from; it certainly wasn't the Viennese way.

The banker grinned and raised his eyebrows, "The Count wins with an astounding eighty-one points," he said as he scooped up all the cards, and then applauded with the rest of the crowd. "Bravo, sir!"

The Count didn't stand and take a bow or even thank the crowd for their applause; instead he remained seated – a triumphant smirk tugging at his lips.

The table shook violently as The Fop stood up and threw down his final card, fleeing in fury. His friends hurried after him, as well as the crowd who – now that the drama had drawn to a close – went off in search of some other entertainment.

The banker gestured to the notes, chips and jewellery cluttering the middle of the table – sparkling in the candlelight. "And to the victor, the spoils."

The Count meticulously gathered up his winnings, folding the bills of note and stuffing them into the inside pocket of his jacket and piling up the stacks of chips. As he finally reached for the diamond necklace, Irina slipped into The Fop's empty chair.

The Count blinked at her.

Irina smiled as she neatly folded her hands on the table in front of her.

"…I think you might be lost," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Dice and Cavagnole are played in the next room."

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, I don't enjoy games of chance," she replied. "I prefer something a little more daring than plucking numbered balls out of a bag."

The Count's eyes narrowed within his dark mask. "Then may I suggest you try your hand at Carp? They're playing it near the staircase."

Irina was insulted; Carp was practically a game for children, with very little strategy involved in fishing cards from a pile in the middle of the table. "Actually, I prefer Mariage," she replied, smoothing her hands across the felt. She tapped her fingertips as if she were playing the harpsichord. "And may I suggest you stop trying to foist me before I make the assumption that you're frightened of losing to a lady."

The banker laughed, which earned him a sharp glance from The Count.

When there were no further rebuffs, Irina nodded at the banker and tapped the table twice. "Deal me in."

The Count stared across the table at her as the cards were dealt; the blue cards flinging back and forth across the felt. "…And what – may I ask – are we playing for?" he asked, flourishing a hand as he reclined in his chair.

Irina pursed her lips and hummed. "…Well, that depends; what wouldn't you mind parting with?" she jibed with a shrug of her shoulders. "That diamond necklace you have in your pocket would suit me far more than it would suit you, I think."

"My, we do think highly of ourselves, don't we?" The Count drawled as he teased the diamond necklace from his pocket by the clasp as if it were a sparkling worm. It caught the light temptingly as he dropped it in the middle of the table. His eyes licked her throat, "But yes, I imagine it would," he said. "...That and nothing else."

Irina gulped.

"I confess it hasn't been in my possession for very long anyway."

"Oh no?" she replied, leaning her chin on her knuckles.

"No," The Count replied, grinning at her. "I took it from a gentleman earlier this evening during a game of Pharo. The fool found himself without enough chips to meet my wager and so was forced to strip the stones from the neck of his mistress to match it."

Irina chuckled. She raised an eyebrow, "I assume he lost his mistress as well as the necklace," she guessed, just as the banker finished dealing the cards.

The Count's lips curled slowly. He suddenly sat forward and leaned one arm on the table, "No one comes here to win, my lady – not really," he whispered. "They come here to lose – to pay for the pleasure of shedding the cloaks and masks they wear in daylight–"

Irina stared at him as he spoke.

"–To purge; to whisper a prayer of confession to the devil from the very darkest depths of their soul." He allowed his words to float between them for a moment before he sat back and shrugged his lips. "That is why you came, isn't it?"

Irina looked away. "You know nothing about me," she sniffed.

"Oh, don't I?"

"No, you don't."

The Count rubbed a hand across the dark hair peppering his jaw. "Where should I begin?" He pointed two fingers at the pink and gold ruffles along her bodice, "Well, for a start that gown you're wearing fits you far too well to be a cast off – the Italian satin and gold embroidery far too fine for anyone other than the daughter of a well-respected noble; fresh meat for the marriage market. And yet… there's just the slightest whisper of tobacco on your breath, and… something in the way you carry yourself. That – coupled with the fact you're even here tonight at all – tells me there's a mutiny stirring beneath the ribs of that corset of yours. I doubt it would require much to coax it out."

Irina's eyes widened.

The Count went on, "Your hands have certainly never toiled – other than perhaps across the keys of a harpsichord – and the way that you're twiddling with those rather rare pearls around your neck – a family heirloom, no doubt – that tells me you're nervous, either of your surroundings – after all, what if someone were to recognise you? – or, of the absolute certainty of losing to me."

Irina glowered at The Count, seething at his cutting evaluation; she felt as though he'd carved her open from breast to belly and laid her secrets upon the table between them for everyone to see. She'd never been spoken to in such a way in her entire life. And yet, her body throbbed - she'd never been so aroused.

The banker was waiting patiently. "…Your wager, fraul – ah, forgive me – my lady?"

Even though he was wearing a mask, the Count's sneering look was plain enough for the whole room to see. He raised his eyebrows, daring her to challenge him.

A more sensible woman might have recognised the opportunity to walk away and done so, but Irina refused to be cowed. So – in an attempt to prove some small part of his assumptions wrong – she untied her mother's pearl necklace and dropped it onto the table, right next to the glimmering strand of diamonds.

The Count's lips curled as he picked up his cards. "Your name is worth far more to me than that necklace," he told her. "I need it."

Irina did the same with her own cards, fanning them out neatly. Her dark eyes were sharp as they peered over the cards, "Tonight, you may call me Eos," she replied. "Tomorrow, you'll forget me entirely."

The Count's gaze was slippery. "…Goddess of the Dawn," he replied, nodding as his eyes travelled over the sumptuous gold thread stitched into her bodice and glimmering in her hair. "Well, for once tonight it is darkness who shall overcome the dawn…"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Better late than never - it's been a uh... shall we say an interesting(?) start to the new year. Hope 2020 is treating you well so far, reader.

Oh man, I absolutely LOVE this chapter. LOVE IT. I hope you love it just as much, reader! I couldn't resist slightly drunk Amalia snogging the statue (I'm absolutely sure nothing close to this happened in real life, but I just couldn't help myself). Thank you so much to everyone who's reading and reviewing and following!

Right, I'm off to finally catch up with the new BBC adaptation of Dracula - I've heard very good things! :-)

Historical/Language Notes:

Krapfen: Krapfen are just like doughnuts, they're traditionally eaten around the holidays but especially during Karneval.

Violet Tuesday: Shrove Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras - whatever you want to call it - it's the day before the religious fasting season of Lent begins (and Carnival ends) and so usually tends to be marked with a blow-out party and spectacular feast.

Glücklicher Karneval: German, "Happy Carnival!"

Isabella of Parma and Mimi: Very, very interesting - and something I only read about recently - but it seems that Amalia's older sister (and her mother's favourite) fell in love with her brother's young wife, Isabella of Parma. The two exchanged hundreds and hundreds of letters expressing their mutual love for one another before Isabella tragically died. Mimi was devastated, and all supposedly incriminating letters written by her burned - but Isabella's survive to tell the tale!

Asteria and Eos: Asteria was the Greek Goddess of Nocturnal Oracles and falling stars, and Eos was the Greek Goddess of the Dawn. I mean, 18th century ladies didn't have a plethora of pop culture and comic book characters to pull their fancy dress costume ideas from - their go to was usually Greek Mythology.

Destiny's Spring: The fountain mentioned at the start of the chapter is the Donnerbrunnen/Providentiabrunnen fountain in the middle of Vienna. The main figure in the middle of the fountain is supposed to symbolise destiny and foresight - while the male figures around her symbolise four major rivers in Austria (and also the four ages and temperaments).

Schwarzenberg Winter Palace: The Schwarzenbergs had quite a lineage and plenty of palaces across the Habsburg Empire. Their winter palace in Vienna was a bit of a social hub; it hosted plenty of balls and masquerades for Viennese nobles.

Der Blaue Karpfen: The Blue Carp. Totally made up, of course. But gambling was big business across Europe in the 18th century and so gaming houses popped up everywhere.

The Fop: Fop's a bit of pejorative term for a bloke in the eighteenth century who was very into his appearance. Bit vain, bit vapid. Absolutely nothing to do with sexuality as a lot of people assume. For example, Lord Percy aka "The Scarlet Pimpernel" plays the fop to ingratiate himself amongst the English nobility and therefore hide his identity as the Scarlet Pimpernel.