Why Tabitha had decided to go to La Danse de la Brume was completely
beyond her. It was to be held at Monique Damask's home, one of the
majority of young women on the isle that had decided that she was not
fashionable or stupid enough to take tea or sew with. What a pity, she
thought with a sad sort of smile as she rummaged deeper into the chest. It
had been several years since she had actually attended any of the elaborate
balls that were thrown semi-annually by the town's wealthiest and most
prominent households. No, not since Devonny had come of age and proven
herself to be a conniving, wretched waste of a human being. But somewhere
in the back of her mind, she always knew she would make some sort of
comeback. Perhaps that was why she'd spent so much time and money creating
this.
Her hands closed around the thick fabric, and little shivers of excitement ran along the lengths of her arms and spines at the thought of finally wearing it. A dress she had designed herself, from its conception in her head to the sketch she'd made one long and boring summer. It was so unique and beautiful, distinct from anything that had been brought over by the merchant ships or created by the fashion artisans around town. Servants had offered enthusiastically to lend their talents into bringing it to reality, but she'd politely turned them all down. This was her creation. The fabric, the lace, every last stitch had been chosen and created by her hand. It was the deepest black created in a textile, pure black that seemed to soak up the light around it. No silk to shimmer and dance, no cotton to catch the breeze. Simply flowing midnight.
The dress cut to a wide square neckline and pointed waist, accentuating the curves of her hips and exposing the creamy skin of her breasts. The skirt billowed out in a wide flare, cut like curtains in the front to expose an underlayer of baby pink. The same contrast piped along the boning of the bodice, the ruffles in the neckline, and in ribboned bows at the elbows giving way to wide and draping sleeves that fell against her fingertips.
She'd had to wait months for enough pink piping to come into the shop, and was forced to redo the entire skirt after it fell flat on the right side. However here it was, frozen in time and completed to perfection, waiting for this golden opportunity to outshine Portia and Devonny.
After the maid had fastened the back buttons and taken her leave, Tabitha sat at her vanity, gazing into the mirror. As tall as she always forced herself to stand, she felt a bit odd thinking about actually being at the ball. She didn't look like the other girls at all. They had spent so much time caking their faces, strangling their hair, training their bodies to mirror whatever London or Paris dictated. There was something distinctly animalistic in the reflection she stared at, exotic and distant. Her skin was like that of a porcelain doll's, with only the slightest hint of pale peach eminating through. Her bright green eyes starkly stood out against it, as did her raven hair. Straight as plaits, it cascaded down behind her to rest at the small of her back. Her eyes were large and wide toward the center of her face, then narrowed out further to give them the shape of two ripe almonds. She always assumed that she must have her mother's eyes, since her father's were small and blue, like Devonny's. Kinder and softer, but certainly bearing no resemblence to the curious orbs placed in Tabitha's face.
She shrugged, breaking the spell of ponderance that captivated her and sweeping her hair up above her head. With the stick of a pin it held securly in place and, satisfied, she gathered herself up and hurried down the stairs.
"Oh NO, you can't be thinking of wearing that hideous thing!" Devonny cried, close to the door as the hoofs of the horses sounded the carriage outside. "We can't be seen with someone who looks as though they're mourning the death of a jester."
"You won't be seen with me," she announced, brushing past them both. "I'll go alone."
"And what, walk to Miss Damask's?"
"Precisely."
The air was cool and crisp, summer just waking up in its purgatory called springtime. Night had long since fallen, and the lampposts were illuminated with candles that drew every sort of insect known to the tropics. Which made, of course, for quite a party. Carriages hurried through, passing the closed shops and the taverns that never closed.
Crossing the street in the quiet square, she noticed a peculiar gang of beraggled-looking sea men huddled together, laughing and swilling and paying absolutely no attention as she passed by. Daemon's Pointe rarely received visitors, and when it did, they were all well-received by someone.
Oh well, she shrugged, continuing on. I'm sure the spirits will keep them entertained until they move on to the more exciting ports of call.
Monique must have had quite the inclination to put so much effort into La Danse de la Brume, she thought as she entered the enormous hilltop mansion. In the front room, holding the staircase and entryway, streamers wound around rose garlands from ceiling to floor. An entire orchestra, or as much of one as could be assembled here, gathered in the ballroom. Normally even the fanciest parties sported just a few strings and pipes. Tables lined up from one end of the wall to the other, brimming with decadent foods. Ignoring the crowds milling over tedius introductions and mindless chatter, she made a beeline for the refreshments. The girl must've been announcing her engagement to Sir Somebody or something, as she clung like a stubborn barnacle to the side of a pompous looking man in military attire, introducing him to every guest she could get her hands on.
Devonny had already made her appearance, and was twirling around the dance floor with some young man as a horde of others clustered together in a sort of line on the side. A few other couples joined alongside them, lost in the lively music, but most just looked on in envy at Devonny and her admirers. Perhaps, as they continued to monopolize the center of the floor, the crystal chandalier would come tumbling down and crush them beyond recognition. One could always hope.
She turned her attention back to the food, filling her plate with as much as the delicate china could hold. Cheeses, biscuits, ham, fruit pie, cake, salmon, grapes... she grinned mischeviously to think of her total lack of corset. Most of these girls couldn't take a sip of wine without bursting.
"Excuse me," a voice interjected with undeniable annoyance right behind her head. She whirled around to confront a servant not directing at her, but at a very bizarre man picking at a crepe. Her jaw nearly clattered onto the floor, for she had never seen someone so... so... eccentric. His clothes were faded and worn, a far cry from what anyone would label acceptable for being even within a mile radius of the Damask residence. A tattered cornered hat crowned a head of messy dreadlocks and braids, interwoven with beads and bobbles and whatever else he had come across that seemed to have struck his fancy, right down to the braided tails of his beard. His brown eyes, surrounded by heavy coal, snapped away from his dessert to confront the disruption. "You are not supposed to be here."
He furrowed his brow in mock contemplation. "No, now you see, that's impossible. I'm a guest."
"A guest?"
"A guest!" He flashed a gold-toothed smile, bobbing down in an odd sort of arm-flailing bow.
"You are a guest of Miss Damask?"
"He's my guest," Tabitha broke in, astonished at her involuntary words. They both stared at her in equal bewhilderdom. "He's my, ah, cousin."
"This is your relation, Miss McGovern?"
"Yes, and I would appreciate if you'd stop interrogating us and allow us to enjoy the party," she spat back, sending the man feebly scurrying away.
"Now would that be first cousin or second cousin, my dearest..." The man inquired, blocking her path down the line by leaning flirtatiously against the table.
"Oh please," she rolled her eyes, reaching around his arm to retrieve an eclair. "If you don't mind, I'd love to spend the rest of the night basking in the glow of this wonderful party in peace."
"Peace, eh?" He contemplated, running his fingers along his cheek. "Now, I wouldn't count on that, love."
At that moment, the sound of shattering glass and gunshots sent the ballroom into a panic. Women's screams nearly drowned out the brutal noise crushing from around them. The orchestra skittered to a hault as people spun around, completely baffled, like chickens with a wolf in the yard. Wild looking men with swords and pistols seemed to swarm in from everywhere, bees to a hive. Through the windows they jumped, shooting whomever they could aim at. People crumpled to the floor as the marble tiles leaked rivers of crimson. Many headed for the entryway doors, only to find more attackers waiting for them.
In that same terrifying second, the man's arms flew across her waist, yanking her along as he headed for the doorway. She screamed, kicking at his feet and shins as his grip wound tighter. "You'll thank me later, love," he muttered as he made his way casually through the blood and death. In an instant Tabitha saw Devonny fly by, mounted on the shoulders of a burly man, flapping her arms desperately as if attempting to take flight. Her wig had fallen off, and flecks of blood were splattered across her white powdered complexion. My book! She still has my book!!
"Move out," he demanded as he came to the blockade at the entryway. "This one's mine."
"Yers fer what?" A frightening-looking giant growled.
"Yers fer what? What do you think, for what?" He shouted back, pushing aside without further protest.
A knot twisted in her stomach as his words sunk into her comprehension. Panicking, she made every physical effort she could to free herself from his locked grasp. "Take me back there, right now! I'd...I'd rather die than be your..."
"Free pleasurable company?" He offered. "Now you're just cheapening my chivalry. C'mon love, not so far now."
Her hands closed around the thick fabric, and little shivers of excitement ran along the lengths of her arms and spines at the thought of finally wearing it. A dress she had designed herself, from its conception in her head to the sketch she'd made one long and boring summer. It was so unique and beautiful, distinct from anything that had been brought over by the merchant ships or created by the fashion artisans around town. Servants had offered enthusiastically to lend their talents into bringing it to reality, but she'd politely turned them all down. This was her creation. The fabric, the lace, every last stitch had been chosen and created by her hand. It was the deepest black created in a textile, pure black that seemed to soak up the light around it. No silk to shimmer and dance, no cotton to catch the breeze. Simply flowing midnight.
The dress cut to a wide square neckline and pointed waist, accentuating the curves of her hips and exposing the creamy skin of her breasts. The skirt billowed out in a wide flare, cut like curtains in the front to expose an underlayer of baby pink. The same contrast piped along the boning of the bodice, the ruffles in the neckline, and in ribboned bows at the elbows giving way to wide and draping sleeves that fell against her fingertips.
She'd had to wait months for enough pink piping to come into the shop, and was forced to redo the entire skirt after it fell flat on the right side. However here it was, frozen in time and completed to perfection, waiting for this golden opportunity to outshine Portia and Devonny.
After the maid had fastened the back buttons and taken her leave, Tabitha sat at her vanity, gazing into the mirror. As tall as she always forced herself to stand, she felt a bit odd thinking about actually being at the ball. She didn't look like the other girls at all. They had spent so much time caking their faces, strangling their hair, training their bodies to mirror whatever London or Paris dictated. There was something distinctly animalistic in the reflection she stared at, exotic and distant. Her skin was like that of a porcelain doll's, with only the slightest hint of pale peach eminating through. Her bright green eyes starkly stood out against it, as did her raven hair. Straight as plaits, it cascaded down behind her to rest at the small of her back. Her eyes were large and wide toward the center of her face, then narrowed out further to give them the shape of two ripe almonds. She always assumed that she must have her mother's eyes, since her father's were small and blue, like Devonny's. Kinder and softer, but certainly bearing no resemblence to the curious orbs placed in Tabitha's face.
She shrugged, breaking the spell of ponderance that captivated her and sweeping her hair up above her head. With the stick of a pin it held securly in place and, satisfied, she gathered herself up and hurried down the stairs.
"Oh NO, you can't be thinking of wearing that hideous thing!" Devonny cried, close to the door as the hoofs of the horses sounded the carriage outside. "We can't be seen with someone who looks as though they're mourning the death of a jester."
"You won't be seen with me," she announced, brushing past them both. "I'll go alone."
"And what, walk to Miss Damask's?"
"Precisely."
The air was cool and crisp, summer just waking up in its purgatory called springtime. Night had long since fallen, and the lampposts were illuminated with candles that drew every sort of insect known to the tropics. Which made, of course, for quite a party. Carriages hurried through, passing the closed shops and the taverns that never closed.
Crossing the street in the quiet square, she noticed a peculiar gang of beraggled-looking sea men huddled together, laughing and swilling and paying absolutely no attention as she passed by. Daemon's Pointe rarely received visitors, and when it did, they were all well-received by someone.
Oh well, she shrugged, continuing on. I'm sure the spirits will keep them entertained until they move on to the more exciting ports of call.
Monique must have had quite the inclination to put so much effort into La Danse de la Brume, she thought as she entered the enormous hilltop mansion. In the front room, holding the staircase and entryway, streamers wound around rose garlands from ceiling to floor. An entire orchestra, or as much of one as could be assembled here, gathered in the ballroom. Normally even the fanciest parties sported just a few strings and pipes. Tables lined up from one end of the wall to the other, brimming with decadent foods. Ignoring the crowds milling over tedius introductions and mindless chatter, she made a beeline for the refreshments. The girl must've been announcing her engagement to Sir Somebody or something, as she clung like a stubborn barnacle to the side of a pompous looking man in military attire, introducing him to every guest she could get her hands on.
Devonny had already made her appearance, and was twirling around the dance floor with some young man as a horde of others clustered together in a sort of line on the side. A few other couples joined alongside them, lost in the lively music, but most just looked on in envy at Devonny and her admirers. Perhaps, as they continued to monopolize the center of the floor, the crystal chandalier would come tumbling down and crush them beyond recognition. One could always hope.
She turned her attention back to the food, filling her plate with as much as the delicate china could hold. Cheeses, biscuits, ham, fruit pie, cake, salmon, grapes... she grinned mischeviously to think of her total lack of corset. Most of these girls couldn't take a sip of wine without bursting.
"Excuse me," a voice interjected with undeniable annoyance right behind her head. She whirled around to confront a servant not directing at her, but at a very bizarre man picking at a crepe. Her jaw nearly clattered onto the floor, for she had never seen someone so... so... eccentric. His clothes were faded and worn, a far cry from what anyone would label acceptable for being even within a mile radius of the Damask residence. A tattered cornered hat crowned a head of messy dreadlocks and braids, interwoven with beads and bobbles and whatever else he had come across that seemed to have struck his fancy, right down to the braided tails of his beard. His brown eyes, surrounded by heavy coal, snapped away from his dessert to confront the disruption. "You are not supposed to be here."
He furrowed his brow in mock contemplation. "No, now you see, that's impossible. I'm a guest."
"A guest?"
"A guest!" He flashed a gold-toothed smile, bobbing down in an odd sort of arm-flailing bow.
"You are a guest of Miss Damask?"
"He's my guest," Tabitha broke in, astonished at her involuntary words. They both stared at her in equal bewhilderdom. "He's my, ah, cousin."
"This is your relation, Miss McGovern?"
"Yes, and I would appreciate if you'd stop interrogating us and allow us to enjoy the party," she spat back, sending the man feebly scurrying away.
"Now would that be first cousin or second cousin, my dearest..." The man inquired, blocking her path down the line by leaning flirtatiously against the table.
"Oh please," she rolled her eyes, reaching around his arm to retrieve an eclair. "If you don't mind, I'd love to spend the rest of the night basking in the glow of this wonderful party in peace."
"Peace, eh?" He contemplated, running his fingers along his cheek. "Now, I wouldn't count on that, love."
At that moment, the sound of shattering glass and gunshots sent the ballroom into a panic. Women's screams nearly drowned out the brutal noise crushing from around them. The orchestra skittered to a hault as people spun around, completely baffled, like chickens with a wolf in the yard. Wild looking men with swords and pistols seemed to swarm in from everywhere, bees to a hive. Through the windows they jumped, shooting whomever they could aim at. People crumpled to the floor as the marble tiles leaked rivers of crimson. Many headed for the entryway doors, only to find more attackers waiting for them.
In that same terrifying second, the man's arms flew across her waist, yanking her along as he headed for the doorway. She screamed, kicking at his feet and shins as his grip wound tighter. "You'll thank me later, love," he muttered as he made his way casually through the blood and death. In an instant Tabitha saw Devonny fly by, mounted on the shoulders of a burly man, flapping her arms desperately as if attempting to take flight. Her wig had fallen off, and flecks of blood were splattered across her white powdered complexion. My book! She still has my book!!
"Move out," he demanded as he came to the blockade at the entryway. "This one's mine."
"Yers fer what?" A frightening-looking giant growled.
"Yers fer what? What do you think, for what?" He shouted back, pushing aside without further protest.
A knot twisted in her stomach as his words sunk into her comprehension. Panicking, she made every physical effort she could to free herself from his locked grasp. "Take me back there, right now! I'd...I'd rather die than be your..."
"Free pleasurable company?" He offered. "Now you're just cheapening my chivalry. C'mon love, not so far now."