“Or maybe I could save that one for the after party?” I raised my eyebrows.
He glanced down, his eyes conveying a different type of hunger as they raked over my body. “Probably best to save that one,” he gritted out. “You know how my father feels about ladies’ fashions these days.”
Seff’s father, as an important member of the Church of Scion, apparently did not approve of the more popular Lutessian fashions. In some of the more conservative countries in Ereba, the dresses we wore here had already been outlawed. Lutesse was one of the last bastions of freedom of expression. But if Iwanted to be with Seff, I had to impress his father, so I would cow to his preferences.
“Sure. In that case, I’ll go with the blue one.”
Seff’s fatherowned Montmartre—one of the most exclusive clubs in Lutesse’s vast entertainment district. On the outside, it was unassuming—a white stone building nestled among the artist studios and other clubs of the district—but the inside was opulent. Montmartre’s floor was a sea of glittering black tiles with crimson velvet banquettes. Sparkling crystal chandeliers adorned the high ceilings.
At Montmartre, writers gathered to discuss their latest satires, pounding wine at a rate that would shock and alarm most. Artists and painters would huddle at the little round tables and argue about the latest trends in colour and expression. They came from all over the world to live and paint in Lutesse and experience her rich art and culture.
I had been shocked to learn that the viscount owned the place. Montmartre was the club to see and be seen in the entertainment district; it went from a high-end dining room during dinner hours to a sultry nightclub in the evenings. And while it was luxe and fancy, it wasn’t exactly conservative.
The women there were always dressed to the nines, twirling in a sea of fringe and feathers, knee-high stockings and high-heeled shoes. There were neat finger curls and short bobs atop every head, and large gaudy jewels adorned the necks and ears of all attending.
The men would be dressed in sharply tailored tuxedos, hair sleek and slick, their solid black and white colouring thebackdrop to the flashy ladies’ peacock blues, violent purples and shocking gold and silver.
There were risqué cabaret dance performances throughout the night, and the jazz band played on through it all. The dance floor was the place to be, and bottle service was a must. Free flowing champagne and laughter provided the soundtrack for the evenings. And while champagne was the drink of choice for many at Montmartre, the club was most famous for its champagne and absinthe cocktail called Death in the Afternoon, which could knock a full-grown man on his ass.
In typical Lutesse fashion, the food was also not to be missed. Montmartre employed the best of the best in the culinary world, and the kitchen was rumoured to be a brutal and unforgiving place. They regularly made it onto all the “best of” lists in the city, which added to the list of reasons why it was difficult to even get into the club.
I had only been to Montmartre a handful of times, each time as a guest of Carlotta. Maren and I took full advantage of her fame when we could. We were no strangers to a Death in the Afternoon cocktail, or the trouble that ensued following its consumption.
Tonight would be a different sort of night.
Seff’s very conservative father would not be impressed by our usual drunken antics on the dance floor. I would have to stick to a strict two-glass maximum when it came to the free-flowing champagne, and absolutely no absinthe allowed. Seff would also not approve of our usual nightclub attire, which was risqué at best and bordered on scandalous.
It wasn’t that we were exhibitionists or trying to lure all the men at the club into our beds. Men rarely factored into our fashion choices at all. Maren and I were so used to the discipline and strict uniforms of the ballet that when we had a chance to shed all the propriety, tights, buns and restrictive clothing, wetook it. The jazz clubs we frequented when we were not VIPs at Montmartre were even more laissez-faire; Montmartre seemed stuck-up in comparison. And Carlotta was Carlotta: she was going to be photographed and her nightlife appearances would make an appearance in the paper the next day. Part of her job was to look amazing, and that rarely meant donning something modest.
My palms prickled and my tongue turned to sandpaper whenever I thought of meeting the viscount. It was such an important meeting, the outcome of which could decide the trajectory of my entire future. So I picked out the most modest dress I owned and practised making demure faces in the mirror as I dressed.
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
Stepping off the cobbled streets of Lutesse into Montmartre was like entering another world. The music and dancing was already underway. Maren and Carlotta accompanied me and Seff as we bypassed the long line of patrons waiting to get in. All eyes turned toward our famous friend: she was dressed in a spectacular red dress. The hemline came up well past her knees, exposing a strip of skin between it and her stockings. Tiny ruby gems sparkled along every millimetre of the dress; the neckline plunged to her belly button, exposing her delicate décolletage and slim torso. Atop her chin-length hair she wore a red satin turban, accented with an ornate crystal brooch. Her lips were blood red, and the black kohl around her eyes was sharp enough to kill a man.
Maren was luminous, the simple black shift she wore covered in silver piping, gems and beading. She had arranged her flaxen hair in neat finger curls, with ostrich feathers artfully pinned behind her left ear. She wore silver elbow-length gloves and the most spectacular silver heels I had ever seen. I needed to borrow them some day. If she would ever agree to part with them.
I wore a deep royal-blue shift dress that came to mid-calf. The bodice hugged my curves, the skirt accented with layersand layers of blue beaded fringe that hissed and clinked while I walked. Atop my head was a simple silver band, and my navy satin gloves came up to my elbows. While my strappy black heels didn’t look anything close to as spectacular as Maren’s, they were practical and comfortable, and I would not regret the choice during our gala performance the day after next.
Camera flashes popped and exploded around us as we entered the darkened club. We would look good together in theLutesse Heraldtomorrow. “Carlotta at Montmartre,” it would read. The rest of us would hardly be worth a mention.
Once inside, the frivolity became even more apparent. The dance floor was already filling up with sparkling ladies and sleek gentlemen. Important looking men milled around tall circular tables sipping whiskey, champagne and absinthe. The band played on a raised stage at the far side of the dance floor. Piano, drums, brass and bass—the music was intoxicating, and I wanted to get out onto the floor and twirl. But instead of heading to the dance floor, we made our way to the left, where there were several large red velvet booths. Holding court at the booth in the farthest corner was Viscount Erik de Barras. There were two beautiful women on either side of him, both looking far too young to be Seff’s mother. He had an arm draped casually over one of their shoulders. He whispered something in her ear and she giggled. I wasn’t sure what to make of the scene as we approached. There were several other men in suits and a few more young women squeezed into the circular booth.
Viscount Erik de Barras was a formidable man. He was tall, with broad shoulders, stocky and imposing, with hair the same white blonde as his son’s, albeit much thinner with age. He was clean shaven and wore an impressive tuxedo. The viscount had an air of dismissive coldness, as if he knew his time was more important than yours.
“Seff, my boy,” the viscount addressed his son as we reached the booth.
This was it. The meeting that would decide my future with Seff. If his father approved, would Seff propose? Would he finally move our relationship forward? If the viscount didn’t approve, would that be the end of us? My fate was out of my hands now as I approached the booth, trying to keep my knees from knocking together under all that beaded fringe.
“Father, this is the girl I told you about: Seraphina,” Seff said with deference. I could just barely ignore that he had said “girl,” not “woman” or even “sweetheart.” I tried to brush it off. “She is a ballerina at the Lutesse City Opera, as is her friend Maren.” He gestured to my right. “And certainly you are familiar withLaCarlotta,” he said, gesturing to my left.
“Ah yes, ladies, welcome to Montmartre. Please, call me Erik.” The viscount seemed to be in a good mood as he reached out his hand to grasp mine; his grip was firm and tight. “And Carlotta! I’m simply enchanted. I’ve been a fan of yours for a while. Your performance inHannibalwas awe-inspiring.” The viscount clasped Carlotta’s hand with both of his, as he greeted her jovially. The women sitting beside him lowered their eyes and slipped out of the booth as he showered Carlotta with praise.
“Grazie, Signore.”Carlotta slipped into her native Enotrian as she made a show of blushing at the Viscount’s compliments. It was all an act, but she was so good at playing the ingenue that she almost had me fooled.
“Enjoy yourselves, ladies. The champagne is on me tonight,” he said, gesturing to the party that was already carousing around us. Maren and Carlotta took that as their cue and slunk off toward the bar on the other side of the dance floor, Maren flashing a sympathetic smile over her shoulder as she went. I would have given anything to go off and dance with them, rather than sit here havingthisconversation. But Seff motioned for meto sit as he slid into a newly vacant seat in the booth. I followed, mouth dry, palms sweaty.
“Seraphina, Seff tells me you are quite the dancer.” The viscount turned his attention to me while he motioned for a server to bring me a glass of champagne. He looked me up and down, settling on my face. His gaze was innocent enough, but there was an edged hunger to it. I was thankful that I had chosen the high neckline for the occasion.
