Page 26 of The Scarlet Ball

It delighted me in a small way that they were both just tricks to her, and then at nine sharp, we were away to the Gracens’ house. They were eccentrics, Mrs. Howard had muttered as we set out, slightly mad for all they had come to New York at the same time as the Howards and the de Langes and the rest. They were fanatical about all things Italian and Renaissance: Their house had been taken straight from some sun-kissed province in Italy, and it was doing poorly in its second New York winter. There was something brave about the grand arched entryway and the elegantly ornamental facades standing up against the slush that seemed to fall straight from the sky. Another two years, maybe another three, and they’d be dismal, but right now, they were romantic, and our carriage drew up to the broad, terrifyingly slippery marble steps.

Mr. Howard alighted first, and then a footman shook out an enormous burgundy umbrella for Mrs. Howard and me, shielding us from the wet as Mrs. Howard linked her arm through mine.

“Remember, do not speak more than you must with the other girls,” she whispered. “That is not what you are here to do.”

My smile was small. It felt as if Mielle had stitched the face on a hair too tight. “But of course, madame. At your service, madame.”

We entered the foyer, and even I couldn’t help sighing at how lovely it was. It was yellow marble with a floor inlaid with a pattern of vines and arrows, and the columns rose high overhead to support a glass-and-iron dome. Mrs. Gracen and her husband circulated through the crowd, clasping hands, accepting kisses. When they approached us, I could tell that Mr. Gracen wasn’t any more human than Mr. Howard was. Their smiles turned into something else as they greeted each other, and I watched fascinated as they shook hands and slapped each other on the backs as bluff sporting gentlemen liked to do. Mr. Howard’s smile grew brighter, and the air warmed as he leaned in to whisper something in Mr. Gracen’s ear. There were no words, or at least no words that I could hear. It was only for the look of it, like their patent-leather hair, their good-natured faces, their perfectly cut suits.

Something happened, or perhaps something was decided. Mr. Gracen, I think, was the one who demurred, looking away, still smiling, but Mr. Howard nodded with satisfaction, sinking back onto his heels.

“Our interests continue as they were out West,” he said to Mrs. Howard as if he were merely passing the time. “We shall not see any untoward disruption, I should think.”

“A pleasure to hear it,” Mrs. Howard replied absently.

I wondered if there truly were holdings out West, some mine or port or fertile land, or if it was only a cover for something more dire. I would not have bet either way, and I suddenly wondered what betting would look like with a crowd like this, what might be sacrificed and more critically, what might be gained. I played sometimes, roulette or poker, but I made it a policy to only bet other people’s money, never my own. The idea of winning in this crowd was bewitching, but I thought losing would be more than I could tolerate.

From a ribboned hatbox, Mrs. Gracen drew a small silk pouch and handed it to me. It had been a diamond bracelet at the White Ball. Here it was a brooch carved from a single piece of cool white jade into the semblance of a rose. It was cut so thin you could see the shadow of your fingers through the petals, and I tucked it into the reticule hung from my wrist. It was pretty enough, I reckoned, but one of those delightful pieces that was only valuable to those who knew what they were looking at. If I sold it, it would be for the gold backing and needle.

The ball started late, some issue with the musicians, and it was closing on ten before the processional dances even started. Mielle had drilled me so hard on these that I could do them in my sleep; if I was prone to sleepwalking, I would have found myself pacing up and down the hall, turning to face an invisible partner, left and right, reverence, and repeating from the top.

I performed patiently through the processionals and the exhibition dances, and during the break for lemonade, I found a strange tightness in my belly. I told myself this was nothing I had not done before and handily survived. I was fast, I was strong, and better than either, I was lucky. Life didn’t offer many assurances beyond that.

The crowd broke into excited whispers when the little servant boys in velvet breeches came around with baskets of long-stemmed roses. They made their way through the crowd, offering them not to the ladies but to the young gentlemen. I saw two of the gentlemen fence with them as if they were swords, while the majority held them stiffly as if unsure what to do without a young lady to offer them to.

At Mrs. Gracen’s call, the young ladies arranged themselves across the dance floor, scattered like constellations. I waited for something to happen, something to indicate a shift to that stone hall where we had first met the demon lords. I glanced down to see if the floor might open, I looked up to see if the roof might fade away to reveal something beyond, but there was nothing.

The musicians sorted themselves out, the gentlemen stirred restlessly on the edge of the room, and nothing changed. Then music struck up, and as it did, some of the shadows behind the line of gentlemen shifted, changed. Some were winged, and some were fanged, and no one seemed to notice how tall they were, or how some went sharp and hissing when they drew too close to the others.

They’re here and I never knew. They’re here and I never sensed them.…

I still couldn’t, exactly. They flickered at the edges of my vision, playing least in sight with the world at large. They had lost the changeable quality they’d had at the White Ball, they’d grown into their faces and their limbs. Perhaps they had learned better how to resemble us, or perhaps our world exerted some kind of gravity on them that forced them solid. They stood among the human men, and for the moment, there was nothing to tell them one from another.

And either way, whoever asks, I must dance, I thought with a kind of mild hysteria. The steps are the same whether demon lord or poor country cousin.

The ballo del fiore was an Italian dance, naturally. It started off light and playful as the men paced the hall, circling the most lovely girls or the richest ones or the ones they thought they might win. The gentlemen have a count to thirty-two to do this: hunt, find, and jockey among themselves so that no offense is given and no two men offer for the same girl.

At the first turn of the music, there was a trio of young men, all human thankfully, circling me, and before it became an issue, as if on some unspoken signal, two split off, one to Hugette, the other to a hopeful-looking girl in cobalt velvet, some blonde I didn’t know. My partner smiled, victorious verging on smug, and I accepted the mica-dusted pink rose he offered me.

He was a good dancer, light on his feet and mindful of his height so that I did not have to reach up to clasp his hand. We both held on to the rose’s de-thorned stem, my hand over his, and we swept left and then right. The music changed and we started a light fast trot through the room, weaving among the other couples, raising our arms to let them pass, sweeping underneath their joined hands in turn.

He surprised me with his grace. He edged me to one side just before Mona Pryor crashed past in the embrace of the reeling heir to a shoeblack fortune, and despite us standing perhaps a little closer than Mielle would prefer, he never stepped on my foot once. My corset, laced tighter than I would have for fun, snatched my breath away, and made my surprised laugh come breathy; I almost missed it when the music changed.

My partner bowed, leaving me with the rose, and now it was my turn to seek. My feet fell into the rhythm easily. What I was less certain of was of finding the right partner, which of course meant finding the monster among the men.

Nothing said I had to thrust my hands into the jaws of the wolf this very minute, though, and I circled straight back to the man who had chosen me. He smiled widely upon seeing me before him again, and his bow when I offered him the rose was a shade deeper than it had to be.

“You must like me, little strawberry.”

I tossed my head to make the glass strawberries in my hair chime. “For the moment. Who knows what I’ll like next?”

This time the ladies led, and I made him keep up with me, corset or no. You can go a surprisingly long way if your steps are light enough, and I circled us around the hall. It would be a dirty trick to smash him into other gentlemen, but I didn’t try to prevent it either, and when he avoided disaster, he shot me a wry sly smile as if to say he knew what I was up to.

The music changed, and when I released him, I stood straight as if I didn’t care what happened. I was Iphigenia Marshall, and good things would always come to me. If it was not this young man, it’d be another, and I didn’t even blink when his searching steps took him around me like a shark, warding off others so that he could stand before me again with the rose.

This time, he led me more sedately, let me see how graceful he was slow as well as fast. It gave me enough time to note the cut of his jacket, the immaculate white of his shirt, the expensive scent of alyssum from the flowers pinned to his lapel. At the same time, I knew he was looking at the satin shine of my gown and the double strand of pink pearls around my wrist.

As we went by, I saw a tired frown on Mrs. Howard’s face and a quizzical look on Mr. Howard’s. I thought I might have a tongue-lashing waiting for me in the carriage, but what else was new?