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There were sufficient guests in line already to keep Cyrus standing in line for a few minutes, so he knew that the evening was going to be well-attended. The rooms inside were probably spacious so he’d be able to find a corner for himself where he could relax and observe. About the only activities he could admit he found enjoyable at these sorts of things.
Passing the polite inquisition of a footman, Cyrus walked into Theryn House. And, it would seem, into the first of the evening’s annoying hurdles.
The massive foyer was dominated by a very nicely designed fabric banner. The wording made him frown for a few moments.
“WHAT WOULD YOU PREFER? TO DREAM OF YOUR PERFECT MATCH, OR BE SOMEONE ELSE”S?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“IF YOU WANT TO CREATE YOUR OWN, PLEASE FOLLOW THE GREEN SIGN.”
And beneath that, “IF YOU WANT TO BE CHOSEN BY ANOTHER, PLEASE FOLLOW THE BLUE SIGN.”
Unfortunately for Cyrus, there was no banner offering the option of ignoring all these silly signs and going straight to one of the many wine tables he knew would be set up for the evening.
The orchestra was already playing, which meant dancing had begun, and the foyer was now filled with excited chatter as guests tried to work out their preferences for choose and chosen.
Cyrus considered the matter. If he went with being the chooser, he’d probably have to do something idiotic, like pick someone—a woman of course—which would set the twittering going, to the embarrassment of both of them.
However, if he selected the part of choosee, well, that would mean someone could select him in some way. And that, given his reluctance to play the social game, would be unlikely.
So he took a breath and followed the blue sign.
It led to a smaller room, where there were cards, quills, and ink. Around the tables, guests laughed, chatted, and filled out blue cards, sometimes causing great amusement, apparently.
“George, you are not six feet tall,” admonished one man to another. “And you’re certainly not well read.”
The answer was a snort. “I’ll get chosen, just you wait and see. And with luck, by one of the Tremblay sisters. The blonde one is on the hunt, I hear.”
Cyrus sighed, hearing a few more conversations along similar lines from both men and women, all of whom were taking the entire thing as an exciting kind of competition, and lapping up the idea of being someone’s perfect match.
Now he had a modicum of understanding as to what this entire business was about, he casually pulled out a chair at one of the tables and proceeded to fill out his name on the top of his own card, his lips curling with amusement as he responded to the half dozen or so questions.
Waving the card to dry the ink, he stood, now comfortable in the belief that the likelihood of his name being selected was extremely remote.
Much more relaxed, he passed his card to one of the maids at the doorway and then walked to where all the noise was coming from...the ballroom.
Skirting the dancers, he took his bearings. His mission now was to find what he liked to call “his nook”. A spot where he could observe, catalogue, and watch carefully as the guests played their games and the ball played out along predictable lines. All while he was barely a shadow by a column.
Chapter Seven
“I swear,” panted Alla, “if young Marcus Taunton asks me to dance again, I’m going to faint.”
She flopped into a chair next to Maelin, who was also catching her breath.
“Doesn’t it seem as if everyone is wound up more tightly this evening? Mr Taunton whirled me around the floor so fast, I swear created a breeze strong enough to rattle the chandeliers.”
“Yes, I have to agree. Although I wasn’t whirled around the floor, I was barraged with a flood of conversation about military matters. Things that are as unfamiliar to me as the controls of an airship.” She brushed her hand over her gown. “The only redeeming feature of the entire experience was that Isolde Palmer wasn’t dancing at the time, and she glared at me every time we whirled past.”
“Maelin,” grinned Alla. “You can be a beautiful bitch sometimes, which is, of course, why I adore you.”
“Thank you,” nodded Maelin, satisfied. “I try to be nice, but when I hear she’s been whispering about me, and not in a flattering way? All bets are off.”
“Forget about her,” advised Alla. “Tell me more about this machine of yours.”
Two pairs of eyes turned to the mammoth cabinet filling an entire corner of the ballroom. There were lights and buttons and various signs, levers gleamed down one side, while polished dials glittered on the other. The copper construction glowed, and the twinkle of turquoise accents added a touch of intrigue to something that hadn’t been seen before.
“It’s not mine,” said Maelin. “To be truthful? I’m not sure where it came from. I asked Aunt Varelle, and she was a bit vague, saying it came from a friend of Uncle Phineas. I didn’t have chance to ask him, since he’s been laid up with a miserable touch of the ague. I’m not even sure if he’s going to be able to be here this evening.” She sighed. “A fact which obviously didn’t bother Aunt Varelle very much.” Her gaze drifted to her aunt, who was presently dancing with a tall and very handsome grey-haired gentleman, and looking as if she was enjoying every minute of it. She sighed.
