Who: Zipporah and Archie(NPC) What: Their first dance of the masquerade Where: Olympian Masquerade When: 21 October, 1888 [Backdated] Rating: PG
When Archie proposed his costume choice for the masquerade, his godmother had looked pained - most amusingly so.
“You are the face of the company,” she’d said in that refreshingly sour tone, “and you’re coming at the man most famous for being lost.”
That had really sealed deal. However, when things came down to it Archie liked Odysseus. He’d been displaced by fate, by powerful divine intervention, and he had carried on regardless. No sorceress or hungry cyclops was enough to stop him.
A man could pick a worse role model to follow.
Besides Archie liked being back in uniform, even if it was damnably nautical and about century out of date. It gave him a decent range of motion, too, meaning there was no clumsy bustle when he bowed over the hand of his ‘Athena’.
“Lady,” he said with dramatic gravity, “you stand divine. May this humble mortal fetch you some ambrosia? Or ham. We’ve got crackin’ good ham.”
Zipporah’s eyes danced as she looked over to him.
“No ham,” she said, laughter in her voice, and then clucked her tongue, slipping her hand under his arm. “I thought you were supposed for to be the most cunning of men,” she added, giving him a quick, playful glance.
She cackled a little. “You may eat my portion,” she allowed, with a magnanimous bow of her head. “I shall have twice as much of the desserts. Ah! They have a proper samovar,” she sighed, pleased.
When the invitation had arrived, along with a note from Archie requesting that she not only come, but come on his arm as the Athena to his Odysseus with a costume that he’d provide, she’d admittedly been a little nervous, and if she hadn’t known about his origins, she would’ve looked upon it as some form of cruel practical joke.
But the costume had arrived a few days before the ball along with a card recommending a tailor should she need it, and she couldn’t help but feel a little like Zolushka when she put it on -- an elegant velvet cape that brushed the floor, a crown, and a bodice that looked like both armor and owl pinfeathers combined. Wearing it, with gold ribbons in her braids, she felt beautiful and powerful and sure-footed, and her roaring worries about whether she’d misstep during a dance or somehow manage to reveal she was an imposter who didn’t belong in such a crowd had melted away into a low background hum.
“The ham--oh.” His well clad shoulders drooped. “Oh, I am an oaf. Forgive me, please. May I make up for the transgression by fetching you peaches and rambling at length at the perfection of your appearance? The peaches are nearly divine, and the flattery has the unique advantage, in this case, of being true.”
He offered her an arm, leading them both towards one of the helpful mermaid-something-or-other who was in charge of brewing and pouring. Whatever else could (and would) befall the evening, at least nobody would fault the rations.
“Is there any chance I could prevail on you to bestow a dance?” Archie asked. “I swear I’m a decent partner once the foot’s out of my mouth.”
“You may,” Zipporah replied, loftily, before flashing a smile at Archie. “I am having a marvelous time so far,” she added, brushing his arm with her free hand, “and you are a very generous escort. And I do like peaches.”
She looked up at him appraisingly -- while significantly less battered than their last meeting, he seemed a little tense about the shoulders (then again, from what she’d seen so far, he tended to be either tense or exhausted as a general rule). “You are allowed for to have a good time at your own party, Archie,” she added, tilting her chin. “And I will dance,” she added, before her own courage faltered a little. “I… I may need some assistance for the steps,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t judge her too badly for not knowing them.
“The merit of the escort is entirely dependent upon the charm of his charge,” Archie said. The smile on his face belied the pompous tone. Similarly, there was no arrogance in the gentle precision with which he took his “charge’s” and pressed it, very delicately, to his mouth.
He had been very proper and avoided the temptation to engage Zipporah as his partner in the opening Grand March, insteading accompanying Biddy in that obligatory stride through the room. Propriety demanded such tender attentions to his poor widowed cousin--regardless of the blistering opinions of the cousin herself on the matter. Theoretically he should’ve took her up for the first waltz as well, except...
Except Zipporah cut a very notable figure in her costume. There was something to be said for the aesthetic effect of an armored bodice. Archie suspected it was not the sort of something that was often said outloud in starched company.
Which didn’t meant that he couldn’t think it.
The dance floor was a bit of a crush, but not impassable. Zipporah and he found their own niche of space readily enough in the sea of skirts and vests. Their nearest competition for breathing room was a pair done up as Perseus and Andromeda, the latter wearing an awesome bulk of jewelry as her chains. Archie schooled himself to ignore the rattling.
Automatically, he raised his left hand to accept Zipporah’s right--only to falter, realizing the mistake.
“Apologies,” he said and switched hands to present his “good” hand for her to take. Luckily he could lead with his left on her back readily enough.
“Archie,” she said in reply, pausing, “there is nothing for to apologize. I do not give a care which hand you should put in mine. They are both yours, and that is what matters.” She looked at him, raising her chin, a small smile blooming on her face. “I shall be a terrible dancer regardless.”
It hadn’t escaped her that his left hand was maimed -- several of the fingers in the gloves didn’t bend, and were, she suspected, padded with cotton or somesuch. She’d grown up in the countryside, and now lived in a neighborhood teeming with laborers, dockhands, veterans, and factory workers -- such injuries were frequently a source of (wild, often exaggerated) stories, and almost a mark of pride -- and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d encountered it.
After a moment, Archie switched hands to the “proper” position: his right on her back, his left holding her hand in readiness.
“I think, Zipporah,” he said in a light, odd tone, “that you could never be terrible. No matter what steps you take. In fact, I’m becoming astonishingly certain of it.”
The opening notes of the waltz unfurled and Archie stepped into the beat as easily a roofer taking the first rung of his ladder. Army service did little to damage his feet, at least. His hand on Zipporah’s back guided the young woman into the shining pattern of the dance.