Viva (cantplaydead) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-11-02 10:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | adrien green, biddie |
Who: Adrien Green and Biddie
What: Shake it 'til the moon becomes the sun...
When: October 21, 1888: Olympian Masquerade [backdated]
Where: Hotel Imperial ballroom
Rating: PG-13
It was interesting, Biddie noted, how costumes worked. In truth only about a third of the guests were actually masked, and yet...and yet there was a palpable frisson of license in the room. A sense of mischief, a touch of the carte blanche. A note of something wicked.
Did bandits perhaps wear masks for protection and inspiration? It was a curious thought, but not one powerful enough to distract her. A glance at the watch neatly attached to her cuff showed there was still plenty of time before her “special” duties began. Certainly she had time to idle and observe. Or, better yet, dance.
A tall figure in black and tarnished gold caught her eye. Indeed, she was willing to bet he caught more than one pair: if the height wasn’t enough, then there was the metallic skull. Even in this dazzling crowd of champagne and silk, Death took attention. They made room for him, and seemed barely aware of doing so.
It really was a superb costume choice, Biddie reflected with no small amount of smugness.
Adrien wasn’t the sort to go to dances, on many different levels -- he wasn’t usually invited, for one, and if he had been, hypothetically, it would’ve taken considerable effort for him to determine it was worth the fuss and noise and people.
Biddie’s invitation was accompanied by a fairly lavish costume, the sort of request that didn’t make a graceful decline possible, and while he’d been wary of it, he had to admit to being at least a little pleased at the attention.
The fact that he was being asked to attend as Charon was rather amusing, too.
Biddie had her fair share of eccentricities and obsessions -- it was next to impossible to be an interesting correspondent without them -- and he could appreciate her eye for detail. The costume fit quite well, for one, and there was something very nearly approaching relief at the relative anonymity provided by a mask and gloves. The room was pleasing to the eye, the offerings of food tasteful and quite extensive (especially the desserts -- it was Biddie’s party, after all, he’d expect no less), and whatever glances he was getting were from the costume, which was an attention he could manage gracefully.
Especially since the sight of a gleaming skull mask tended to make dreaded small-talk far less likely to occur.
Masquerades, he’d decided, weren’t all bad.
She’d signed the bottom of his invitation as ‘Psyche’ in her familiar, blocky, precise lettering, so when he saw the butterflies, he made his way over to her.
“Where’s your Eros, then?” He said, tipping his head by way of greeting.
“Being henpecked by his mother, no doubt,” Biddie said. “Provided he’s finished preparing the castle for my arrival, of course.”
She held up her hand in offer. “You came.”
The smile in her voice was unmistakable.
He took the proffered hand with a little bit of a flourish, for form’s sake.
“Of course,” he replied, as if his presence were a given. “The costume was bribery enough, although I may have to check to see if there are any pennies you’ve hidden away in your cheek later, for the sake of completeness,” he added, tipping his head to the groaning table of sweets. “You’ve certainly got quite enough cakes.”
He looked out over the crowd, and then back at her.
“I’m not much for parties,” he said (stating the obvious), “but you’ve done this one justice, and it seems to be going quite well, from what I’ve seen.”
You ain’t seen nothing yet. But that spectacle was meant for other, less pleasant company. It was a pity, actually: Adrien of all people would’ve appreciated the craftsmanship of such a spell.
Oh, well.
“I keep my money nowhere so expected.” Biddie accepted the hand with her characteristic lack of grace. Her own bright glove was a startling contrast to his. “Besides when the time comes, someone will have to pay me to get into the boat.”
She began steering him away from the thickest of the crowd. “This town lives on the promise of cake and beer. Or kvas as the evening demands. Have you tried any? Sickly stuff, thank God for vodka.”
“I’m sorry for being a poor correspondent lately,” she continued, threading her brightly-wrapped arm through his. “There’s been some bad business, some annoying negotiations--tedious, tedious noise. It should be settled soon, though.”
Tonight would certainly be a step forward in doing so, she thought.
“I do read the papers, you know,” Adrien replied, gravely. “But I know you’re a resilient sort with steel in your bones and a truly fearsome wit, and God help any who’d stand in your way.”
The last was said with what might be called admiration, and, perhaps, even, a hint of pride.
“...When one drinks for taste alone,” he added, “one does tend to be a touch more particular. I can’t say I’ve had kvas before, but on that glowing recommendation, I’ll be sure to avoid it.”
“Resiliency is a matter of adaption, I think. Perhaps Mr. Darwin was onto something with his scribbles.”
They sidestepped a Leda in a gown of swan’s down flakes and her accompanying potbellied Zeus, then avoided another potential crash from a tipsy pair of Mars’.
“Students,” Biddie said in an allergic tone. “We’ve got students. Haven’t they outlawed the breed yet? One should go from curious child to sincere amateur to scholar, with none of this undergraduate bombast in between.”
She surprised a laugh out of him -- a short bark. “I suppose we were that young, once,” he said, “but I certainly don’t ever remember being quite that carefree. I wonder if they know just how lucky they are?”
He tipped his head. “And students very rarely make for decent scholars, so I’ve found. They aren’t quite hungry enough, and are far too self-centered.”
Biddie made a noise of agreement behind her mask. “Yes, there’s something to be said about the importance of appetite in motivating perseverance. Snakes and apples isn’t the half of it.”
“Shall we take a turn around the room?” Biddie suggested. It was a party action two decades out of date, but there bodies on the floor were arranging themselves in a quadrille. Biddie considered dancing in itself silly enough, dancing in groups was akin to lunacy. They might as well take up a harness and plow a field in unison. At least that united effort yielded something useful - like turnips.
“Do you know Sir Lawrence, the painter? He exhibited at the Royal Academy this summer. He painted that story of roses and Elagabalus. The painting used his other name, though. Can’t remember it now.” She made a brief impatient gesture. “You know it, I’m sure.”
The masked head turned to inspect the crowded ballroom. “How many posies do you think it’d take to bury this lot?”
“Heliogabalus,” Adrien intoned, with a small flash of a smile. “A morbid thought, but fitting, given the company. Or is that how you’re planning on settling your bad business?” He asked. “Drowning in flowers -- how very thematically appropriate. Rather like a Poe story, all masks and foreboding.”
The two sauntered around the edges of the room -- her little feet were quick and nimble to his broader, ambling stride. “Have you read the latest issue of Science?” He asked. “They gave some coverage to the Russian Pacific Railroad, and I can’t fathom why Professor Fontan’s ridiculous study about sorting different colored wools while blindfolded is still getting coverage.”
“Their railways’ gross receipts have increased six percent in as many months. Eleven million roubles,” Biddie said automatically. “It’s the cereal exports that do it.”
There was a detectable sour note in her voice; for all their advantage of speed and safety, airships couldn’t participate in cargo deliveries. There simply wasn’t enough room. Biddie’s ships could move kings - but not corn.
It was damn irritating.
“Oh, don’t get me started on fabric,” she continued in a deliberately lighter tone. “My dressmaker practically went blind piecing together this get up. Then again, Archie threatened he felt the same on seeing it.” She nodded at the dance floor where Odysseus was waltzing with Athena. A rather familiar Athena. “My cousin. Scholastic potential of a tin penny, but a pleasant lad. He’s due to deliver the race news with the Russian sect soon. Think you’ll dally long enough to hear it?”
And if he did, would he pick up on the spell unleashed at midnight? Vampires sometimes showed a surprising, and awfully inconvenient, affinity to necromancy. Biddie had met one or two that were acutely sensitive to the magic. Adrien had never mentioned such a partiality in their letters, but he was abominably clever, horrifically observant, and, worst of all, had firsthand knowledge of Biddie being a necromancer.
What a lie we must defend, when we practice to befriend…
“Should you wish me to, I can hover long enough to catch the main event, as long as my presence doesn’t create too much of a pall,” he replied. “I have no other plans.”
“And nonsense,” he added briskly. “You look quite appropriate, given the theme, object, and venue, and, as Mr Darwin would no doubt say, the vibrant coloring of butterflies provide an adaptive utility. To attract, to divert, to warn, to communicate. I find it quite fitting the hostess should be so eye-catching. Queenly, even, if you’d kindly pardon the pun.”
“Adrien,” Biddie said in a voice of utter frankness. “If I had the wherewithal and freedom to do so I would empty this room in favor of talking with you. Puns and all.” The pretty, blank mask turned in his direction. “You could never ‘pall’.”
“I’ve always liked them,” she went on. “Butterflies. They look darling at a distance but up close have these horrid, fascinating little faces. And their pursuit attracts the strangest breeds of persons. I had an acquaintance once, who was the dullest fellow in all ways - except when he suddenly decided to head west on a collecting trip. He wrote that, let me remember the words…”
She stilled for a moment, then recited with confident clarify, “‘We start on Monday morning to Fair Play in South Park, by stage, 17 hours. Indians are friendly—they only killed one man last week. As there are no large bands in South Park, I don’t think we run very great risks’. And this, Adrien, was from a man who balked at making his own tea.”
“Anything that inspires ordinary minds to face danger and disease with a net in one hand and a gun in the other--some of them shoot down larger specimens--is worth attention.”
“Plus I couldn’t find a clam shell big enough to ride for my backup costume,” she added.
Butterflies were drawn to sweets and carrion both -- it was yet another fitting parallel, but one he kept to himself; that, and Mr Eden’s rather cryptic statement regarding the Russians not having a Monarch - it was a bit of a stretch, but with a Monarch in front of him, it did present an amusing connection.
Her last earned another short, sharp laugh. “They do instill a sort of… mania in the collectors, don’t they? I doubt they fully grasped that rafts of men would be drawn by the very marks they’d intended to use to ward off frogs and snakes, but really, it’s poor planning on their part for not properly anticipating the value of aesthetics.”
“We’re all a little mad for beauty,” Biddie said. “Mad to find it, mad to catch it, mad to keep it. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know - isn’t that how it goes with precious things? No wonder the feeling breeds such violent attachments.”
A pretty pair - Jason and a sequined Diana - passed by them. The woman’s eyes darted briefly over Biddie’s ensemble and Adrien’s exquisitely grim mask, but the man moved on: oblivious. It was one of Russian crew. Biddie’s kept her hand on Adrien’s arm as they passed, her touch light but very, very still. She didn’t speak again until the couple was far away.
“Although there’s something to be said in defense of violent attachments...”