Minuet

 

And then there was the ball.

 

The circles my mother and father move in contain many fine balls. The changing of the seasons is celebrated under bare sky and tree branch by the Fairy Court, the depth of winter in the Snow Queen’s icy halls, the witch’s high days by full moon and music. But when my father can force himself to stay in, or rather come home, of an evening, and my mother has no studying to concern her, the great underground ballroom of glass and silver and mirrors comes alive with a thousand candles and a thousand guests.

 

I had excused myself on the grounds of feeling unwell, but that wasn’t going to stop me from going. Not at all.

 

Giselle had worked hard, and I felt as though I would cry for love of her and her acceptance of my… particular nature. Looking in one of the omnipresent mirrors, I could barely recognise myself. She’d bought things and found things and borrowed things and sewn late into the night by the light of a candle until she had the wherewithal to turn me into a true lady of the court. I wasn’t going to cause a great stir – indeed, I would have panicked if a young man had so much as asked me to dance – but at least I would not look out of place.

 

“What shall you do if someone does ask?” She had asked me, as she wound my hair into ringlets. I had shrugged.

“Refuse. I don’t know how to waltz backwards.”

“That will sound rude, and you may offend someone. Besides,” and here she’d suspiciously avoided my gaze, concentrating on styling my hair. “It’s quite easy. You just follow his lead.”

“I will say I’ve lost my dance card. Or else…” I searched for another likely answer based on my limited experience with women. “Or else I am feeling a little faint.”

“Oh dear. You can’t say that, you know, young men take it as an invitation to take you outside into the garden.”

“That’s not so-”

Alone.

“Oh.”

 

And that was why Giselle, her shift hitched up under her girdle, had put one of my hands on her shoulder and taken the other in her own and taught me how to dance backwards and in high heels.

 

To my surprise, it was nowhere near as easy as she had implied. In fact, it had been at least as difficult as learning how to dance in the first place.

 

That was why, standing here in my silks and satins, I had resolved to lose my dance card almost immediately.

 

Giselle had done so well. Underneath the beautiful dress of sea green and turquoise blue there was a corset under far too much strain, several layers of petticoats and, much to my embarrassment, more than a little padding. Cheeks pink and head hanging, I had been unable to get over how ridiculous it was to stand there in a froth of white cotton and creaking whalebone designed to give my body a shape it didn’t have, until she had brought out the dress.

 

It hung off the shoulder, just like the one that had been my first sin, with long sleeves and an underskirt of sea foam velvet. The overdress, gorgeous green taffeta, had a bustled skirt and sleeves long enough to reach the ground slashed open to my upper arm, so they hung like icicles and floated behind me when I moved.

 

“You look like a princess from the sea.” Giselle had smiled so sweetly as she’d said it, fastening a complicated swirl of silver and emerald around my throat. I smiled back, opening the heavy fan emblazoned with leaping dolphins and cresting waves.

“I believe that was the effect you were aiming for.” I mumbled, lifting my arms to let her fasten a fine chain and silver chatelaine around my waist. I was adorned in silver dotted with aquamarine and jade, sapphire and green amber. I had never felt so… beautiful, so decorated and beloved. It was more than novel; it was the kind of feeling you could become addicted to.

 

And so I slipped into the ballroom of glass as quietly as I could, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes, and blushing furiously under my powder forced myself to locate those who I knew would be there, and who knew me, so I did not bump into them and risk ruin. It was unlikely, given my unique talent of subterfuge, but I dare not chance it.

 

I found myself watching my sisters. They were beautiful beyond belief; I had always known this – known it and regretted my own failings, my plain features and my useless body. I had never paused to wonder why, after my own birth, my parents had chosen not to have another son but instead to bless the family with nine wonderful daughters, as though their grace, splendour and power would be enough to make up for the accident of their first born son, who had nothing of talent and no looks to speak of. Even now, I was not sure I was worthy of taking my place along side them.

 

Artemisia had never cared much for colour or pattern – it was only under extreme duress that she had allowed Camille to embroider green vines on the hem of her tan coloured Grecian gown. Her rich brown curls almost blending with a patchwork wrap of furs (She had provided the skins, but it had been down to Nausicaa to sew them together) she was all at once wild and wonderful, beautiful and dangerous.

 

Octavia had chosen a loose, long sleeved gown of scarlet silk, ruffled at the trailing hem and cuffs and at the wide neckline. Her high-heeled boots were white kidskin with plum suede fittings, as was the tightly laced bodice she wore, the rich ruby of her dress gathered into a bustle just behind it. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, with silver ornaments to match her jewellery and a froth of red and black and purple ostrich feathers to match the boa wound round her shoulders and the exotic fan clasped in her right hand. She’d painted her face white with plump red lips and a glitter of scarlet around her dark eyes, a false beauty spot on one cheek, and her nails were unusually long and the colour of blood.

 

I could barely stand to look at Judith, whose corset, to my shame, I was wearing, although she looked as much of a goddess as the others. She had chosen a blue velvet dress, heavy sleeves slashed to show the white under gown, cuffs and hem touched with elegant embroidery, with a heavy girdle of silver and sapphire around her waist. Her dark blond waves were held under a circlet of swirling, elfin silver holding an azure jewel on her forehead and her handmade cerulean slippers peeked out as he walked and danced.

 

Bookish Medea had risen to the occasion despite having far more interest in her studies than balls. Her gown was of powder blue and gold brocade, the huge wing-like sleeves slashed to show white lace gathered to a ruffled cuff, a yoke of the same rising to a high collar, and a double row of gold braid fastenings running down the front serving to highlight her height against the bulk of her skirt with it’s hip rolls and hooped petticoats. Her white lace fan was small and fluttered near constantly, causing what hairs had fallen out of her auburn bun to float around her sweet little face like a halo.

 

Almost dazzling in pure white, Nausicaa swirled in a mystique of kholed eyes and heavy black braids. Her pleated skirt and draped linen bodice were printed on the hem with bold blues and gold, and her wrists and ankles, arms and waist, throat, ears and forehead were all heavy with the metal. Like a river princess, she slipped in and among the crowds, her bare feet making almost no sound but betrayed by the jingling of her adornments.

 

Meredith’s hair was, as always, hidden behind a soft linen cap that framed her face like white bird’s wigs. Her white blouse, with it’s huge drop sleeves gathered to tight cuffs and a lace collar that spread out to cover her shoulders, was worked all over with tiny glass beads and delicate, almost invisible embroidery creating only the barest hint of a design under the light. Her rich emerald over gown was embroidered from the hem upwards with curling, floral designs in shades of black, green and gold.

 

Ever the social charmer, Lucretia had chosen a soft pink gown of the finest silk, drifting around her slippered toes and gathered under the bust. Her mousy brown locks were curled around her ears in a mixture of elegance and innocence. The little puffed sleeves and soft, loose shapes made her seem childlike and naive, but her fan conveyed the subtlety of her conversation, with all it’s understated jibes and sweet reprimands, much more effectively than her smiling, pure eyes.

 

It was no wonder that, as the keenest seamstress of my sisters, Camille’s dress was the most elaborate and dramatic. The under dress was cream and white striped satin, with flared sleeves and a ruched skirt over layers of ruffled underskirts showing flashes of black and bright pink as she walked. Her bodice and bustle were a silver taffeta that shone like liquid mercury. Pink and black beads were woven subtly into her coiffed blond hair, and her hat – white, of course, with cream ribbon and a froth of silver – was touched with a few pink and black feathers tufted only at the ends, like those of secretary birds.

 

And of course, I could not forget my beloved youngest sister… Giselle. I could never view her as anything but perfect; I knew this, yet this evening she was evening more gorgeous than I’d ever thought possible.

 

Her long blond ringlets were dressed simply into two bunches over her delicate ears, framing her strong yet doll-like face with it’s lily white skin, lips and cheeks touched with roses, and soft eyelashes like butterfly wings and corn silk. Despite the fact that I knew she wore an embroidered silk stays, petticoats and panniers under her gilded dress, she moved with such natural elegance that they were invisible. The dress was cut simply, yet with that sophistication which comes only from a style that suits the body wearing it perfectly – a full skirt, bustled at the sides and back with a narrow slice of the elaborate underskirt showing at the front; a square neckline on a bodice with a detailed front narrowing to a point to accentuate a perfect waist; fitted sleeves that flared out briefly at the elbow. As for the colour, it was simply gold – pure gold. Gold silk as the base, patterned with a delicate design of a paler, creamy gilt, embroidered at the edges of the skirt and sleeves, and the front of the bodice, with yard upon yard of golden thread, and rich golden cream silk for the underskirt as well. She was the true belle of the ball – every young man vied for her attention, and many of the older ones as well. None of my sisters, least of all myself, could stand against her. No matter how hard she tried with me – and she had tried so hard! – I could never be but a pale shadow of which she was the life and body that cast it.

 

And to think, it had taken standing on the lucent dance floor of that ballroom of glass, swathed in blue velvet and green taffeta, to see how much I truly loved my sisters.

 

Looking back, I must have stayed in one place a second or two too long, or simply stared at Giselle for a moment too many. Something must have alerted to a watcher that all was not quite well. For at that moment, two delicate, black velvet gloved hands came down to rest on my shoulders.

 

“Good evening, mademoiselle. You appear to have lost your escort.”

His voice was clean and clear, with a touch of richness, like black silk and dark damask rose petals and aged merlot. I hid my face behind my fan quickly, unable to stop a blush stealing across my blushed cheeks. I had no idea if the faint rose was visible under my powder, but hoped to every god it wasn’t.

“I… ah… I… y-yes, I suppose I m-must have.” I swallowed nervously. Something about this man was familiar, even though I couldn’t see his face. Something about him was known to me and had started the distant trembling of real fear.

“Indeed you must… unless, of course, you came here without such a companion. How very unusual, for a beautiful young thing such as yourself to be unaccompanied.”

“I…” I started, but couldn’t think of any response. I had no time, as he continued almost immediately.

“May I have the honour of this dance, mademoiselle?”

“I’ve l-lost my d-dance card.” I responded automatically, like some wind up doll, my fan trembling and my eyes wide. He’d leant down until his lips were only inches from my ear. I could feel his breath as a warm breeze against my neck, and it made me stunned and fearful at the same time. I didn’t know what to think, or what to do – surely my sisters would not have stood for such boldness in a gentleman?

“How curious… this seems to be it here.” He produced it in front of my horrified eyes with a flourish. “And – how peculiar – it seems to be empty. In which case, I repeat my question… will you dance with me, young mademoiselle?”

“N…” I replied, my lips rendered useless by the strength of the panic he’d placed in my heart. Gasping for breath – the corset around my chest was suddenly far too tight – I tried to force out a sentence. “I’m s-sorry, I have to find…”

“Oh, please.” His velvet fingers came up to the side of my head, brushing my hair back ever so gently, like a spider’s ghostly touch, and I suddenly could not draw breath as he brushed his lips against my skin. “You have no good reason for denying me – I will not let you go until you dance with me.”

“That’s not the k-kind of thing you say to a l-lady!” I burst out, in a strangled voice no more than a little shade of a bird’s whisper. He just laughed, a deep, rich chuckle like a satisfied dragon.

“No, that’s not the kind of thing you say to a lady.” His free hand, the one not touching the side of my face so tenderly, slid tangibly down my back and round under my arm, to where my breast would have been if the front of my corset had not been padded with wool and cotton rather than flesh. “But you… are not a lady, young monsieur.”

 

I couldn’t breathe. I almost fainted in that instant. How could he… how could anyone… Giselle herself had said my guise was perfect, and I had never once been seen through… not by anyone… my lies, so many lies, were all so complete and perfect…

 

“You’re slipping, young monsieur.” He purred again, dropping down to kiss my throat with such tenderness that I thought my heart would stop. “You used to be able to almost fool me.”

 

Oh, by all the gods. Of course. There were only a handful of men and women as versed and skilled in lies and deceit as I, and only one that I had met in person. And if what I knew of him was true…

 

… in short, and at the expense of sounding melodramatic, I was doomed.

 

“Oberon.” I gasped breathlessly, as he turned and kissed my jaw, that almost deadly caress that threatened to kill me each and every time.

“Why, of course. Who did you think it was? Now…” His arm curled around my waist and all of a sudden I was being swept forward although I didn’t remember asking my feet to move. “… I think we were dancing.”