Demain bits and bobs

Fatimah came as more of a formality than anything. She hadn’t been explicitly invited either; but sending Henri alone would have been entirely too nerve wracking for the both of them. Not necessarily because it was enemy territory, but it might as well have been. 

Next to her, Henri walked with that particular stiffness that came with masked nerves. To anyone else he would seem at ease, his stride even, clothes well tailored and fitting for the occasion. But she knew him far too well.

“It will be fine,” she told him, straightening her sleeve cuffs as she did her best to keep up with his long legs. Her bustle, weighed with as many frills as she thought sensible, weighed her down annoyingly. The wide path to the estate was excessive, especially when they were still well within the borders of the city. 

“I want to make a good first impression. And I still think you should abandon me if you have to make an escape.”

She thought about delivering a swat to his arm, but they were close enough to the manor she knew it was likely she would be spotted. And she knew he had drawn the same conclusion, safe in the confines of upper society rules and conventions. “There will be no escaping,” she told him. Leaving early in the evening, however, was a solid tactical move she would play readily should things go strange. 

“You’ve never met a vampire,” he pointed out, reaching his hand up halfway as though to try to tie his hair back for the third time in the last half hour before dropping it back to his side.

“You’ve met one.” She knew they were dangerous. But she did not know what stories of them were true, what histories she had dismissed as mythology held real information. Suddenly she was struck by the feeling they were walking into a den of predators unprepared, terribly isolated from the rest of Paris and all the protection it might offer, but steeled herself. She would not allow fear to take her sense from her. 

Henri must have felt the shift in her somehow, and reached out as he knocked on the grand oak doors of the manor with his free hand to touch her shoulder briefly. “You’re going to take this party by storm, Timah,” he assured her quietly as they waited. “No need to worry.” 

She pressed a breath out, smoothing her skirt, fixing her posture. “I know.”

They were announced at the door to the wide salon as if they were arriving at court. Surely it was an attempt at putting guests on the back foot; it was far too much for a party such as this. Fatimah would not show her nervousness. She would not allow herself to waver. 

The hall was warmly lit by the gas lamps on the walls and the candles sitting arranged on the tables that dotted the room. It was populated by a crowd that turned nearly in unison to take them in. These outsiders who had made their way by some scheme into their society. 

She did not balk under their collective gazes. Neither did Henri beside her. She took in the tailcoats and frills and crisp white shirtfronts with a gaze like she was entirely used to seeing them. And she met the gaze of the woman who broke from the throng to greet them, dressed in shimmering, dark silks laden with bows and red embroidery that stood starkly out against her pale skin. 

She introduced herself as Lady de Guise, and after learning their names she shook Henri’s hand and curtsied to Fatimah. The mirror smoothness of her dark hair, drawn back in an elaborate updo, was interrupted occasionally by beads and interwoven ribbon as red as the decoration on her dress. When she turned her head upwards to Fatimah the whites of her eyes were tinted pinkish, and when she smiled thin fangs showed. 

“You will forgive the formality,” de Guise said, her voice faintly accented and high, “but I cannot resist an opportunity for dramatics. In this day and age we have so little chance.” 

“I have heard your parties can be—“ She paused as though thinking of the right word. “—wild. I was perhaps expecting more.” Something to incite her to defend, to offer some more apt description, while keeping the barb second hand to deflect any ire if it caused undue offense.

“Well, the night is young. We have ample time for revelry and debauchery.” Her smile only grew, and she clasped gloved hands in front of the curve of her stomach in a gesture meant to move them on. Her gaze lifted to Henri, curiosity evident on her face. “So, Monsieur Charmolipi, how are you finding your new condition?” The way she put it seemed overly delicate. 

“Disruptive,” he answered, posture relaxing artificially.

Her laugh bubbled up into the air, a sincere expression of good will. “I will introduce you to some people here who may have some advice.”

They were introduced once more to the group she had come from, and Fatimah committed their names and faces to memory even as she mused she would likely never see these people again. Henri’s affable nature served him well, and he slipped into the circle without great trouble, picking up the thread of the conversation as if he had been standing chatting with them the entire time. 

She pressed doggedly in alongside him, fighting stubbornly through small pleasantries. But this was not her party, as sure as Henri had sounded outside. She was not meant to be in this place, with these people. A strange, caged animal feeling grew in her chest. All this, and for what? She would not allow herself the guilt that came with existing anymore. 

So she slipped away before her mask could falter, to the long stretch of tables laden with food and drink. Arrangements of raw meats sat slightly separated, and she avoided them to pick at small tea sandwiches at the furthest end. The quartet had started again, and she allowed herself a moment of unmasked interest as pairs of people began to migrate to the wide empty space in the center of the hall. The two women who danced together, uninhibited. A different ache settled beside the roiling anger, complicating it.

De Guise appeared at her side, following her gaze around the room, the crowd. The dancers. And then she looked at Fatimah again, with that same expression of encompassing curiosity. Eyes intense even as her richly painted lips held that polite smile. One gloved hand held a crystal glass of dark liquid. Blood. Fatimah did not let her eyes linger, and did not allow herself to recoil. 

But what to say? She could compliment the party, the table settings, but that could be vapid and too eager to please. She could ask a question, but her knowledge of the social norms of the setting were inadequate and she had no strong ideas about what topics were taboo or trite. She had been forced into a corner and she hated it. 

Her thinking cost her the first move, and de Guise spoke first. “Do you work?” If her question had been a hidden barb she masked it well, tone only ever pushing sincere interest. 

Fatimah did not wrinkle her nose at the question, did not turn her head in annoyance. Her gaze and voice held evenly. “Yes, I am a teacher of history at Lycée Louis-le-Grande.”

Her expression lit, soft cheeks lifting in an eager smile. That was the answer she had been looking for. “Oh? I remember when that school was still under the Jesuits.”

Despite herself she found her interest piqued, her mind pleasantly distracted. That had been over a century ago, at least. She had not considered just how much she could learn. “You do? What is it you remember?” 

An elegant hand gestured noncommittally. “Nothing too specific. They were sticklers, and I avoided them most of the time, but I’m sure I have something to remember them by in my library.”

Oh, a library. She would very much like to see de Guise’s library, and the implication of an offer hung in the air, but accepting that so quickly would be folly. Not when what exactly was being offered was unclear. To give herself time to think she searched for Henri where he stood out over the other heads of the party goers. Across the hall she spotted him gently turning down the offer of a dance, the woman who had asked slipping back to her circle, shoulders dropped. 

“And do you work?” She asked instead, a helplessly targeted question.

The woman laughed, her fangs showing once more, the glass she held jostled so the dark liquid within clung thickly to the thin crystal containing it. “You are a fascinating creature, my dear Charmolipi.” As her eye caught Fatimah's, her smile only grew. “But I consider myself retired.”

“Is it rude to ask your age?” She knew the phrasing did little to mask her curiosity, but she inquired anyway. 

“Ah, terribly.” But her jovial expression never wavered. “I near two hundred fifty.”

Though she had known her to be much older than she appeared, Fatimah still raised her eyebrows. The woman scarcely looked older than she was. “I’m sure you have many stories.”

“Not as many as you’d think.”

“Well I’m a student of history. Every story is worth hearing to me.”

“A student and a teacher?” A sip from her glass, and then the red stained tip of her tongue caught an escaping drop on her bottom lip. Fatimah raised her gaze resolutely to her dark eyes. “Surely you must be enough of an expert by now.”

“I only ever became more of a student as I began teaching.”

The laugh she replied with first was light, a quiet and private thing. Nobody else could have been close enough to hear it. “You fascinate me, dear Charmolipi.”

For what felt like only a few moments, but the party around them treated as an hour, they spoke next to the table. Neither of them felt any inclination to move, too engrossed in the conversation. Fatimah teased stories from her, and offered up stories she had read in return, scraps of contemporary diaries and discourse. 

The clawing thing behind her ribs settled. And when they each lapsed into thoughtful silence after that long stretch of time Fatimah found it comfortable, not pressingly awkward. 

Once more it was not her voice that broke the silence. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Perhaps it was that she felt a little guilty for pushing at the woman in the beginning, or perhaps it was the glittering smile turned upwards to her, and only her. The bare skin of her shoulders, maybe, warmed from translucent paleness by the lights around them. Whatever it could have been made her pause a moment, made her almost consider accepting, reaching out and taking the offered hand.

“Another time,” she promised, though she knew it would be wiser to refuse outright.

The hand, hidden behind the long glove, retreated. “Another time,” she agreed, the deal struck. The vow sworn. Her shoulders shifted back minutely, her weight shifted away, but that was the only indication of her displeasure Fatimah could find. “My sincerest apologies for the presumption.” A test, her words.

“No offense was taken,” Fatimah assured her. 

“I realize now I have neglected my other guests,” the woman admitted, her tone overly conspiratorial. “As I have been distracted by our conversation. You will forgive me.”

“Of course.”

Fatimah watched her back, the glittering decorations in her hair and ruffles of her bustle. Her earrings flashed as she turned, catching the light with many faceted gems. Just once, as she made her way back to the group of people who belonged there, she glanced back.

Henri welcomed her back with a bit of a knowing look. One she resolutely ignored. The conversation flowed around her, and she did her best to participate. But soon enough she had taken her fill once again of the party. Her attention kept drifting. 

So gently she nudged her brother’s arm with her elbow. “We can make our way out, if you’d like.”

“Please,” he murmured, smile having gone a little brittle. 

They found de Guise to thank her for her hospitality.

“I hope to see you again soon, my dear Charmolipis,” she told them, but her gaze did not move from Fatimah’s. 

“Thank you again for the invitation.” Henri dipped his head in a bow, the easy upturn of his lips not quite genuine enough to reach his eyes. 

“Goodbye, de Guise.” Fatimah spoke into the empty space between them.

They stepped into the cool air of the night and walked side by side for a few moments. The both of them taking time to shake the clinging scene they had left. The light and sounds of music had faded before she let herself speak. “Did you find out anything useful?”

He gave a half shrug, a shake of his head. “Most of their advice involved us having a home in the countryside.”

Fatimah grumbled a little, sympathetically. Indignant on his behalf. “A shame.”

He shrugged again, not overly bothered by the fruitlessness of the night. Another few steps in silence. She trusted the familiarity of his presence next to her. “You seemed as though you were having fun.” The smile he aimed at her was tired, but genuine. 

“I did.”

“You can begin coming in my stead, then.”

She drove her elbow into his side, and he did her the service of pretending as though it actually caused him any pain. “You wish.”