Chapter 79
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 78
He’s adjusting these silly fake fangs for the hundredth time. Ugh, how is a thespian supposed to perform when he lisps like this? Nevermind, how is a thespian supposed to perform at all when he’s been lucky to get any speaking parts at all? He’s the glorified bed warmer of this place!
Idiots, all of them.
Alright, not all of them. He knows full well that he got this role thanks to Basarab. The mere thought of that foreign dreamboat of an actor makes him adjust his hair rather than the fangs. His own troupe, his own money, and the man’s even written this play himself. And best, Basarab wants him to be the tortured lead!
Ugh, why won’t the man let him kiss him thanks? It’s a sin before the Divine to not cover those lips with his, to feel that man’s moustache (and likely equally splendid body hair) tickle him as he prays for absolution from this theatrical hell the only way any actor ever gets ahead- by giving head, obviously .
But no, Basarab’s rebuked him. Ugh, the indignity! Well, he’s not seen the last of Quincy Harker yet! He’ll figure out how to get that rich actor to be his patron yet!
Until then, yes, yes, he heard Bea at the front calling. Probably just another drunk they can’t be bothered to call their actual security for. He has to do everything on his own here! Everything! Well, everything that’s not worth anything. Fine, he’s tall, he gets that he has that much going for him, at least, as a person to deal with problems. But please, he’s a lover, not a fighter! And he does not like dealing with grossness, thank you very much.
Oh? Well, hello there? That fashion disaster on two legs doesn’t look drunk, just loaded in the pockets more than in the head. Maybe this is his lucky day after all. That one looks easy! One noble patron worshipping the ground he walks on coming up, yes, please.
So on goes the full routine, shirt just a bit too unbuttoned, hair just a little bit dishevelled, how is his makeup? Flawless, of course, he did it himself, after all. The smile is roguish and cocksure and then the giggle at silly him, he forgot the fangs being in, just perfect. So sorry, is there a problem here? He’s one of the actors. Surely they can talk it out, can’t they?
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Gregory narrows his eyes, this one… feels good, better than Darcy, better than Llew. He wants it. He needs it! What was he here for again?
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Oh dear Divine, that one has even less in his head than Quincy thought. One little giggle from him and he forgets why he even walked in the door. Please, where’s the challenge in this? He’s had closet cases that were less desperate for a little bit of Quincy-balm! Nevermind, who needs challenge when Ill-dressed Need has nothing but eyes for him? Thankfully, Bea can give him the info. A box? For his wife? Oh, how romantic of him! But they’re terribly sorry, first performance and all that, sold out.
And now for the show shopper, finger pushed just a little bit too hard on the chin, make those lips pop while he feigns thinking really hard with that pretty little head of his. “But maybe, just maybe I could call in a favour and get you into the costume rehearsal. Wouldn’t that be worth it?” Lean in just a bit too close, eyelashes down, once, twice, lean back and oh yes, there it is, the little follow after. The tell-tale sign of any man wanting him. Got you, sucker!
Not ten minutes later, Quincy is counting out banknotes to the director. What was that about the man not being able to hire him on full-time because Quincy’s not making up for his costs? Well, just that old coot wait until he has Mister Cobb around his little finger (yes, yes, in his pants, well, the other way round, he is not a bottom, thank you very much!). He’ll have a patron and enough money to get the roles he wants… and he won’t even have to run back home to his mother if he goes hungry for too long. Food can be harder to get than a warm place to sleep, but the world better look out, he’s got this!
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The ball is every bit as fancy as Arthur dreaded, and then some. Everything is glistening and shining, so bright with the brand-new, modern electric lighting reflecting off of white marble and gold leaf and glittering in the precious stones and fabrics of the guests. It leaves Arthur dizzy, the swirl of dancers haloed, the sounds of music and laughter and conversation like the roar of the ocean tide.
He does his best to keep near Gregory, who is smiling and chatting- or trying to. No one really engages with him, and Arthur feels, more painfully than at the duchess’ ball, how out of place they are. Everyone here knows each other. They all talk about the same people, who’s married whom and whose daughters are debuting soon and whose sons went hunting with whom. Who was seen in the House of Lords and who is holding Christmas parties at house names they all know and that Arthur only vaguely remembers reading of. Who has been bestowed with commissions and who has done what in India or Africa or who knows where, who’s expected to return and who’s going to leave.
They talk about world politics and trade and wars and royal functions, but not in a big history-way, but in an every-day, personal way. They move in a world he knows very little about, and has less desire to be in than ever. He’d love to just find a quiet corner to hide in, but he has to keep an eye on Gregory. Who, finally, finds a few young men who don’t seem to mind at least politely including him in their conversation about drinking and playing cards.
Arthur finds an empty couch by a wall nearby. At least John was as good as his word, of course, and he doesn’t stand out for his clothes, though he does feel strange in a tailcoat and white tie. But it’s not too different from his normal suits.
To his horror, he’s only been sitting there for maybe a minute when apparently him sitting down turns out to have been some sort of signal for two girls to approach him. Or maybe they’re young ladies- he finds it hard to gauge their age in their evening finery, with all that glittering skirt and bare shoulders and make up. He’s not sure whether it’s quite according to etiquette for them to talk to him, or him to talk to them, but apparently, them half having a conversation with each other and half him is… permissible?
Before he has to figure out how or whether he should answer their speculation about Darcy’s hair care routine to get her hair to be that shiny, thankfully, a man comes sauntering up and the girls, somehow, giggle and drift away. The man shakes his head in an amused way, smiles at Arthur. “You alright there?”
It takes Arthur a moment to parse the words, because the man has a definite accent, slurring his consonants together. He nods, cautiously, and once again when the man asks if he minds if he sits.
The man does, with a sigh of relief. “These blasted fancy shoes- why can’t we have a dance in a pair of good boots, I ask you?” He seems friendly enough, and not as formal as everyone else, so Arthur offers him a cautious smile.
The man introduces himself as ‘Morris’, and shares that he’s from America, where he hasn’t been to any balls as fancy as this. When he answers some of Arthur’s questions about what America is like in good humour, Arthur relaxes a little- maybe he actually found a friendly person?
He doesn’t let his guard down too much, though. He doesn’t remember this man’s name from the guest list, and he’s studied that pretty extensively. And the man approaching him seems a bit convenient. Well. Maybe he was just also looking for a place to sit and rest his feet. But still. Arthur doesn’t really trust anyone here. They all seem to have some kind of agenda, and play by rules he doesn’t fully understand, lay conversational traps he can’t see.
But then, he often feels like that when it comes to talking to people- like everyone is born with some kind of manual that means they just know how to talk to each other, and he somehow missed out on that. And given that he doesn’t know much at all about America, he really can’t tell whether any of what the man tells him about wide prairies and ranching is true or not. It doesn’t contradict what little he knows, in any case.
But he is pretty sure the man knows lots about horses, because of course they come around to that topic, and Arthur is interested in it and the man seems more genuinely animated as he talks about how to tell a good horse from a bad one, and he happily gives Arthur pointers when he confesses that he’s only learning to ride.
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Darcy has done everything right! John picked her a dress appropriate to her station, she had a maid at her daddy’s house help her with the makeup, she’s made polite conversation and danced with everybody Arthur researched she should. She’s been stepping on her drac’s paws all evening long to simmer down. And still, how is any of that fair? She’s done nothing wrong and still she can hear the gossip get worse, if anything.
She was prepared for every possible iteration of incredulity at her not showing that she’s a harlot. How is her belly still flat when that disgusting aberration of a husband she has clearly must have raped and blackmailed her into it? And that is the version charitable towards her virtue, where she didn’t invite the aberration to do it. She could deal with those, but leave poor Arthur out of it!
That was the worst one, the one that made her nearly, so nearly go over there and challenge them to a duel. Of course somebody would eventually wonder. They’ve been careful, but Darcy has to admit it, yes, she can see the family resemblance, she can probably see it better than all the others. She’s been so close to both men. But still, gossiping about Arthur being his father’s son and Gregory being his demon familiar (just because he’s been seen as a cat) and her having sold her first born to the necromancer? That is just mean, and she doesn’t want Arthur to hear it! He’d be so hurt and worried and she hates that she can’t really protect him.
She’s not like these people. And she doesn’t mean that in the way everybody else here means it. She feels so alone in this crowd of humans. She doesn’t want to be here and at least right now Gregory seems to just be playing cards, so she dares rush out onto the balcony.
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Peculiar, and not the information he set out to gather, but all information is valuable. She is valuable. Darcy, what an unfortunate name, but that is to be expected with a language like English. The report of the red-haired and purple-eyed girl at the hunter’s place had intrigued him, of course. Her marching right up to him without looking left or right was, at the very least, amusing, even flattering maybe, but in any case, most likely, valuable information.
So at that point, in summary, she had been many precious things already, but that deep pain in her was sweet, was enticing. Where he thought he would work his silver tongue to beguile and lure in, she took one long look, with her drac nonetheless, and proceeded to hunt him instead.
Peculiar again, but that was, if anything, endearing, even if she is a chess piece. Whoever said chess pieces could not be cherished? They are valuable. And valuable things are coveted.
He did not even know that dhampirs, who upon closer inspection do not seem to revolt his drac at all, as some vampires insist they must, were capable of blood bonds. But there she stood in front of him, having made her impossible and unbelievable request and her eyes lit up. That would have been indication enough, and good for the poor girl that she was talking to him and not any of the other party guests, but no, the invasion of her senses by another party, although the attempted invasion of her mind was so subpar that he won’t even call it clumsy, gave the territorial snarl away.
Somebody was not letting her make such decisions as she just had with him without consequences.
Indeed, from his vantage point up on the roof it is easy to see the man, a mere boy really, but with a mind that is… unsettling, storm up to Darcy. All the growling and prowling around his property (and that most certainly makes him find a snarl and a pang of anger on her behalf) hardly even gets noticed though. Darcy is still standing dazed, smiling, hand up to her lips, and that is exactly how he wants her to react to him.
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Arthur’s not sure how long he was chatting before it occurs to him to check on Gregory- only to feel a jolt when he sees the seat where Gregory was occupied by some stranger, though he thinks it’s still otherwise the same group of young men playing their card game. Where did Gregory go? What if he gets them in trouble? Damn, it was Arthur’s job to keep an eye on him! So he excuses himself, with a bit of reluctance- he’d rather talk more about horses with Morris than brave the ballroom to track down Gregory, but, well, he can’t.
He dares approach the group of men he was with and ask them whether they know where he went, and one of them waves him towards a set of balcony doors. So Arthur thanks them and lets them get back to their game while he pokes his head outside.