Midnight in Everwood
M.A. Kuzniar
Act One
Scene One
Marie looked very pale in the morning and was scarcely able to say a word. A hundred times she was going to tell her mother or Fritz what had happened, but she thought: ‘No one will believe me, and I shall only be laughed at.’
—E.T.A. HOFFMANN, THE NUTCRACKER
Chapter One
1906
Marietta Stelle’s mother always said that nothing good came of a rainy day. However, it was a rainy day when the magic came, and once magic has entered your life, you stay in its glittering clutch forever.
A mysterious new neighbour – who Marietta would later come to learn went by the name of Dr Drosselmeier – heralded the arrival of magic and wonder in her life. Though he appeared to be but an ordinary man, enchantment clung to him. It dripped from his voice, seeped out from under his skin and whispered around his eyes.
Marietta was dipping in and out of pliés at her ballet barre when she happened to glance out her window and witness his entrance. A black town hat bobbed along the cobbled street below. The cloaked figure carried a single case, pausing to look up at the sprawling townhouse Marietta called home. He seemed to look straight through her, so Marietta took a step back from the window to study him from a more covert position: his face was clean-shaven, fair and younger than one would expect, considering the sweep of silver hair peeking out from beneath his hat. Creases burrowed into the skin at the corners of his eyes, marking him as a gentleman in his late thirties perhaps, and his irises were an intense frosted blue, lending him a bewitching stare.
The curtains of rain sheeting down Marietta’s window failed to touch him and, after a momentary hesitation, he continued on his way. Rising up onto demi-pointe, her attention snared, Marietta watched him stride into the equally grand vacated townhouse opposite the Stelles’.
‘We seem to have acquired a new neighbour,’ Frederick announced later at dinner.
‘Is that so?’ their mother asked. She smoothed a hand over her honey-tinted coiffure, as if he were to make an appearance that instant. Ida Stelle’s dark-blue eyes were a mirror of Marietta’s, only hers were accompanied by a delicate nose and pinched chin beneath her lighter hair rather than the firm jaw, aquiline nose and raven hair both Frederick and Marietta had inherited from their father.
‘A former doctor,’ Frederick continued, ‘turned inventor, so I hear. No family to speak of. He must possess a sizeable inheritance to have purchased the entire townhouse for him alone, though I failed to recognise his name. It was rather an unusual one; Drosselmeier.’
‘No doubt he’s of German heritage,’ their father said, shaking a starched napkin out and draping it across his knees. ‘How curious, it has been quite some time since we’ve had a new acquaintance on this street. We shall have him dine with us one evening to take his measure ourselves. An inventor, you say? In which direction do his talents lie? Telephones? Electricity? Is the next Marconi in our midst?’
Frederick gave a polite cough. ‘In children’s playthings, I believe. Toys and such.’
Theodore set his sherry glass down harder than was warranted. A few drops bloodied the ivory tablecloth. He harrumphed, the tips of his ears pinkening.
Marietta met Frederick’s eyes. Theodore Stelle was not a man persuaded of the merit or delights in creative pursuits. Marietta clenched her soup spoon, the familiar argument wearing deeper grooves into her patience each time it reared up.
‘I shall extend an invitation,’ Ida said, scanning the dining room, eager at any excuse to entertain a guest in their fine house. Her gaze took in the emerald and cream striped wallpaper, the large mahogany table and chairs, polished floorboards and huge arrangements of hothouse roses spilling over crystal vases, perfuming the room with the faint odour of decay. ‘I have yet to hear mention of him among my acquaintances; I shall ensure ours will be the first dinner he attends.’ She frowned at a petal that showed signs of spoiling.
Theodore gave a disapproving sniff. ‘Are you certain that’s wise? Perhaps he has yet to be mentioned for good reason.’
‘Yes, I too am dubious on his trade selection. However, we mustn’t let that discourage us,’ Ida said. ‘He’s invested in a superlative address, which suggests he comes from good stock—’ her eyes flicked to Marietta and back to her husband ‘—or a sizeable inheritance. This bears further investigation.’
Marietta glanced down at the table setting, growing hot beneath her Paquin dress in palest periwinkle. The voluptuous sleeves – edged in whisper-thin black lace that had so drawn her to the couturier’s creation on her last visit to Rue de la Paix – now itched unbearably under her mother’s matchmaking insinuations. Ida had been eviscerating a fortune on gowns at the House of Worth whilst Marietta had stolen away next door. She’d admired the delicately embroidered roses tumbling down the silky dress before purchasing it and absconding on a walk as her mother continued shopping. The afternoon free from her mother had been as happy as the blossoms that had floated through the streets of Paris that spring and she had a sudden, sharp longing for that halcyon day.
A flick of colour pulled her from the macaron-sweet memory, incongruous amongst the porcelain plates and silverware. A smear of gouache licked up Frederick’s wrist, a flare of burnt sienna. She flashed him a look and he tugged his charcoal jacket sleeve down to hide the offending stain.