Midnight in Everwood(24)
‘Brilliant.’ Frederick clapped Theodore on the back. Jarvis poured glasses of hot mulled wine as the presents were given out.
Marietta’s gifts were well received. A Burberry driving cap for Theodore, an elegant writing set adorned with lilies for Ida and a gold fountain pen for Frederick. His proper present was a box of paints, wrapped and sitting on his bed, to be discovered later. Marietta opened boxes of chocolates, a lace-trimmed picture hat from Paris, a bottle of Après L’Ondée by Guerlain that conjured the scent of orange blossom and violet basking in vanilla sunshine, and a delicate pearl comb from Ida, studded with shining blue glass.
‘Allow me to draw your attention onto my gift,’ Drosselmeier said, approaching her once more. He plucked a present in shining silver paper from the air with a flourish and handed it to her. It tinkled with the motion. Tiny bells and a sprig of holly were affixed to the satin ribbon. A paper tag inscribed her name alongside the swooping outline of a mouse incorporating Drosselmeier’s initial that she recognised from her returned Cartier brooch.
Her hands trembled at its sight. ‘You are most kind,’ she said stiffly. She dug her nails into the ribbon to untie the tight bow and loosen the thick paper. Inside was a box. Stamped with golden lettering that read Drosselmeier’s Enchanting Creations. The little wooden lid slid open to reveal a glass globe sitting in the velvet lining. Upon lifting it out, she discovered it was a large, ornate snow globe, set on a bronze base with thick glass. She shook it, setting the snow a-whirling over the beautiful scene inside, crafted down to delicate minutiae. A heartbeat later, she realised some of the details were moving, as if miniature dolls were living inside the creation. An eerie echo of her own dreams of dancing within a Fabergé egg.
Frederick’s face loomed over it. ‘Ah, Paris.’ He peered into it. ‘What marvellous attention to detail; why there are even little boats chugging along the Seine.’
Marietta frowned and shook the snow globe once more. The feathered flurries settled over the same scape she’d been previously admiring. St Petersburg. The Mariinsky Theatre. And tiny figures waltzing before the famous eggshell-blue and white building in all their finery. Where Madame Belinskaya had once prowled the stage. Where Tchaikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty had first been performed some sixteen years ago. It was Marietta’s deepest heart-wish to visit. She watched the last snowflakes fall onto the fir tree nestled beside the theatre. ‘How can it be possible for us to see different scenes within the same snow globe?’ she asked Drosselmeier, quite forgetting herself in her wonder. It failed to surprise her that Frederick had been entertained with the promise of Paris. Her brother desired nothing more than to decamp to L’Hotel on the Sixth Arrondissement and wander his beloved Oscar Wilde’s haunts by day, painting by night.
Drosselmeier sat beside her, taking the snow globe in his hands and shaking it. ‘Ah, this is no ordinary snow globe. It holds a certain charm of its own. What you see within it is a reflection of your deepest self, nothing but the desires it pains you to harbour.’ His voice slunk lower. ‘It haunts you, does it not? The depth to which you feel, which you want. I can taste the longing pouring through your veins, calling out across the worlds.’ He brushed a lock of hair from her shoulders. His touch grazed her with ice. Froze the words on her tongue.
‘Drosselmeier, you simply must grace us with your company and let us in on your secrets,’ Theodore called from across the room, watching something Frederick had set up on the floor that moved in little mechanised jerks and whirs.
‘Yes, do come and share your magic,’ Frederick added.
Ida clapped her hands together. ‘Why, it is enchanting!’
Drosselmeier handed the snow globe back to Marietta. Her immobility shattered as she looked within its glass, searching out his secrets. Yet the snow had already shifted, obscuring whatever dark dreams of his had played through the globe. ‘Now that would be divulging too many of my secrets,’ he whispered as he walked away.
The Christmas party promised to stretch deep into the night but Marietta’s armour had cracked. A thin trail of despair bled through the fissure. She soaked in it until she could bear it no longer and slipped away.
In her bedroom, she abandoned her gown and corset, unpeeling the straitlaced version of herself she had been all evening. Exchanging them for a softer ballet dress, the bodice white and fitted, the skirt ephemeral and gauzy, and white satin pointe shoes. Tying the ribbons around her ankles tended to soothe her, grounding her thoughts in the present, in the lustrous sheen of satin as it slipped through her fingers. Tonight, nothing calmed her wild heartbeat. She needed to dance, to feel like herself. And not a small part of her desired to ruin Drosselmeier’s surprise and see her set for the first time. It was not his place to withhold it from her. She loosened her hair from its pompadour, letting it fly down her back in a burst of raven feathers, and walked downstairs. Taking care to tread softly, Marietta made her way past the library and dining room, where the footmen were clearing evidence of the feast, and entered the double doors of the ballroom.
She switched the lights on. The series of chandeliers flickered to life, illuminating the room. Tables coated in starched white tablecloths like fallen snow, surrounded by plush chairs, were dotted around. A space was carved out for dancing in the centre. The panelled walls, oil paintings and thick drapes over the eastern windows bore evergreen garlands. Sprigs of mistletoe and intermingling wreaths of holly and ivy formed the centrepieces. The front of the ballroom had been raised by means of a wooden platform into a stage. Crimson velvet curtains hung over it, obscuring the set from view. A pair of Christmas trees framed it, drizzled with ribbons and tiny glass baubles, ready to sparkle and bask in the candles that would alight on their branches.