Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(33)
“No,” Josef said petulantly. “I do not want to dance.”
“We’re here as his guests, Josef, not his hired musicians.” She rolled her eyes. “Try and enjoy yourself, will you?”
Our brother gave an exasperated sigh and stalked off, disappearing into the crowd. Fran?ois and I exchanged glances. He closed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. I grimaced. It was going to be a long night and we hadn’t even entered the ballroom.
We were crowded in on all sides by partygoers. The uncomfortable proximity of so many anonymous strangers was beginning to get the better of me and I flinched and twitched at the slightest touch like a skittish thing. The last time I had attended a ball, I had been surrounded by goblins and changelings, but these black-and-white-clad guests were no less frightening. In many ways, Vienna was a place far stranger and more dangerous than the Underground. I broke out into a sweat, despite the gooseflesh pimpling my skin.
“Mademoiselle?” I turned to see Fran?ois offering me his arm. A corner of his lips quirked up in a sympathetic smile, and I accepted his arm with a smile of my own. He did not flinch when I tightened my grip as we entered the ballroom, my palms slick with nervousness. I was grateful for his steadiness, for the room was beginning to rock and sway like a boat upon the waves.
There was the slightest pause in the constant hum of conversation, a breath, a beat, when we entered. A myriad eyes turned their gazes upon us, and an icy-hot sensation prickled over my skin. So many faces, so many people, so many expectations. I began shaking, dropping Fran?ois’s arm and trying my best to fade into the shadows. It was only then that I noticed that the guests weren’t staring at me; they were staring at Fran?ois. The darkness of his skin against the stark white of his costume. The contrast of my arm upon his. Whispers rippled in our wake as we made our way across the ballroom. Guilt crawled up from my stomach, and I felt as though I were going to be sick.
“Oh, Fran?ois,” K?the said, loud enough to be clearly heard by all those in attendance. “I do hope you reserve a dance for me.”
The murmurs stopped. K?the smiled, her sunshine curls twisted into devil horns gleaming a burnished gold in the candlelight. She was the most beautiful girl in the room, and her beauty cast a halo as much as the glow of flame about her head. Her hand was held out to Fran?ois, a queen of the night extending an alliance to a prince of the sun.
He did not flinch or falter. Bowing deeply, he took her hand. “I would be honored, mademoiselle.”
The two of them beamed at each other, their grins grimaces in disguise, teeth bared at the room at large. K?the and Fran?ois both glanced sidelong at me, concern and a question writ upon their brows. I nodded at them both, and they swept onto the floor, joining the other couples in a lively quadrille. Black and white skirts swirled over black and white marble tiles arranged in a checkered pattern, and I retreated to the edges of the room, dizzy with nervous lightheadedness. I needed a drink. I needed air.
I left the dance floor, looking for a place to gather and compose myself. I wandered from room to room in the eccentric and fantastic house of my mysterious benefactor, but everywhere I stepped and everywhere I went was another person, another crowd, another stranger. Banquet tables were laden with food and ice sculptures carved into fantastic shapes—winged beings and horned creatures melting into water. At the center of a room was an automaton, a silver swan that “swam” in a silver stream teeming with fish. It moved its neck and caught one of the fish jumping from the water to the delighted gasps of its audience. The swan did not move with the herky-jerky motion of other automata I had seen displayed in great houses throughout the city, and its incredible, lifelike movements reminded me a little of Constanze’s stories of goblin-made wonders. Magical armor, exquisite metalwork and artistry, jewels possessed of a blessing or a curse, wars had been fought, blood had been shed, and an incalculable amount of money had been spent for the privilege of owning a single one of these treasures. I wondered how much this silver swan cost.
The oddities did not end there. This unexpected house was full of such unexpected trinkets. In one corner, a pair of silver hands pouring an endless stream of champagne into an endless flute. In another, a pair of whimsical bronze sculptures without form or meaning . . . until one passed them just so and realized the emptiness between them created a screaming face. I threaded my way in and out of these rooms, past bright young things and respectable elders resting their feet and working their lips, looking for peace, looking for calm.
But there was none to be had. Gossip and speculation filled the space like the buzz of insect wings, rising along with smoke from candles and powder from wigs. The scent of sweat and perfume lay heavy on the air, coating the back of my throat with a warm, moist slickness. Heat rose in waves from damp necks and heaving bosoms, the musty musk of human flesh, close and choking. I thought I caught a glimpse of black, beetle-carapace eyes and twig-like fingers out of the corner of my eye, but it was only the shiny jet buttons of a man’s waistcoat and the spidery embroidery of a woman’s bodice. The sick feeling rose up again, stronger than ever.
“Looking for someone, child?” said a rich, melodious voice.
I turned to find a tall woman dressed as a winter spirit. She was dressed in all white, her gown cunningly worked with beads to mimic the glitter of falling snow. She carried a spindle in one hand and wore the withered mask of an old woman, which sat strangely atop her long, swanlike neck. The only thing marring this vision in white and silver was the scarlet poppy pinned to her bodice, a drop of blood in the snow.