Lucious (altered)

(I've decided to leave up the original, mostly for my own purposes, but you'll also be able to compare yourselves if you'd like, and see how I alter the original and make it into something worthwhile.)

The fresh spring evening in Paris found Rhia enjoying the amenities of a high-class masquerade. It was being sponsored by some well-to-do aristocratic couple she happened to brush elbows with at the last event she pretended to be invited to. It was her second week in Paris, and the first week had been spent up seeing the new sights and fraternizing with the less than honest side of town. She could never decide which part of society she liked better, but she did know the wine tasted better here. There was one thing she found amusing about these masquerades. At one o’clock, everything stopped, and all the guests removed their masks. While amusing, she had yet to risk her face being recognized, always finding some reason to leave before the clock struck one.
She made it to the manor early; she had grown to enjoy listening to the musicians set up and tune their instruments. The manor was a newly built five storey Victorian mansion, with expansive gardens surrounding a courtyard and the rear property. The masquerade was being held in the grand hall that took up the whole back half of the first floor, with a second storey catwalk with tables and benches. The first floor had large French doors that led out into the gardens, while the second floor had balconies that overlooked them, with a great view of the fountain and clever designs in the flowerbeds.
If there was any chance of anyone here knowing her, they would be hard pressed to recognize her as she was. Her long, auburn hair was curled and pulled into a bun that allowed a few pieces to frame her face and neck, one curl resting delicately on her shoulder. Her dress was of a very dark maroon silk, a colour that brought out the highlights in her hair. It had full skirts, embroidered and beaded with silver that glittered in the candlelight she stood under, the hems trimmed with black and gold lace. The cut of the dress left her arms, collarbone, and neck bare, and forced her to use a small glamour spell to hide the scars that covered that skin.
As it was a masquerade, she, like everyone else – including the musicians and servants – wore a mask. Hers covered her whole face, unlike some who wore masks that covered only their eyes and nose. It was made of a very fine ceramic, and painted with mother-of-pearl. The lips were locked in an everlasting smile, painted a crimson that stood out against the white of the mask. The right side of the face was decorated with a misty design that actually accented the natural curves and colours of the mother-of-pearl.
She remained poised beside the orchestra pit even as the rest of the guests began to file in. They arrived by carriage, the drivers of which were gathering in the stable for a small party of their own, hosted by the manor’s servants that weren’t working the masquerade. She knew because more than once since she started attending these parties, she’d grown bored and sought out the servants’ party. They almost always proved more entertaining than the snobbish goings-on of the wealthy. As her crimson eyes passed over the crowd through the empty eyes of the mask, she began to wonder at once if it might not end up being the same again tonight.
Thoughts of the stable flew from her mind with a single tap of her shoulder.
“Hello, there,” said a deep, silky voice she didn’t recognize. It was a voice she could certainly listen to for a night, though.
She turned and glanced up at the speaker. His hair held a vaguely crimson hue, and the eyes she saw through the mask were a piercing gold. He wore a half-mask, made of black silk covered in white designs made with leather. His face was an unearthly pale, with chiseled features and an angled chin. His lips were thin and spread in a charming smile that brought Rhia to smile behind her own mask. He wore a black tuxedo over a white dress shirt and red silken tie. There was just something about him that Rhia couldn’t help but find intriguing, and, to the distress of her instincts, vaguely familiar.
“Good evening,” she replied coolly. The odd feeling she got from him triggered the careful schooling of her eyes. She had no need to worry about her expression beneath the mask, but unlike many, she had learned to mask her true emotions from her eyes. What she soon realized, much to her frustration, was that he seemed to have the same ability. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his were as much shuttered as hers.
“It looks like there will be a nice turnout tonight,” that silky voice said, with all the casualness of a long-time friend. That irritated her a little.
“It seems that way,” was all she could think of to say. She wasn’t exactly schooled in high-class small-talk.
He twisted to the side and reached to a tray of a passing servant, lifting off two glasses of a dark red wine, one that she had found to be very sweet and pleasant. He held one out to her entreatingly, and she took it. As he sipped from his, she looked down at the glass in her hand in confusion; she couldn’t remember taking it from him. Was he so mesmerizing? But there was nothing extraordinary about him that she could see except maybe the colour of his eyes. But then, she had an odd pair of eyes herself, and he didn’t seem all that mesmerized. That wary feeling in her stomach grew, but with it her curiosity as well. How long had it been since anyone had entranced the Typhoon?
After a few moments of awkward silence in which they sipped their drinks - Rhia by way of a clever hinge in the mask that allowed her to lift it just enough to eat and drink without revealing her face – and the orchestra readied for the next piece, the gentleman set aside his glass and extended his hand to her. “Might I interest you in a dance?”
She carefully arched her brow at the odd wording, but kept her eyes as passive as ever, just as his. She allowed herself a couple of seconds to consider the offer, then set her own drink aside. She gently took his hand and tipped her head forward in an ironic bow. “You may.”
He led her out onto the dance floor and placed his left hand high on her waist, while his right took hold of hers and lifted it high into the air. Other couples gathered onto the dance floor and got ready as the musicians poised to begin. With a smooth harmony from the violins, the dance began, and he glided into the lead. She found his hands smooth and gentle, glad at once that neither she nor he had worn gloves this night. His dancing was nothing to scoff at, either; he could easily give her cousin a run for the money.
She followed his lead gracefully, and with such an accuracy that their movements created the sense of intimacy that normally only lovers could obtain while dancing; or two really good and seasoned dancers, she reminded herself.
It was a fairly quick dance, and their breathing became clipped with each step, yet he still managed to spare breath enough for talking. “What do you think the chances are that we happen to know each other?”
It took a lot of self control to keep her eyes from widening and her step from faltering. So, he was feeling the same way she was, was he? Despite the shock that that brought, there was also a tingle of satisfaction in knowing she was casting the same feeling he was.
She chose to sound amused as she replied to his comment; let him think he was crazy for now. She wasn’t sure enough about him just yet to admit she thought she knew him from somewhere. “Not very good, I’d say. I’m not a very well known presence in Paris. But that’s what these dances are for, right?” Her own words surprised her, as she’d just given him a clear hint that she wasn’t native to Paris. But then, she realized, her accent, however minor, would have given her away even without that bit of information. No one spoke more than a dozen languages without acquiring some sort of unique accent. Now that she thought about it, though, he had a bit of an accent himself; though where it might have originated from, she couldn’t be sure.
She watched those golden eyes travel across her mask as though they were searching for something, and then finally meet her amused gaze. “Well, you never know. You may just be blindly popular, as several of these twits are.”
And again her brows rose. Either he was dense, or he chose not to acknowledge the information she’d let slip. Or was he hinting at something he knew? Oh, how infuriatingly enticing! She watched another smile grace those thin lips, and she decided that he most definitely was not dense; that smile was too clever.
A smile lifted on her lips, and she carelessly let it reach her eyes. “I should hope not. The gossip about a mysterious stranger is much more interesting.” She referred to gossip she, and certainly he, had heard all throughout the ballroom ever since the masquerade began. It was gossip that began the first time she showed up to one of these parties five nights ago. This was her third, and she had heard the gossip each time. A couple of her contacts around Paris had told her the gossip carried over after the parties ended, so that she was becoming a bit of an enigma. It was very entertaining.
The song ended before he could respond, and another young gentlemen politely asked to step in, and their certainly was no lack of women casting longing glances towards the gentleman in hopes he might choose one of them for the next dance. So, even though she could not remember ever finding one so amusing and charming so quickly at a party before, she stepped back from him. She made sure to send him a look that clearly showed she wanted to see him later, and by his nod, she knew he understood.
She caught the traces of a smirk on his lips as she slid into the awkward embrace of the new dancer, and her sensitive hearing caught his remark before he, too, turned to find a new partner. “I’m positive the gossip will begin to brew rather quickly tonight.” As the next dance began, the clock struck eleven. Only two hours before the call for the removal of masks. She was getting the dreadful feeling that she would actually still be there when that call came. She didn’t like the idea of so many people seeing her face, glamour and make-up or no. And yet, she wanted terribly to see his face.
As she passed from partner to partner, she found it impossible to concentrate on the man in front of her. They were dull and boring; oh, they spoke cleverly and prettily, just like all high-class young men should. And that was what bored her. They were all so ordinary, and none so nearly as mysterious as that first man. She constantly became sidetracked as she tried always to keep the unique mask and red silken tie in sight. She knew in her heart that he would not leave before seeing her again, but still that small fear controlled her gaze. More than once his gaze met hers from across the dance floor, and the fear ebbed, but as the next new partner took her waist and spun her around, the fear came right back.
As time drew on, her worry faded down to almost nothing, and by twelve-thirty, she was so exhausted that all she wanted to do was find a place to get off her feet, and maybe a cool glass of wine. There were a number of people thinking the same as her, as guests milled about looking for their dates or previous partners and crowding the refreshment tables. She quickly took herself upstairs to keep out of any idle, dim-witted gossip rings, and sought the retreat of one of the deserted balconies. There was a cool breeze, and the flush on her skin from the stifling ballroom was eased. She sighed heavily in the relief of the silence, while below her, couples edged into the gardens, to enjoy the privacy of some of the groves.
Just as she eased that perfect posture, footsteps came up behind her, and she unconsciously straightened up again. Normally, she would not have cared whether or not a few rich people saw her slouch, but being such an enigma caused talk enough without fueling the fire, and she was teetering on the edge of too much attention as it was. The footsteps drew up beside her and she glanced over. A smile lifted behind her mask; she continued to stand up straight, back suddenly not hurting so much. She looked back out over the gardens, the moonlight twinkling in the fountain that was running in the center of the courtyard. It was probably only on to impress the guests with the hosts’ wealth.
“I was beginning to fear I wouldn’t see you again,” she said casually, opting not to show that she had actually feared just that.
She noted the quirk of his lips from that and watched out of the corner of her eye as he leaned against the rail to look down. A few loose locks of his crimson hair fell in front of his mask, and the breeze brought her his familiar scent. If only she could figure out where it was familiar from!
“Well, you really shouldn’t. It might jinx our chances.” He looked over at her, and she could almost feel his critical eye, an eye that she was sure missed very little. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant; if he was anyone else, she would assume he simply wanted to get her out of that dress, and that the “Might we know each other?” bit was just a line. But this man wasn’t anyone else, and she wasn’t entirely sure they didn’t know each other. “Not very long until the masterful unveiling,” he said as he turned around and leaned his back and elbows against the railing, his eyes traveling up to the starry sky. “Penny for your thoughts?”
She let her gaze refocus on the gardens below, expression frozen in the mask’s pleasant, and empty, smile. “I’m only wondering why I chose to come to a country that puts corsets and dancing together,” she said only semi-seriously. She wasn’t at all as faint as some of the women in there, and she hadn’t even loosened hers as many others had. That, of course, didn’t change the fact that it was uncomfortable.
He laughed, and for all she could tell it was genuine. With the way her ears warmed, she knew she could fall for that laugh alone. She would have to be very careful, more so than she had thought before.
“For the music, of course,” he said, and right on cue, the Notturno, a new piece for the orchestra, began. She watched as he closed his eyes for a few moments in appreciation of the music, and found herself doing the same. It was a very pleasant piece, quite soothing after such a long and rowdy night. When she opened her eyes again, he had slid down to sit on the floor of the balcony, back up against the rail. “Well, I hope these people do not expect us to be proper out here. Several of the dancers out there have begun to loosen their ties. I think they’re losing their nerves.”
Her musical, slightly inhuman, chuckle floated out from behind her mask. “Or the alcohol is getting to them. I’d put my money on both.” She turned to face the door, and then gracefully lifted herself up to sit on the balcony rail. While the skirts of her dress were full, there were no hoops, and so the many layers draped over her bent knees. If he was going to slouch on the ground, then she was going to get her weight off her aching feet.
She took a deep breath of the fresh night air and leaned her head back, eyes shut. After a few seconds, she softly began to hum the piece the orchestra was playing. He wasn’t entirely wrong about her having come to France for the music.
“Yes, the alcohol; but, I’d say they’re doing quite well. There are only a few tipsies, and I have only spotted on who has passed out,” he said cheerfully. She shifted her gaze down to him as her voice faded, meeting those intriguing yellow eyes. “Well, are you having a good time, at least?”
“I wouldn’t stay if I wasn’t,” she said with a soft chuckle. Her gaze drifted back inside, just able to make out the dance floor over the side of the catwalk. “I’ve begun to think I get some sort of pleasure from watching them make fools of themselves.” She didn’t quite realize it then, but it was more than strange to refer to the other guests as ‘they’. In that day and age, the term used in that context was really only used when someone of a lower class referred to the nobles or rich. She obviously wasn’t of a lower class if she was there, especially looking as she did, and even if she was, she didn’t say it as though she meant it in that way. There was the fact that she was a foreigner, and she was quite certain he had picked that up if nothing else, so she could also mean the French in general; but that, too, didn’t seem to fit how she said it.