A Dove in the Eve - I

"Be suspicious of the first person you meet."

I suspect everyone, I thought, the clacks of my heels drowning Suma's words as I crossed the marble floors, echoing from the high ceilings of the arriving hall.

A dark-bearded man towered two heads above me and offered a hand that could envelop my whole face. Polished and proper as the heavy oak doors that welcomed me, his suit bore no fleck, his mutache formed a neat roof over his lips and his fingernails were trimmed and cleaned—I couldn't resist admiring a well-groomed man in metal-framed glasses.

"A pleasure to be graced in your presence, Madam Doreé."

Suma had warned me of his baritone voice and his analytical, deep set eyes, both of which could hypnotise me if I wasn't careful. And by God, it took me everything to be careful as his wide hands lifted my dainty fingers to his lips.

I am a professional. My countenance only alters when I wish it to. "Good evening, Lord Whittlehart. Forgive my tardiness."

The condescending chuckle of aristocrats had always bothered me, but his was polite and natural. "Madam, you're the third guest to arrive."

He beckoned me with a toned arm and I took it, letting him lead me past a new set of doors. "How come? Shouldn't the event have started some fifteen minutes ago?"

Statues of scarcely-clothed men and women spectated our traversal with vacant eyes. Lord Whittlehart took care to match my pace as soft laughter slipped past the crack in the set of doors looming ahead.

His voice was grim and low when he replied. "I'm afraid there is no event, Madam. Only a private gathering of sorts." I gave him a side-eyed look, to which he returned an apologetic smile. "Pardon my lack of courtesy to inform you of the change of plans. I received rather grave news and was short of time to do so."

I nodded. "I'm honoured to remain your guest regardless."

A well-dressed servant jogged ahead and pushed open the door to us, light raining upon my satin mesh gown. I was tugged into the room before I could take in its grandeur for the second time in my life.

"Dovi!"

Gloved hands twirled me into a daze and I caught a glimpse of a sequined mask under a top hat.

"Dear me!" The masked man dipped me down with an arm on my back, hat askew atop tendrils of caramel hair. It didn't take me long to recognise the freckled nose. "Why, if it isn't Sir Lesterot!" I playfully pulled down the brim of his hat. "Good to see you too, Val."

He grinned, a gold molar peeking through. His voice lowered to nearly a whisper. "You appear as a dove in the eve, Madam."

"Ahem." Our reunion was cut short as a full-bosomed lady with a silver feather in her immaculate curls glided to his side, holding a slim glass of wine in her manicured hands. Violet contact lenses gazed through her heavy lids. "You must be Madam Doreé."

I regained my composure and dropped my hands from Valec's shoulders. "Androvina Doreé. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you, Miss..."

"Modwyn. Persylla Modwyn." Her hands took mine in a strong grip. "Pleased to finally meet you."

Her stance was suspiciously close to Valec. Closer than what was allowed for a woman of nobility around men in her social class. "Have you met Sir Lesterot?"

"Oh, yes. We're relatives." Her enchanting coral smile was a practiced perfection, punctuated by her perfectly arranged pearly whites.

I couldn't press on if I wanted to. "I knew you'd be here." Valec grabbed my hand out of the still handshake in both hands, practically bouncing on his feet. "I was hoping you'd get an invite too, but of course, who wouldn't invite you?"

I waved a bashful hand. "Oh, you charmer. And what masquerade did you stumble from?"

He gave a hearty laugh, a hand on his stomach, a habit fit for a noble he could never rid of. "Good one, Madam. Why would I ever leave home exposing over half of my face?" With a devilish wink, he properly greeted me with a kiss upon my knuckles. It wasn't a gesture of polite obligation like Lord Whittlehart's—it was lingering and personal. My skin tingled where his lips departed, only to be warmed with his breath that carried a soft string of words. "But for you, I will gladly expose my very soul."

Our host had disappeared once again to the arrival hall to fetch the remaining guests. I entertained myself with the band playing a jovial welcome tune, a flute of champagne between my fingers. A silver feather wisped into my peripheral vision, followed by an inquiry.

"I notice, Madam, that you have been fidgeting with your ring for the past few minutes." Indeed I had. My thumb returned to its position as I kept my head straight. "If I may ask, are you married?"

"Widowed."

The violins scratched through the silence. Lady Modwyn kept her gloved hands crossed over her gown.

"Pardon my insolence," was her flat reply.

I shook my head. "I have long stopped grieving over my dead husband." The jewel from the ring caught the ambience of the room as I held it up. "Besides, Lady Modwyn, this is not my matrimonial band."

Lord Whittlehart returned with three more guests; a stout, grey-haired man in a coat three times his size that had a spring in his step, a viper-faced woman in a silk mermaid dress with a heavy purse dangling from her arm and an updo that added as much as her heels did to her height, and curiously, a boy about half the host's stature, with hair doused in gel and a pace to match the older lady that preceded him. I assumed the two were related.

"Third daughter of the Doreé household, I presume?" The lady with the tall hair approached me first with a haughty smile, the boy halting at her heels.

"You presume correctly." I nodded in greeting. "You must be..." a quick glimpse to the emblem on her purse was enough to introduce her. "... Lady Goeness, and her young scion."

I realised she bore the exact air of aristocracy I loathed when she laughed with her fingers to her chest. "My, Wilfrey is no scion of mine, dear. His father had asked him to accompany me."

Wilfrey bowed with eyes half closed. This had likely be the most boring little boy I'd ever met.

"Welcome, Wilfrey. A shame you don't find friends your age here."

Lady Goeness laughed again, the most insincere I’ve heard all day. "Oh, perfect for practice of adulthood etiquettes, no?"

The stout man was more amicable, but I had trouble keeping up with his chatter. "Yes, you may call me Sir Ollencrest, though my comrades have called me a a multitude of nicknames. Ollie, Oller, Cresto, Otto, Otter, you name it! If you had seen me in my younger days, you'd understand the sentiment behind the last one, with my bushy mustache and all, but no matter. They never do live it down, perks of building connections in the army. You're a lovely one, dearie, Doreé, did you say? Yes, I've dealed with a Doreé once, amiable bloke, traveled everywhere possible. Never saw him again, you see. S'he a relative of yours? Father, perhaps...? No, no, bloke was too young for that. Then again it was 20 years ago..."

My attention trailed off as he jumoed into another story of his army days, and that's when I saw a seventh guest. Standing on the far end of the room next to the pantry, she had sleek black hair that hung right below her ears, pearl studs in her ears and a fur coat over her bony sholders. We locked eyes for a moment, and I couldn't ignore the nagging familiarity in her countenance.

She lost our little staring contest and asked for a refill. I decided to approach her.

"Refill, please." The servant at the pantry dipped his head before disappearing behind the door.

I turned to face the woman, who now seemed more pallid up close. "If I may, madam. Have we met?"

Her eyes locked to the floor as she brought her glass to her lips, but did not take a sip. "You shouldn't be here, Androvina."

I raised an eyebrow, but disregarded the ominous comment. "And you are?"

The merry welcome tune and chatter from other guests filled the void of silence between us. Her eyes were on the dancefloor now, where Sir Ollencrest had started to sway with Lady Modwyn in a customary waltz. I followed her gaze, swirling my new fresh glass of champagne.

After a minute or two, she spoke again, now less intimidatingly. "I had hoped Suma would accompany you."

"Hm. You're either an old colleague or one of her greedy cousins."

She sipped her drink. "The former." Now she had turned to face me and finally meet my eye, the hand not holding a wine glass sticking out in formal greeting. "Pleased to see you again, madam. Dr. Gertha Deonik."

We shook hands and it finally clicked. "You were involved in my late husband's early treatment." My face relaxed into a smile. "Pleasure is mine, doctor. What brings you here?"

"What everyone else is brought here for."

Right then, the clinking of metal on glass echoed through the hall, catching everyone's attention. The room fell silent as all eyes avert towards a solemn Lord Whittlehart at the centre of the room.

"Attention, my dear guests," he started, setting down the fork and glass. "Before dinner is served, there's something... important I must tell you."