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His flash of red hair stood out even amongst the bright sequins and silks. From the corner of her eye, Regina caught it flitting by, at once losing whatever interest she had left in the blathering fool before her. Wanting to avoid twenty rounds of Are the rumours true? she had chosen a masquerade theme, but even then, all the men so far had made for lackluster conversationalists. Leaving the invitations in her father's hands had been a mistake.
Excusing herself rather rudely, she set off in search of her next escape from boredom. She didn't need to descend her perch atop the mezzanine to spot the drifting blaze of fire now anchored by the lower left wall, politely sipping tea. Content, for now, in only watching, her eyes lazily peered out from behind her ornate hare mask, scanning him over once, maybe twice.
He was a man in his early twenties, of considerable height—or so she could assume, as everyone resembled tiny, overdressed ants from up here. Underneath his black tailcoat was a rich mulberry waistcoat, completed by a pair of dark trousers. His posture mirrored that of a sentinel's, cautious. He donned a magnificent wolf mask that almost covered his entire face, allowing only a pair of thin lips to peek through. It seemed, out of everyone gathered here tonight, he was the one most concerned with maintaining a disguise. The sleek gold embellishments on his mask shined brilliantly when he turned to look up at her.
Without breaking away, Regina casually returned his piercing stare, as if she hadn't just been caught red-handed. Moments passed as the ballroom went on bustling around them, full of life and music. The man was the first to look away. A near-imperceptible grin tugged at her lips as she hiked up her gown and headed for the stairs, determined to continue their dialogue. She wasted no time cutting through the crowd to where she had seen prospective waltz partner #5, but on arrival he was nowhere to be found. There was only a vaguely empty spot where he once stood, soon occupied by a trio of raucous women who couldn't quite keep their hands still. Regina's nails dug into the silk bunched up in her fists. Irritation washed over her as it became apparent that the man had seemingly left.
"Looking for me?"
Regina whipped her head behind with concussive force. A wide, practiced smile replaced the pout on her face. "You have very sharp instincts."
"I have—average—instincts."
"Oh? Then how'd you notice me staring, back there?"
Stepping closer, left foot in front, the man took her right hand in his firm grasp, swaying in time with the music. "You weren't exactly subtle."
Regina let the violins take over, filling the abrupt silence between them. But that didn't mean his smooth deflection had gone unnoticed. It only fuelled her curiosity. Up close, she noted his clothing was tailored well, though his adornments were rather simple. A white cotton cravat stuck out from his matching white undershirt, no ruffles or lace in sight. Even amidst his quick footwork, she managed to pick out a shabby pair of boots. They looked like they had been through a lifetime's worth of abuse. It appeared as though he had gotten himself a new ensemble for the ball, his very first, but, having nothing to complement it, had fallen back on his meager wardrobe. That certainly aroused her curiosity. Feeling the roughness of his calloused hands, she wondered if he was a soldier, out of his uniform for some peculiar reason. Then the subtle weariness behind his violet eyes sent her tumbling down daydreams of him as a poet, penning words upon words of flowery cynicism.
But the large mole sitting above the corner of his lips gave off an entirely different vibe. Fat and gnarly, it reminded her of the men her father called to clean up the messes she always left behind after a night of violence. For the briefest moment in her imagination, she saw him display those same sharp instincts from before, knowing exactly what to do with the body on the ground. Her brows shot up, thankfully obscured by the mask. She pushed the thought away.
"So, why tea when there's such a fine selection of wine?"
"I prefer sobriety," he led her in a swift turn.
"You're no fun," she rolled her eyes.
As he twirled her under his arm, the music faded out. Next up was the Csárdás. While the other ladies sifted through the crowd to get to the gentlemen they promised this dance, Regina was content lingering beside Wolf Mask, her dance card lying forgotten somewhere.
Yuriy didn't know what he was expecting when he'd entered the ball. He was greeted by the sight of rampant overindulgence and clashing vanities. No one here seemed to have experienced even a day of any real struggle, and from what it looked like, his companion was no exception. Still, he let her join him for another dance. It helped him blend seamlessly into his surroundings—essential for tonight's job, which was simple enough that he couldn't really complain.
It started off slow, then the violins began ramping up. Couples picked up the pace, women's skirts sweeping them both into a colorful embrace. Heel-clicks resounded throughout the ballroom, frantic and unpredictable. Soon, Yuriy joined in with his own sequence of rhythmic clicks, backing it up with lively slaps to his arms and chest. Yet his face remained oddly neutral the whole time.
The lady suddenly parted from him, spinning in place with surprising energy. Her white dress swirled around her, forming a great big circle of silk as she clapped her hands without a care for the world. Even from a distance, he could notice the frenzy bubbling within her deep green eyes, and a smile that strained a little too wide. It seemed to him that her boisterous display was purely performative, her gusto rivaled only by her distaste for the constrictive socialite life she was given. And yet, she danced, for it was all she knew. She enticed him with playful steps to get back together, her arms flailing wildly in conjunction. Yuriy closed the gap, reuniting with her.
Her incessant chatter resumed, undeterred even by the hectic swinging of their bodies. No matter how well-rehearsed she may have been, she lost his attention within minutes, except for when he caught hints of a German accent slipping through. It struck him as odd that he could instantly place it. From a public appearance by his boss's daughter no less, likely during one of her many scandals. The accent was rare enough to warrant caution on his part, but his fears were allayed by the long, flowing mane of lavender hair that his boss' daughter did not possess. Yes, the color matched right down to the shade, but the length was worlds apart.
"—and Papa thinks I'm stupid enough not to notice."
"Notice what?"
"His little goons filling out his shipping company, of course. Have you been listening? I check the manifest, it's now overrun with unsavoury types. God knows what's really in the cargo."
And just like that, she shattered Yuriy's denial into a thousand pieces. Her sharp, knowing eyes lingered on him for longer than he was comfortable, as if testing a hunch. He didn't reply, instead busying himself with the details of her costume for the first time. Her lacy navy gloves made her hands look slender, the sweetheart neckline going off-shoulder to elongate her neck. The puffy sleeves and the flaring net on her skirt below the knees gave the otherwise simple dress an attractive silhouette. Navy decorations completed the look.
"Fancy my dress? Thinking of tailoring a dupe for yourself? I'm not quite sure you'll pull off the waist."
He averted his gaze, a low chuckle threatening to break through. He had busied himself with the details of her dress a little too much, in fact.
During the cotillion, a particularly frustrating figure kept repeating. It called for the swift exchange of partners, and Yuriy found himself increasingly disoriented trying to keep track of her, whisked away mere seconds ago. He should've been content in the woman before him, after all, she too served the purpose of blending in. But there was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. For a fleeting moment, his hands found hers again, right before another man snatched her clumsily. Yuriy looked up to see it was Boris. Managing to conceal his surprise, he continued gliding lightly. He had missed his fellow enforcer in the same dance, having all but forgotten his duty in search of the lady who kept eluding his reach. Was he losing his touch?
To be fair, the cotillion did seem to rival even the polonaise in scale, although he wasn't sure it was meant to accommodate this many people. One man trampled his companion's skirt. Two others bumped shoulders. Across the ballroom, he could see the lady in the hare mask kicking up a storm with her fan, annoyance written plainly on her face. She danced with enough aggression to nearly knock down her partner. He felt sorry for poor Boris, but he couldn't help letting slip a small smile.
Regina was stranded in the crowd, her mood soured. She did not begin to question this newfound attachment to Wolf Mask. Sighing dramatically, she considered it enough dancing for the night and prepared to return to her duties as a host.
A tap on the shoulder. It was him.
"Will you be pleased to dance the Mazurka with me?" he offered his hand, body bent gracefully.
She batted her eyelashes. "With pleasure."
At the dance-master's cue, the highly anticipated Mazurka began. It was said that this was the dance that decided everything. They both knew who the other was by now, yet only under the flimsy pretense of a masquerade could they interact without consequence.
The dance transported the two out of their worlds, freeing them from the expectations within, even if only temporarily. All that remained were the piano, the stomping boots, and the couples arm-in-arm skipping in mesmerizing patterns. Nothing else mattered. No words were spoken. They simply soaked up the magical atmosphere created tonight, basking in the other's closeness whenever face-to-face.
When the music reached its crescendo, Yuriy was overcome by something strange and broke formation, lifting Regina over his head at a frightening speed. She let out a tiny yelp. A crystal chandelier reflected the warm candlelight into her eyes, holding her under its hypnotic spell. On her way down, her heartbeat pounded in her ears. It drowned out everything but her companion as her eyes followed his every move. She didn't want this moment to end, and from the tender look on his face, she knew neither did he.
But alas, all good things come to an end. It was time for supper. Regina excused herself and went to check on the dinner proceedings.
Relaxed, Yuriy was sauntering down to the tables serving zakuski when he heard a commotion up ahead. Rushing towards the sound, he found Boris already trying to defuse the situation. A fight had broken out between two of their boss's associates.
"Well, you seemed awfully eager to start stuffing your face, porkie pie!"
"I wasn't! Must I remind you if not for Volkov's pity, you wouldn't even be here?"
"Me? You're the one who let the customs rats sniff around his shipment!"
Gossiping in hushed whispers, people began to give them curious glances. They were drawing attention. Boris looked up at Yuriy with saucer-wide eyes in a silent plea for help. Yuriy stepped between the men, pulling them off of each other.
"Gentlemen, if you have any grievances, you are more than free to take them up with Volkov."
The veiled threat in his voice was just enough to cause the men to back down. They fixed their shirts, mumbled some final curses before returning to their chairs.
After zakuski, the guests sat down to a lavish banquet consisting of delectable sweets, lamb cutlets and anything else that they should desire. Regina waited wistfully for Wolf Mask to invite her back to his table. She had refused four young men in favour of him. With each refused suitor, her hopes had fallen a little further. Her rationalizations began to look less plausible. She replied in monosyllables to every attempt at a conversation with her. Her soup and pirozhki lay untouched, getting colder by the minute.
Yuriy didn't have the great fortune of attending dinner. Along with Boris, he was summoned by Volkov for a thorough recounting of the incident. Afterwards, they were given strict orders to stand guard for the rest of the night, until the ball was over. By the time he returned, all that survived were some pastry scraps and a sad-looking lobster that seemed to blame him for its untimely demise. The guests had made quick work of the feast. The last two dances progressed uneventfully.
Eventually, the unrelenting orchestra stopped playing. As couples gradually filed out of the ballroom, he remained by the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of her white dress. His eyes scoured every inch of the hall, ignoring its endless beauties in pursuit of a single goal, at last resting on the now empty mezzanine. Regina was nowhere to be found. He was too late. All he could think about was how weary he'd grown of being Volkov's errand boy, doling out bruises in exchange for silence. Hard to believe he'd once sought this life so desperately, just to escape the one he'd lived on the streets. For once, he had been on the cusp of something he wanted for itself, but fate wouldn't have it his way. Boris hit him with a quizzical look, and Yuriy finally turned to leave.
Unbeknownst to him, Regina was caught up with the obligations that arose after the event. She threw herself into tasks she normally wouldn't care much for: settling bills with the caterers, musicians and wine merchants; meeting with the head butler to discuss complaints from the guests; taking stock of damaged properties. Anything to keep thoughts of Wolf Mask out of her mind. But when her eyes fell on the cracked teacup stowed away with the rest of the damaged dishes, a pang of longing shot through her chest. She gently brushed her thumb over the cracks. The cup was still faintly warm.
"Madame!"
She set it down carefully, as if it might shatter further. She closed the door behind her, leaving the kitchen shrouded in complete darkness.