Chapter Text
Two months into her marriage, Eva Mittermeyer attends her first military ball.
Wolf teaches her the dances; he’s always been a patient teacher, but his own knowledge is lacking —
“I never dance at these things,” he confesses, as she giggles over how they’ve gotten off-beat again. “I made Reuenthal show me the steps again—“
But all of the breathless touching and giggling in the kitchen leads to them getting distracted in the usual newlywed ways, so it hadn’t been quite as instructive as Wolf had meant it to be.
She spends three days picking out a dress, studying fashions and going from shop to shop to feel the fabric beneath her fingers and look at the way it catches the light, her head still spinning with the freedom that came with being able to pick any of them.
But there’s no amount of preparation that will prepare her for stepping into that large, marble ballroom, and realizing that she’s got everything slightly wrong; that her beautiful peach silk may be in season outside, but is out of season in the court, and worse, looks girlish and unsophisticated next to the elaborate confections of velvet and carefully-wrought ruffles that the noblewomen wear.
So they’re not in as lovely sync as the swan-necked pairs of aristocrats; so women in elaborately-ruched silk and elegant velvet give Eva cold looks; she’s determined to muster up every happiness, because she’s here, and his, and the future is at very last their own.
She dances one, two, three dances with Wolf; until the nervousness gives way to the rhythm of his feet and his body, just like dancing at the social clubs, even if the pace is so different.
When finally she’s out of breath, Wolf leads her off to the side, and presses a glass of champagne into her hands. She’s savoring the feeling of the cold bubbles on her tongue when a tall, familiar figure emerges from the crowd.
“It’s a crime for a beautiful woman to be left neglected at her first ball,” Reuenthal drawls, leaning on Mittermeyer’s shoulder. “You’re not doing your duty as a husband.”
Mittermeyer scoffs. “I’ve danced my feet off, Reuenthal — where did you come from, even? Where have you been?”
“Socializing,” Reuenthal says, though Eva is sure she would have spotted him earlier, even amongst the crowd -- she'd been desperately scanning for familiar faces when they entered. “Privately.” His pointed look to Mittermeyer makes her cheeks flush.
“Reuenthal,” Mittermeyer warns.
“I was without your good influence,” Reuenthal says. “I was looking for you earlier, even.” He turns to Eva. “Frau Mittermeyer,” he greets her, bowing. “May I have a dance?”
He reaches out a hand to her. She blinks, and glances at Mittermeyer; he laughs, and makes a go ahead gesture at her.
She’s not sure she wants that; Frau Mittermeyer’s dire warnings about aristocratic men and their wandering hands echo in her head. But Mittermeyer’s expression is fond; there’s no tightness, no restrained feeling. She’s a married woman now, and she can’t offer her husband’s oldest friend offense, can she?
She gives Reuenthal a smile, and quickly downs the rest of her champagne. “Of course, Commodore.” Just as the music starts up again, she takes Reuenthal's hand, and steps in close.
His hands are cool, and his manner professional; he clasps her hand and waist with only just enough pressure to keep them touching. His feet move through the steps with practiced grace; and she knows enough to know that he’s good, beyond her and Wolf’s enthusiastic efforts. He’s talented enough that he can compensate for her missteps with intention that lends her confidence, until they’ve found a rhythm.
The fabric of Reuenthal’s dress uniform is smooth and silky beneath her fingers; shimmering Imperial black, tailored perfectly. It’s precisely the same fabric as Wolf’s; she would bet anything that they get their uniforms made at the same tailor.
All the fashion materials available to her are catered to middle-class military wives; and it’s plain to see that the fashions of the court are different. Would Reuenthal know anything about court dresses? she muses. Probably not, unless it was about the finer points of getting them off of their wearers. She bites back a smile.
“Something amusing?” Reuenthal murmurs.
Eva shakes her head. “It’s beautiful here,” she says, which is always an appropriate thing for a woman to say at a party.
Reuenthal laughs, and lifts his arm for her to spin.
Despite her reticence, Eva realizes she’s enjoying herself; there’s something satisfying in the swirl of her skirts and the flash of Reuenthal’s dress uniform. He’s right here, in an almost undefinable way; and so, for the length of a dance, she is too.
“You dance well, Commodore,” she says.
“Dancing is a necessary skill, for a man of my class,” Reuenthal says, in a tone that makes it absolutely unclear as to whether that fact brings him joy or not.
“Oh," Eva says, uncertain.
They pass by another couple, close enough for Eva to smell the elderflower of the woman’s perfume, and see the glint of rubies and gold at her throat and her ears. The woman leans close to her partner, face hidden in his shoulder, the bright chime of her laughter plucking on the parts of Eva that have been strung tight since Wolf first suggested this outing. He had been so boyishly excited that she would be allowed to accompany him from now on; and that he would get to show her some small, harmless part of his work; and that had seemed like a lovely idea, despite her apprehension. But outside the protective glow of Wolf’s enthusiasm, the cold steals in; the eyes that she could so easily laugh off rest heavy on her now; her face, the gathering of her skirts, her bare neck and wrists.
She’s adrift in a sea of faces, with only Wolf’s odd, cold friend to cling to.
Then, the sea parts and she glimpses Wolf at the edge of the crowd; his smile, shining unabashed and bright amongst the strangers. He’s watching them with unmistakable pleasure; with pride. Relief floods her; she misses a step, and trods on Reuenthal’s foot.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Commodore.” But when she looks up, he’s smiling in a strange way, as his eyes go to where she was looking.
“I wanted a word with you,” Reuenthal murmurs, beneath the swell of the music. “About Mittermeyer.”
“About Wolf?” she says, distracted.
“Your husband is a talented man, and he doesn’t dull his talent for the egos of the nobility.”
“Not even yours?” Eva says, and then flushes. Where had this boldness come from? The one glass of champagne?
Reuenthal laughs. “I would despise him if he did. I can keep up with Mittermeyer — but not many can. Certainly very few of the officers here tonight, and I suspect that will only become more apparent.”
Eva listens, wide-eyed, drawn in by the conspiratorial tone of Reuenthal’s voice.
“People will want to hurt Mittermeyer, and now that they see you, they may try to use you.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t accept invitations from strange men, however polite they may be.”
Warmth rushes to Eva’s face; suddenly, she feels foolish. “You’re not a strange man,” she says.
Reuenthal laughs. “I do have a reputation.”
No different from every other philandering noble. The kind of man who Eva had always been kept away from the eyes of; it’s trouble, to attract the wrong kind of attention. “Wolf knows I’m dancing with you,” she says. “I would never —“
“I mean to offer you no offense, Frau Mittermeyer. But I am more experienced with the ills of this sphere than you — and more than your husband, too. This place is full of evil-minded men, and women too.” A shadow passes over Reuenthal’s face. “The women even moreso.”
“Wolf —“ Eva wants to say Wolf knows that, but caution stops her tongue, at the brush of the dancers around them.
“Mittermeyer is a sharp man, but not always a circumspect one,” Reuenthal says.
Eva bites back the instinctive defense that rises to her lips. The words ring true; hadn’t that been one of the first things she learned about Wolf, that he had up and taken off, insisting on officer’s school, insisting on making a career of the military instead of serving his two years? Doesn’t he know how he made his mother worry? Frau Mittermeyer would always say, her eyes tracking to the picture of Wolf on the mantle.
When Wolf sees the right path forward, he plants his feet and does not yield. Once, in a very bad moment, Eva had heard his father accuse him of disrespect.
Of course, they never talk to Wolf like that now.
“The nobility abhor a talented commoner, unless they can make use of him,” Reuenthal says.
“Commodore, you’re a noble,” Eva says, cautiously.
“Reichsritter, only. But I am best-positioned to know the evils of the court,” Reuenthal says, lifting his arm for her to twirl again. “Mittermeyer is my friend. It is my responsibility to look out for him.”
Eva bites her lip, folding away her ill feelings, the embarrassment that she had been having fun and it had been a kind of trick. Pride is a luxury best not assumed by orphans, no matter how kind the Mittermeyers had always been to her. “I need to know best how to guard Wolf, then. What would you do if you were in my position?”
Reuenthal flinches; she’s tugged on that odd thread between them, the way his eyes follow Mittermeyer, the way he had kissed her hand at their wedding as if he were making a pledge himself.
(Or trying to seduce the bride. That had been the unkind whispering.)
(Wolf has assured her that it’s not like that, and she believes him; he’s not any good at lying. Not to her.)
There’s no way for Reuenthal to retreat. He gets a thoughtful look. “What has Mittermeyer warned you of?”
She bites the inside of her cheek. “Well —“
“Nothing?” Reuenthal says.
“He said to stay by his side,” Eva says.
“Stay away from this snake pit, when you can. If you must socialize at events like these, do it with the women of your class, the wives of officers like Mittermeyer, not noblewomen,” Reuenthal says. “If noblewomen allow you into their circles, it’s to use as a plaything. Don’t let them learn anything real of you; don’t tell them anything of your husband at all.”
Eva dips her chin. It’s not surprising advice, but it’s good to hear it out loud.
“Keep clear of gambling and games —“
“Gambling? Why would I gamble?” Eva says. And what would she gamble? She can’t imagine what Wolf would say if she asked him for money to gamble, even if she has free reign over the household finances.
“— and fraternizing with those with reputations — no matter how amusing or harmless,” Reuenthal is saying.
“Do as I say,” Eva teases. “Not as I do.” She pushes a little, watching Reuenthal’s reaction closely. Trying to gauge the danger.
That only draws a laugh from Reuenthal. “As you say,” he says.
Eva worries at her lip for a moment, and decides to take a further risk, even if he has been a little cruel. “I would do anything,” she says. “Anything he asks of me and — anything he doesn’t ask of me, that is to his benefit. That’s what love is.”
For a long moment, she thinks Reuenthal isn’t going to say anything. Then, he says “Yes.”
“So if there is something I am doing that will cause him danger, you must tell me immediately,” she says.
He nods, stiffly.
“I hope we can continue to talk like this, Commodore. Despite your reputation.”
His strange eyes narrow, but the curl of his lips is not displeased. “I will always be at your disposal, Frau Mittermeyer.”
When the song ends, it takes the last of Reuenthal’s strange mood with it; he walks her back to Mittermeyer, and hands her off, to disappear into the crowd again.
“Unsociable man,” Mittermeyer says, bemused. “What were you talking about?” There’s a trace of apprehension in his voice.
“Oh,” Eva says, with a wave of her hand. “He was telling me about the court.”
Mittermeyer slips an arm over her shoulders. “I hope he wasn’t trying to scare you,” he says, with a frown at the place where Reuenthal had disappeared.
“He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, darling,” Eva says, which is not quite a lie. “He’s a strange man, isn’t he?”
“One of the strangest.” But there’s a weight to Mittermeyer’s gaze as he glances at her; it’s very important that she get along with Reuenthal, she thinks.
It’s not the worst challenge a husband could present her. She thinks they have a kind of understanding already.