Charming

30 April, 1892 — Ballet, London

Ozymandias was not a patron of the ballet, but he didn't have to be. Belonging to the level of society he did and counting other wealthy, influential men among his friends, there was hardly an attraction in magical England that he couldn't have gotten a sponsor's ticket to if he asked the right person. He was here tonight by invitation of someone he knew from the club as well as general society, who had raved about the latest ballet. Oz had been to ballets before, but tonight might have been the first time that he'd been to one sober, and he decided he preferred it to the opera. He didn't have the technical expertise to know what the dancers were doing up on the stage, but he could appreciate that it looked complicated to learn and was executed with precision. Overall, he'd enjoyed the show. He was enjoying the post-show considerably less. He'd never been invited backstage after a performance before, but his friend was one of the sponsors and enjoyed that particular privilege, along with half a dozen other men who had attended that evening.

For a brief moment Oz wondered at them all being men — surely at least one wealthy widow was a patron of the ballet? — but once he saw the way they interacted with the dancers he understood there was a reason for that. This wasn't about a love for ballet, or even about who had donated the most money — it was about sex. How tedious. Not that Ozy was opposed to flirting with attractive women by any stretch of the imagination, but he was opposed to having to watch other men do it clumsily, to women who were obviously only interested because they were obliged to be. Merlin, how long was this expected to go on? Did he have to stay for the entire thing? Maybe he ought to try and seduce one of the dancers himself, just to have an excuse to part from his host that much sooner. Oz could probably talk his way under someone's skirts faster than his friend, whose hands sweat when he was excited and who was already red in the face from the wine he'd been drinking during the show.

While he was considering his options, Ozymandias spotted a face he recognized from the show — the lead dancer. His stomach twisted. Her performance during the show had been so graceful — ethereal — and the scene she had walked into was so vulgar and common. It pained him to think one of these idiots might swoop in to harass her. It seemed so incongruous with everything that had come before. So, before any of the other gentlemen had taken notice, Oz cut through the crowd towards her. "I would have thought the star of the show might have a private dressing room to retire to."

---

"You should have seen me, Jack," Sophia declared, slipping off her ghostly veil and casting it aside on a velvet chaise to the corner. "I counted at least twenty rotations in act one's turn sequence. New British stages run much wider than the French ones, so I hardly need to worry about taking smaller steps." 

The brunette had slipped off her pointe shoes, and now firmly cracked every joint in her toes with practiced, musical finesse. Switching to flat slippers felt almost unnatural, but her ankles were desperate for it. "Oh, and you could hear a pin drop when I died," she continued, taking a seat to close her eyes and relive the moment in crystalline detail. These shows were taxing - no, all-consuming - and it often took her several hours to simmer down to reality from the post-performance afterglow. Her heart would be racing this way the rest of the night, but sharing her blow-by-blow analysis helped. "My goodness... not a soul moved, even after the curtains closed for intermission." 

The dancer's eyes slowly flickered open, gaze set on the man she spoke to. One who was not really a man at all, but the memory of one, gazing adoringly back at her from their wedding day. "Demetri makes a fine Albrecht, but darling, you really should have been here for our pas de deux," her voice barely came forward in its bitter whisper. Sophia had moved from her seat to take the picture frame on her vanity, and gently set it back into its velvet home in her top drawer. "You know how much I enjoy dancing with you until sunrise." 

Several minutes passed before Sophia ventured out into the melee of the foyer, emotion wrung out of her like a wet rag and a shawl wrapped around her costumed shoulders for warmth, looking bright as a bumblebee. Faking it or not, the woman usually enjoyed all the attention from balletomanes. It helped that she had a bit of privilege due to the prestige her name granted the dance company. Unlike most in her troupe, Sophia could dictate the type and amount of attention she wanted, lest anything harm the prima's delicate sensibilities (at least until she's done with this season).

Tonight Sophia reported more out duty, however. Given her extraordinary influence over many of the men sponsoring this charade, she offered safety for girls who may feel pressured to submit to some of these embarrassing advances otherwise. Like the sweaty red one gabbing like a pig to little Daphine. Goodness, money could feed and clothe, but it really couldn't hold a candle to the gorgeous French boys who could be at Daphine's doorstep within the hour.

One moment still smirking at the thought, the next Sophia's blood ran ice cold. The whiff of an indelible scent, cologne only a single soul had... Sophia nearly whipped her head towards its source, shock written clearly over her face. Only... it was a complete stranger greeting her there, very decidedly not Jacob. Of course. How could he be? Perhaps this performance depleted her more than she realized.

Discretely squeezing the cold from her hands, Sophia swiftly arranged her expression back to something like serene complacency. "Then you would have thought correctly," she put simply, lips curling with amusement. He had the boldness of an Italian man, she'll credit him that, but his hero complex was decidedly British.

"But I simply had to join the party! It is an honor to share my gratitude with patrons of the ballet. How did you enjoy our production of Sleeping Beauty?" A cheap trick indeed, though she couldn't even feign interest in those who just now arrived for pretty views. An effective way to know how quickly she ought to beckon one of the stagehands to personally escort this man on a tour of the back-alley rubbish bin.

---

---

Oz raised both eyebrows at her question, baffled for a moment by the reference to Sleeping Beauty. The plot of a ballet might not have been so easy to follow as that of a play, but he did think he'd have known had he seen an entirely different show. Didn't Sleeping Beauty involve an evil sorceress and some fairies? Then he put two and two together: she didn't think he'd actually watched the performance.

"If that was Sleeping Beauty, I'm afraid your costumer may soon be out of a job," he responded. His tone was light enough, but he wasn't sure what to think of her testing him in this way. Did people really skip the performance and then still show up backstage to gawk at the ballerinas? He found the idea exceptionally distasteful. He had already not been impressed with the behavior of some of the men around him, but at least they had the pretense of being patrons of the arts to fall back on to save their dignity. If they couldn't even manage a few hours to watch the performance and maintain the facade, they'd do better dragging themselves off to the nearest whore-house; it would certainly be cheaper than regular donations to the ballet. In any case, the fact that she had lumped him into that group bruised his ego. "And your choreographer, too. At no point during the performance could I have believed you were asleep."

---

Sophia didn't even try to disguise her delight over the confusion her little scheme caused. The stitch in his eyebrows showed that he was working through it, and she laughed heartily once he reached his conclusion. "Ah, I shall inform the company owner of your constructive criticism. We may need to fire the whole lot." 

Hand still over her mouth as her tittering subsided, the woman shook her head. "I am sure you understand, a dancer's time is her most precious resource, and I simply must protect it." That was Sophia-speak for an apology. "Though I am pleased to hear that you saw our revival of Giselle ou willis after all. This production is very near and dear to me."  

Few realized that dancers were a cunning and tight-knit bunch in general, and one of them - the one who played Hillaron - made a great show of pirouetting his arrival with a tray of cocktails so that he may eavesdrop. Soph waved him away once she and her mystery companion retrieved their drinks. Feigning a dagger to the heart, the dancer sashayed away to his next guests.

"Mm, but this is the first time I've seen you," she commented, taking a dainty sip from her glass. "And I usually take great pains to know all of our patrons. Is that my oversight, mister...?" 

---

Oz wondered if there was a clue to puzzle through in her statement that this show was near and dear to her, but he couldn't ask about it before they were interrupted by someone with drinks. That he was able to flit around like that without spilling any of them was rather impressive, but the dagger to the heart gesture seemed a touch melodramatic even for Ozymandias, who did not exactly have the reputation of being reserved. He took a sip of his drink and watched the man in tights twirl away, until the prima ballerina caught his attention with another question.

"Dempsey," he supplied. "And I'm not a patron — yet," he added, with a small smirk. He could have explained that he was backstage with a friend who was a donor, but that would involve calling attention to said friend. Given that Oz didn't know what he was up to at the moment (or with whom he was up to it), this seemed a risky move at best. She'd already assumed he had more in common with these grubby hands all around them than he would have liked; he didn't need to do anything to confirm the idea.

"Perhaps that's my oversight," he continued. There was no point in having money unless one intended to spend it, after all. How much did it cost to sponsor a ballet? Oz didn't control the purse strings in the house just yet, but his father had a dozen more frivolous hobbies, so he doubted anyone would object to his making a donation. "I confess tonight surpassed my expectations, based on prior experiences. Are all of your performances so stimulating, madam?"

---

The family name Dempsey didn't ring a bell, which was surprising given her frequent snoops into her sisters' calling cards. Though now that he divulged himself as a prospective supporter, Soph understood why the company owner kept glancing their way. She could see the beads of sweat on his brow from clear across the room. Perhaps this gentleman had some kind of reputation (or notoriety?), a notion tickled her curiosity. 

Of course, the company owner and Sophia wanted the same thing - to see their company grow and flourish as a cultural mecca in London, which could only be supported by ticket sales and patrons. But they wanted it for different reasons... And well, Sophia was the type who liked to play with her food when she was little.

Stimulating, was it? The brunette quirked a delicate eyebrow at the intimation, though her smile remained unperturbed. "Oh yes, Mister Dempsey. As with any professional, I take great lengths to consistently provide an immaculate performance for my audience."

Sophia took another small sip of her drink, and moved deftly to the left so that Mister Dempsey's back rotated towards the company owner, and her own slight frame became obscured from the owner's view. This was done mostly out of spite, rather than any kind of concern over what he may see. Really, when would that man learn that he could trust her?

"And I daresay, for a novice balletomane, you seem to have a strong intuition about the art," she resumed, eyes scanning him appreciatively. "You've perceived the pure physicality and eroticism at the very heart of ballet. For me, dance is about joy in the body, a celebration of the absolute limits one can reach... Something that can only be experienced first-hand, as words alone could never capture it. Would you like to see up close?" Before he could answer, she tapped her index finger on his lapel with a smirk. "Nothing perverse, only a silly party trick, I can perform it right here." She glanced around, already seeking her target.

---

Oz could not pretend his word choice had been accidental; as a not-quite-reformed rake flirting was the most natural way for him to converse with attractive women. Still, he was surprised that she'd taken the bait so readily. Pure physicality and eroticism certainly wasn't a phrase that was pulling any punches. He was anything but an innocent, but he also wasn't used to discussing things of this nature so openly. This was hardly the sort of conversation that one might have over the table at a dinner party or with one's partner on the dance floor at a ball. There were probably society women who would faint from shock before even making it through her second sentence, were they to overhear. Despite her openness on a normally taboo subject, however, she had managed to deftly avoid being crass. The way she described it was graceful, elegant — one might even say poetic. Oz wouldn't, but one might.

He hadn't been looking for anything or anyone tonight, but his interest was decidedly piqued.

"An experience 'words could never capture' is akin to blasphemy in my family," he joked lightly. "I was raised by poets. But how could I turn down a performance? And I must admit, you've intrigued me."

---

So he decided to take the bait.

Sophia's smile turned a touch conspirational, and she marveled at the reliability of a rakish man to enable her post-performance lark. Wedding band on his finger or not, they were all the same, weren't they?  So much so that she hadn't even waited to hear his affirmative response; she already glanced back to digest all the information needed to slowly move into position.

As long as Sophia could remember, she experienced this feeling after every performance: euphoria, numbness, and hours of heady energy to burn. That feeling addicted her to dance. Burning in place, though, proved to be more self-destructive as of late. Better to burn like a bright comet instead, at least out here, for all to enjoy (and maybe even reward).

"Goodness, raised by poets? That must have been very difficult for you," she furrowed her brow in playful concern. With a gesture to look down to their feet with her drink-free hand, Sophia indicated the beginning of her little parlor trick. "Very well, I hope to receive your review of my performance in iambic pentameter. Now are you watching closely?" The ballerina had gone up to the balls of her feet, and with practiced grace even in flat slippers, moved to the very tips of her toes. The effect was a single long line that surely looked like an ankle about to break. Taking many small and delicate steps in place, not unlike the flutter of a bird's wing, produced the on-stage effect of seemingly floating. 

"There are no magical props affixed to the dancers, of course," she explained, arms gracefully maneuvering about her like a swan. "Depending on the country, we're prohibited from even having our wands on stage. Not that we need to. A dancer's body is very finely tuned, their mettle measured by endurance, poise, and impeccable timing." 

So delicate was her next movement that many only noticed Sophia's gentle pitch forward once her left foot was already in flight behind her. Gently, her drink-free hand opened back towards the raised left foot, which continued its ascent until it was well overhead in a second position arabesque. Though how strange it might seem to her lone witness - not many around them seemed to notice. Why?

Perhaps her next move held a clue?  Keeping impressively still balance, evidenced by the drink in hand that hardly stirred, the woman turned out her floating foot. It drifted dangerously close to the back of a patron's head. A particularly strong wizard might sense the whisper of magical energy that drifted from her slender fingertips in that direction.

Tap. Her raised foot nudged the brim of the patron's hat, and tapped it a second time, finally a third, before the man's hat popped off his head altogether. Bizarrely, he and his companion continued their conversation undisturbed. The tophat, on the other hand, rolled smoothly from its perch down her ankle, before her fingers beckoned its rolling to continue into her hand. The woman deftly lowered her leg into a low curtsy, placing the tophat on her head. A smattering of applause and giggles emerged from around them, while most others simply glanced around, not quite sure what they missed.

"There you have it. Now you can say you've had a close encounter with a dancer," she laughed as she came back to a stand, adjusting the too-big hat to sit further back on her head. "I wonder how long until he notices?"

---

---

Ozymandias Dempsey was hooked. The conspiratorial smile. The carefree jibe about his upbringing. The tease of seeing her bend that way in close quarters. The flexibility and elegance evidenced in each of her movements. The way she took the hat off a man's head without his noticing could only have been magic. She didn't need to ask if he was watching closely; he was practically salivating over her. He didn't know whether he most wanted to interrogate her over how she'd pulled off her stunt or find an excuse to touch her, but he knew by now that he was almost certain to become a patron of the ballet. There were few prices he wouldn't pay to buy more time in her company. Forget the top hat and whatever magic she'd used to secure it; she had enchanted him.

I believe I would prefer a closer encounter than that, he thought, but kept himself from saying. It wouldn't do to appear too desperate. No one was attracted to desperate men, regardless of how they looked.

"It looks better on you," he said instead, which was a rather mild compliment given that the man she'd taken it from was pudgy and balding. "Do you intend to return it, or do you have a growing collection of top hats lined up in your dressing room like trophies?"

---

Soph didn’t need to wonder if she impressed, she already knew. It wasn’t cockiness, it was a formula, as definite as two plus two. Technique and whimsy. Intimate and opaque. Beauty and bite. This blueprint chartered more than half of the endowments their ballet company received this year, in some way or another. Sophia relished her salesmanship over a long sip from her drink.


This Mister Dempsey, though, did he deserve some credit after all? His remark drew a genuine laugh, both at the visual of hat-trophies, and because Sophia was certain she looked ridiculous as a ghostly willis in tophat. A well-placed compliment is a rake’s most underrated skill.



“Ah, so you’ve caught on to my scheme,” she parried back. “You’re right of course. I have no intention of returning this man’s hat. In fact, I’ve been missing one so broad and tall in my collection.” Indeed, Mister Dempsey was quite tall (Sophia shocked even herself for taking such notice). As for her target, unless someone pointed it out, it might take ten to fifteen minutes for him to notice his naked head.  About as long as I should linger here, she decided. It had nothing to do with the stupid hat.



“Now that I’ve thoroughly entertained you and divulged my secrets, I must confess that this conversation is beginning to feel one-sided," she joked. "What about you, Mister Dempsey? Any party tricks or secrets to confide?" Her eyebrow arched expectantly, her playful expression issued the challenge. Truth or dare? 

---

Oz smirked. "I doubt you've revealed all your secrets," he pointed out. She had divulged nothing at all, and certainly nothing she hadn't wanted him to know. Not that he'd expected any less; she had called it a performance, after all, not a confessional. (He wouldn't have minded knowing what spellwork had been at play just a minute ago, though; he'd keep that question in the back of his mind for some future conversation, where asking wouldn't give too much of the game away).

"I'm afraid I'm scant on party tricks," he admitted. "I'm an inventor. Most of my work is too slow and methodical to entertain anyone. I do occasionally make things spontaneously combust, but — I doubt your manager would appreciate that."

---

Sophia simply hummed into her drink, not denying his point, but making no effort to share more, either. Instead, she took this chance to subtly assess Demspey while he spoke. Where did this man come from? she wondered. Most dress to impress at the ballet, though a few eccentric stylistic choices certainly evoked son of not-starving artists. The hand that would bear a wedding band tucked in his pocket, was that on purpose? Though presently unaccompanied, it's doubtful he attended the ballet alone. Did he approach her on a whim after all, or did her reputation precede her? He was much more genteel than her average strange encounter - was it that he didn't know, or didn't care?

An urgent need to correct him broke her thoughts, however. Sophia's half-suppressed laugh cut into his sentence just as he finished. "Oh Mister Dempsey, I don't have a manager. I cannot be managed." Did the glitter of amusement in her eyes convey a hint of warning? Maybe. Of course, there's no way he would know the nature of her business partnership with the dance company owner, and she wouldn't fault him for it.

"Though you have a point, unexpected spontaneous combustions tend to be bad for business," the brunette smirked. She had taken a coy step closer to his right side, her move affording a quick glance around the room. Engaging conversation as it was, she couldn't skirt her duties for very much longer.

"I'm afraid that I should really make my rounds," Sophia began, allowing a suggestion of disappointment to seep into her voice. Moving a hair closer to speak more covertly, "Sadly, not all gentlemen here are as polite as you, and not all my dancers are in a position to refuse. I'm very protective of them, and so I should keep my eye on things." She lingered a fraction of a second longer than she should have, sensing something she could simply not place about this man, something that stood up hairs on the back of her neck. He... reminded her of something. Sophia's breath warmed his cheek as she tried to understand, but as quickly as the sensation came, it was gone. The woman stepped back, looking at Mister Dempsey rather curiously.  

"I won't presume that you have the time to linger," she offered thoughtfully, "Though I would welcome your company, if you'd like?" At best, perhaps he might let her in on who she ought to be worried about. At worst, they might depart, though she had the sneaking suspicion she might see him around again.

---

Her comments about her manager — or lack of one — made him smirk. That was as good as a challenge, from his perspective. Not in the literal sense; he couldn't care less about the politics of ballet behind the scenes. The edge that the words contained, however, intrigued and excited him. What man wouldn't have jumped at the prospect of taming something wild?

Ozy recognized her goodbye for what it was and was immediately dismayed. The touch of disappointment in her tone and the fact that she lingered just inside the edge of his personal space were little consolation if she was determined to leave him. This was all calculated, he imagined; this was not the first time she had teased someone for their money. He wasn't fooled into thinking she was actually sorry to say goodbye, or that she would miss his company once she left it. This was business; she was a performer.

Even knowing this, he nearly jumped at the chance to carry on with her when she made the offer. He wanted to accept. The last look that she'd given him seemed to deviate a little from her established persona; it seemed slightly more earnest than the polished hat trick. He wanted to believe that she was intrigued enough by him to offer him something she did not offer to every wealthy gentleman who found his way backstage. The fact that he wanted so badly to agree was all the more reason not to, however; he couldn't be sure that this wasn't part of her plans, and if he wanted to stand out from the crowd he needed to deviate from the behavior she expected of him.

"A worthy cause," he allowed. "And one I might be of more service to if I decline your offer. Perhaps I'll convince a handful of these gentlemen to follow me to the club for a game of cards."

They were more likely to be persuaded away from the ballerinas if he lured them to an opium den — which still brought with it the potential for sex — but that was too crass to say to someone like her, so the club could serve as a fitting euphemism in the meantime.

---

Was her suggestion the most generous or most devastating maneuver? Sophia wondered this as she watched Mister Dempsey mull over her proposal, hoping the wound wasn’t too grave. He had such an urbane manner of speaking before, did the cat catch his tongue?

“Hmmm,” she ruminated once he granted an answer, careful to wrap her surprise in a winsome smile. She tipped her head in an approving nod, a polite indication of her receptiveness to the idea as much as an acknowledgement of a game well-played. “And here you were, telling me you had no tricks of your own to share. You’ve been quite humble about your ability to influence others,” she playfully admonished, not one to waver on a smooth (if a bit cheeky) recovery.

Though her excuse had been rooted in truth, she’d hastened its timing because something felt decidedly different about their encounter. Not unlike the itch you get to open a mysterious door, unsure if you’ll find treasure or monster on the other side. Had this been ten years ago, perhaps Sophia would have given in. But now she knew herself, and how today’s impulses pave the way to regret, guilt, and heartache tomorrow… That temporary satisfaction of giving into temptation was not worth it. At least that’s what she reminded herself, when she felt an unexpected twist of disappointment in her stomach.

“You make a very generous offer, Mister Dempsey. This would afford the girls some much needed respite,” Sophia finally relented. “I hope it’s no trouble to you, and that you had planned to visit the club tonight anyway,” she added delicately, her clear blue eyes seeking his gaze for an earnest understanding. I’m not what you seek, they said. “…I  know how men love their cardgames.”

---

Oz could tell from her reaction that he'd played his cards right. She played it off well enough, but she was surprised. He still wasn't thrilled to be leaving, but it was some consolation that perhaps she would now be genuinely disappointed by it, or at least perplexed. Was her statement You’ve been quite humble about your ability to influence others a slight concession, or was it just banter? He imagined the former and was gratified that she had recognized and appreciated the gambit. This would be a complex dance, indeed, with both of them armed and aware of the game they were playing.

"We do love our card games," he echoed with a slight huff of amusement. "Provided we have the right partners. I hope to see you again, Madam Voss."

---