5 August, 1895 — Moonlight Ball, Mulciber House

"My sister?" Don Juan said, casting a glance over his shoulder as though he didn't already know exactly which one they meant. Once upon a time Don Juan's name would have been the one flitting around the ballroom attached to a dozen lurid speculations that had little to no basis in reality. It was a comfortable place to be, protected from any real consequence by virtue of the fact that everyone was already talking. Nowadays the only rumors people spread about him were that he was an alcoholic, an addict, or a shit excuse for a father, all of which were too true and too depressing to have the same effect. He didn't expect this werewolf fanaticism would last too much longer, but while it did he was happy to ride Porphyria's coattails. It was refreshing to be on the spotlight (even peripherally) for something he didn't have to care about.

"Oh, Phyri," he said. He grimaced and then took a quick sip of his wine, pretending the expression had been unintentional and he was trying to cover it up. "Home tonight. She gets — well, you know how women get at a certain time of month," he continued with an shrug. "Best for us all that she missed it "

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