31st October, 1895 — Moonlit Cemetery Ball, Asphodel Cemetery
Florian usually enjoyed being assigned the photographer on society puff pieces, mostly because it meant standing around and doing a whole lot of nothing except people-watching (and possibly sneaking some fancy food from the passing trays of canapés). If he was exceptionally lucky, the people watching would be more than interesting, and yield some juice that was too sordid or specious for the Daily Prophet to care for, which meant he could quietly find another avenue for the gossip, for which he might be more handsomely compensated.
He didn’t have especially high hopes for stories tonight, though – the only grand mystery he had yet found to be intrigued by was who was behind this event, since no one had explicitly come forward as host or hostess. Probably most of the reason tonight would be a bust was his company – Miss Skeeter was the one reporting, which meant most of the night would be necessarily spent in her company whilst she attempted to order him about. And he certainly couldn’t be the reason she was always so put out, so he supposed her moods and pouting were just because it smarted more for her when she had to work an event like this – because while he never would have been invited to these things without his camera and Prophet accreditation, she might well have been if she were only better liked. He was kidding, kidding – or, well, he wouldn’t say so aloud unless he wanted a kicking.
For now he was merely perched comfortably beside her, sitting cross-legged on a raised rectangular slab of a tomb (– one of the older and less-loved ones, with faded lettering and worn stone –) that gave them a decent view of the open-air dancefloor. He was currently neglecting his camera, his attention more taken in for the time being by aimlessly following one particular couple in their polka steps, and also half-hoping one of the refreshment trays would float meanderingly far enough out towards them again. “So,” he said sidelong to Miss Skeeter, just as idly, “what’ll your verdict be? A success of an evening, or is it a tasteless tragedy?”
He didn’t have especially high hopes for stories tonight, though – the only grand mystery he had yet found to be intrigued by was who was behind this event, since no one had explicitly come forward as host or hostess. Probably most of the reason tonight would be a bust was his company – Miss Skeeter was the one reporting, which meant most of the night would be necessarily spent in her company whilst she attempted to order him about. And he certainly couldn’t be the reason she was always so put out, so he supposed her moods and pouting were just because it smarted more for her when she had to work an event like this – because while he never would have been invited to these things without his camera and Prophet accreditation, she might well have been if she were only better liked. He was kidding, kidding – or, well, he wouldn’t say so aloud unless he wanted a kicking.
For now he was merely perched comfortably beside her, sitting cross-legged on a raised rectangular slab of a tomb (– one of the older and less-loved ones, with faded lettering and worn stone –) that gave them a decent view of the open-air dancefloor. He was currently neglecting his camera, his attention more taken in for the time being by aimlessly following one particular couple in their polka steps, and also half-hoping one of the refreshment trays would float meanderingly far enough out towards them again. “So,” he said sidelong to Miss Skeeter, just as idly, “what’ll your verdict be? A success of an evening, or is it a tasteless tragedy?”