31st October, 1892 — Jekyll & Hyde Halloween Masque

Somewhere along the way tonight, Endymion had lost his hat. He was no stranger to losing things, particularly, and while ordinarily he might not have blinked, merely given it up for lost – tonight it was rather a part of his highwayman costume, and it was rather a pity to be without it. He still had the mask and neckerchief so only half his face was  really visible, and the cloak and the boots and the pistol at his side – a real model of the last century, though unloaded (...presumably; knowing for certain would have required actually checking, which Endymion had not) – but without the tricorne he felt it lacked a little important flair. (Of course, he hadn’t brought along a horse either, so perhaps he hadn’t committed quite enough to the bit to begin with?)

Masked balls were always something of a thrill, regardless; although while he liked the gothic airs as much as any Dempsey was obliged to, and while there was something fun in the mystery of whom everyone might be, it was a difficult setting in which to make any real progress on the wife-hunting front. (He couldn’t very well follow up on dances with anyone when he couldn’t pick out any of the debutantes he hadn’t ruled out as prospects in the room!)

Instead, he had been making jovial conversation with any number of strangers or friends, whoever they may be, using the classic stand and deliver! or your money or your life! lines on occasion for a little added entertainment. He had robbed no one of anything but an additional drink or two from the staff, at any rate, and was feeling pleasantly lightheaded by this point... and pleasingly optimistic about the prospect of finally falling in love as well, for some inexplicable reason.

Perhaps it was because he had just seen her – and at once felt that fated flutter of yearning in his chest. He didn’t know who she was, but he felt drawn to her at once, compelled across the room without a doubt in his mind that she could be utterly perfect for him.

Or maybe (– it dawned on him, as he made it over to her –) that was merely because she appeared to be holding his hat. A moment ago, he had wanted to make an exceptionally good impression in greeting her, just in case she really was the very person he had been waiting his whole life for. Instead, promptly distracted by the sight of the tricorne, Endymion smiled wide (never mind that his expression was only half visible) and only exclaimed: “I’ve been looking everywhere for that!”

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Open to a female character!

  

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It had been an excellent evening! She didn't think she had enjoyed an event so much all season! She had been careful in her selection of potions and was fairly sure that she had managed to get the 'good' potion. She had felt warm and affectionate all evening. It rather reminded her of the way children often felt on Christmas morning, or at least how she remembered feeling on Christmas. It was a nice feeling, that she and her friend had been buzzing on all evening. She and a few other healers from her intake at the hospital had all gone as nymphs, representing the various elements. Merida was water. She had thought forest much more like her, but then none of her friends knew she was an animagus so no one else made the association she did, but even she had to admit that the iridescent blues and purples for the costume suited her well. Her hair was down, and pinned back only loosely by small pearl pins which dotted her hair. Her features were obscured by a lace and pearl mask.

They had been taking air on the patio when they found the hat, someone had placed it on the head of a statue, and they had taken turns donning the tricorn and pretended to be rogues, laughing at each others imitations and general silliness. And as they had headed back inside Merida had been left holding the hat. At some point she had given up looking for the hats owner, and one of her friends had popped the hat onto her head, which had caused all of the giddy young women to dissolve into a wave of giggles as they crossed the threshold of the ballroom.

The group had split up, as various ladies were called up for dances or to go home she suddenly found herself alone, with the hat, when the masked gent declared ownership of the hat. For a reason she wasn't entirely aware of, she held the hat to chest, 'I've seen no proof of ownership' her tone wasn't entirely serious, but she also made no move to hand over the hat. Indeed she plopped the hat back ontop of her own vivid red curls.

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This dress but Victorian

  

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The hat – certainly his hat – might have drawn his gaze for a moment, but now that he was facing her close up, there was a great deal more by which to be captivated. The folds of her dress flowed like water, and the stones embedded in it brought out the colour of her eyes, the brilliant cool blue of aquamarine, which were equally framed by the lace mask and the contrast of her fiery hair. His eyes lingered on her hair, and not merely for its rich colour, but because she had it tumbling down around her shoulders – and a costume party was a rare occasion upon which a lady’s hair might be acceptably, modestly down, but even here it made her stand out wildly from the other guests.

She might have stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Waterhouse, or Millais, or... no, one of Rossetti’s, maybe: the La ghirlandata, or Sibylla Palmifera, or The Blessed Damozel; or a rather more demure Venus Verticordia, with the icy eyes of his Proserpine. Endymion’s imagination was swimming already. Yes, a model of Rossetti’s, some tragic medieval heroine, a free, unconventional spirit.

He had decided rather a lot about her before he remembered he didn’t, in fact, know anything about her at all. He forced himself to focus, whatever romantic fantasies the warm air of the party was stirring up tonight. Firstly: did he know her? Was she someone he ought to recognise, someone he had possibly spoken to before? Dymion wracked his brain. Redheads, redheads – his first thought was the Prewetts, but he didn’t know there were any ladies as young as her. Hadn’t one of the Malfoy girls suddenly had inexplicably red hair? Perhaps this was her. Oh, or Miss Blackwood! She was usually a vivacious figure at parties...

Or was that a Scottish lilt to her voice? Endymion wasn’t sure; but, whoever she was, she lifted his hat and settled it upon her own head, rendering him speechless for a moment. (What he had noticed as he followed the movement, however, was that she wore no ring. Certainly a debutante, then. That was an overwhelming relief, because otherwise he fancied he might have been regarding her a little too attentively.) 

He probably ought to do more than just look at her and wax poetic and muse about whether the rapture he was feeling was because of her or just the effects of whatever he’d been drinking all night. “Ah, but you see, I’m a thief and a rogue,” Endymion said, in the same mischievous tone, once he had gotten his breath back enough to speak. “Ownership is hardly my priority.” No, all he need concentrate on tonight was whatever it was he desired. Surely that was a rogue’s way.

That said, he refused to be anything other than a perfectly gallant thief, so he made no move to steal his hat back yet, either.

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He paused for a moment too long formulating his retort, but she laugh when he delivered his gentlemanly rogue speech. She didn't think he was familiar to her, certainly not in any way that was firing in her memory at this moment. Those who formed the upper echelons of society were in fact fairly limited and the chances of her never having seen him before was low, but she was sure that he would have remembered those dark curls and eyes if they had had any meaningful interactions.

'How daring of you Mister Turpin.' she responded with an expression of mock horror, naming him for the Highwayman. With no name to put to his face the Romantic anonymity of 'Mister Turpin was' exactly the last sprinkle of excitement that this ball needed. She had a tiring few days ahead of her with the full moon approaching, ostensibly she would be going home for a 'break' but the amount of work that tending to the medical needs to a house full of werewolves was anything but relaxing.

'So how exactly do you intend to assert your ownership' she smirked, her eyes narrowed playfully, in a clear and present challenge. 'Because you see I have the hat.' she unnecessarily indicated the tricorne atop her head, the indicator of her victory. Under other circumstances - read less public circumstances, she would have just taken off at a run with the hat, but even through the hazy frivolity of the potion, she was currently winning the battle between her desire and her self control.

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“Very daring indeed,” he professed in jest, since if he were a highwayman, it would have taken a certain amount of recklessness to abandon the gig of stopping coaches on the road and come into the party to brandish a pistol in people’s general directions. “I hope you will come to forgive my effrontery.” She didn’t seem to much mind the silliness anyway: he could only appreciate that she was playing along. Indeed, if he were pretending to be a nefarious stranger, he was not doing very well, because when she’d laughed he hadn’t been able to hide his smile. Really, if anyone was the rogue here, it wasn’t him at all.

His grin edged a little wider. Although she had called him Mister Turpin, the most only thing he felt he really had in common with those errant knights of the road was that he was, like many of them, a second son with a lesser inheritance. And if he had been one, he should have liked to eschew ruthlessness and model himself more after the fashionably-dressed Claude Du Vall. Thinking about Du Vall, for that matter, gave him an idea.

“You see, at this stage in the encounter, I really ought to say your money or your life,” Endymion said, conspiratorially, “but since it’s the hat I’m after, perhaps we might come to a fairer exchange this time.” He touched the brim of her – his – hat in light suggestion, as if he were possibly considering plucking it right off her head; but pulled that hand back and offered his other to her instead, palm up. “How about,” he continued cheerfully, “my hat or your next dance?” There, the choice was hers – though, admittedly, if she took the former as the lesser sentence, he might be truly disappointed to have his hat back after all. He would really rather keep her company.

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Merida was trying not to be too appraising in her examination of him, but the question of who her mystery highway man was was figuratively killing her and she found herself staring a little too intently into his eyes, searching for recognition, for the moment when something about those dark eyes would click and she would realise who the man behind the mask actually was, but those curls were incredibly distracting, they looked so soft and she had an almost overwhelming urge to run her hands through it, the heat in her stomach flushing her cheeks with a blush. She kept having to drag her eyes and attention back to the moment.

His suggestions made her smile, it pulled for a moment before she hid it behind her affected teasing expression of resignation. She held her hands to her sides, revealing her open palms, 'Well I have no money' she chirped, enjoying the interaction, the warmth of the potion in her stomach helping her engage in this game with her unidentified highway man, 'and I think I'm becoming rather attached to the hat.' she said ruefully, her full lips curving into a playful smile, a laugh tinkling in her throat as she cocked her head back to look up at him.

The petite red head took pains to ensure the hat was secure, before extending a hand towards him, the tendrils of wafting blue material trailing after her as she offered him the dance. 'So I suppose I must pay with a dance', her brow arched, 'A courante I assume?'

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She was surveying him in a similar way that he had been her, he felt, but Endymion still hadn’t come to any firm conclusions as to who she might be – and he was starting to wonder whether her identity mattered to him at all. Maybe he had been wrong about love, and how to fall in it: he had been so certain he needed to know a woman thoroughly, inside and out, know her well enough to ensure she possessed all the requisite qualities before he could actually feel anything for her. It was what he had tried to explain to Desiderius Morgan, a few months ago – that it felt all but impossible to find anyone flawless enough to fall in love with – but maybe that was the problem here, and maybe he’d just been unnecessarily impatient with it all?

Maybe the solution was just to forget all that, and simply not know anything about her at all. (And to drink more of whatever he’d been offered him at the entrance, because it had obviously had a good effect on him. He had never felt quite so light and happy and hopeful that everything he wanted was in reach.) Tonight he was a different man, he had resolved it. Tonight he was a believer in fate; a character in a fairytale; he was even at a masked ball, and – after all – this redhead had his hat. Somehow everything came back to the hat.

So there was no sense in thinking about anything: Endymion resolved to let himself go and merely trust in the mystery of it. He would only feel. Give himself up to her as if he was at her mercy, as if she might have all the power of Keats’ Belle Dame sans Merci. As he had the Veela in the garden –

Well, perhaps not quite like that – but a dance with her would be excitement enough, he was sure. Whatever else he was feeling, Endymion was entirely aware of the rush of feeling at her acceptance of the terms – and fortunately, for all their joking, she didn’t sound terribly put out about it, either. (Of course, there was no reason she should: he was a perfectly good dancer.) Still – “Yes, I suppose you must,” he agreed, with a delighted laugh at her clever little quip about the dance, taking her hand to escort her to a better space in the room. His head was, admittedly, too much in the clouds to even truly register what dance it was: but if feeling was king for the moment, it hardly mattered what the steps were, old-fashioned or modern. The steps and the music were all incidental, when keeping his gaze on her felt far more rewarding at this juncture. He could be in love with her, he imagined. He was sure he could.

“A wise choice,” he teased, as he waited for the music and placed his hands in better preparation. “The hat does rather suit you,” he admitted, in part sincerity and also as some excuse for the way his gaze kept returning to her as if riveted. “As does the blue,” Dymion offered, casting his eyes over her flowing costume. “Will you think it a terrible blunder if I ask who you are tonight?” Not who she was, at least; just what she was dressed as tonight.

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Tonight was not a night for certainty, not for questions, the entire evening was soft around the edges, where questions and answers had no meaning because one's mind furnished the information you needed without the need for words. She didn't know his name, they hadn't been introduced and yet it wasn't a concern. Nothing in her was screaming for the demands of propriety to know his name - The Highway Man was name enough. The band played and music filled the air, and she allowed herself to be moved like a ballerina in a music box, her actions automatic, careless, thoughtless and soft. The whole world pillowy and cloudlike, blurred at the edges like the memory of a dream.

Like any woman of rank, of riches, or of beauty, Merida, depended upon the world for her gratification and was sensible of her dependence on her brother, in the absence of her father. However, tonight her highwayman wasn't a man and she wasn't a woman - she was a nymph, an earthly analog for a transcendental vision, an Epipsychidion Lady Emilia or Blithdale Priscilla; fragile and enigmatic, reveling in her mystery. He was a force of physical nature, who rejected the ton and society was lesser as a result of this rejection. Surrounding herself in the namelessness that existed between them.

Merida shook her head, not in no, but in a wild movement, like a mare tossing it's main, an expression of physical abandon. Her wild hair and dress shimmering together with the movement. 'Do you not recognise Undine, the Naiad when you see her?' she teased, her tone of obviously mock affront, 'I've come tonight to steal the heart of a Knight to gain a soul, but all I've managed to steal is my fine new hat' Merida managed, her voice sounding dreamy and far away to her own ears.

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There was something dreamlike about her and about this dance that didn’t often hit him, not in the usual ballrooms. Maybe it wasn’t anything he’d imbibed at all, but purely her – the toss of her head made him almost believe in the tale she was telling. She did not feel like any other young lady – the young ladies of society did not often have this effect on him.

But an unearthly being, some tragic, wild water nymph? He could imagine that. He smiled, a little coyly, at her talk of stealing hearts and hats; but laughed and said, still light and merry and teasing, “I’m not the only thief here then, after all!” Undine might be all the identity he needed for the moment, but at the same time Endymion was perfectly aware she might slip away out of his grasp tonight and never be seen again. It would befit the character, of course – but if his hand held hers a little more closely for the moment it was simply because he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“But I could have guessed you were no ordinary mortal,” he added, a little less teasing and a little more meaningfully than before, as his gaze drifted up from the blues of her sleeves to her face again. She was far too vivid and ethereal and beautiful to be quite real.

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   Merida Greyback

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Merida laughed airly, a far away sound that she knew she had made but yet it seemed to be coming from beyond her. The depth and warm sincerity of his face was rather captivating. She spoke as though she was the mysterious magical one, but the highway man, with his dark brown eyes and roguish smile had Merida in a daze of her own. A feeling that went further than drunkeness, and yet not as far. Her head felt clear, but the hazy feeling that sometimes came with having over imbided lingered at the edges.


'Indeed, but don't tell anyone my mortal - lest they guard their hearts and I'm unsuccessful in my quest' she teased, finding herself most amusing. Merida cast her head in a faux hauty manner. 'And Im hoping you keep my secret as I suspect that you are no mere mortal either my thief' she mused, as the dance progressed. Merida had almost forgotten about the music, their turns and movements felt as much a part of their discussion. She responded to the grip of his hand with a squeeze of her own, the desperate intimacy of this moment overwhelming her. Without thinking she reached up to brush away one of those tempting curls from his eyes. 'I'll be kind my thief, I'll let you keep your soul tonight' Merida said, her tone a little breathier and empassioned than she had intended. 'If you let me keep mine?'

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Nothing she said served to break the spell – only heightened his feeling that all this must be a dream. For she had played along, was still teasing about being mortal or not and about stealing hearts, and when she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead he was almost convinced she could steal his heart, whatever she said.

He offered her a dreamy smile, his feet slowing with the music – as far as he could tell, with all his attention fixed on her. It might be too late for me, Endymion almost wanted to say: but now that was getting carried away. He must be very drunk indeed. She wasn’t really a naiad... but she was wearing a mask, was a stranger in society. “Of course,” he agreed in a murmur, eyes alight. “I’ll keep your secret, and you can keep your heart – and the hat, too. But,” Endymion added, in a sudden, not-quite-teasing plea, “won’t you give me something to remember you by?”

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   Merida Greyback

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Their lazy dancing, their focus on the conversation more than where they had ended up in their dancing had moved them close to a window, the pillers and floral arrangements offering them some measure of privacy, although the effects of the splendid potion on the other attendees made the pair in the corner, mostly obscured by the floral arrangments, of little interest to others.

Merida looked at him under her lashes, as though the questions was unexpected, when in reality she had wondered herself how she would know her highwayman if she was to meet him in ordinary society, even if she was sure those eyes would live in her dreams for nights to come. 'What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? Th'exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine? her teasing and faux affronted paraphrasing of the bard as she cocked her head to one side, her tumult of red curls shaking as she tossed her head. The warmth of her smile affirming that she was not actually upset, but delighted at his request.

She cocked her head to oneside thinking for a moment, and trying to to read his eyes and expectations. In a moment, that felt as thrilling as it did illicit - exactly the sort of thing a water nymph might do, she raised herself on her toes, placing a kiss, austensibly on his cheek, but nearer the corner of his mouth, almost chaste but not entirely so, the overlap of her lips with his, promising and teasing, even as they just missed.

In the same motion Merida also removed a diaphanous scarf that formed part of her costume and as she pulled away, she stepped close to him to tie it around his bicep, like a knight errant wearing his lady's favours. 'Will these gifts suffice?' she asked. Her voice low and breathy, standing still perhaps a hair closer to him than propriety really condoned, but all in the name of tying her favor to his arm.

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Between her tossing off a line of Shakespeare – her harking to the balcony scene and all the weight of that exchange was not lost on him, and he felt a peculiar flutter rising in his chest – and that unexpected, ethereal kiss and now her stepping close to tie a favour to his arm, Endymion was convinced that he must have made her up.

As waking delusions went, however, he felt startlingly lucid all of a sudden: he could almost breathe in the smell of her, something warm and sweet and earthy where he had expected the tang of salt air – he could feel her fingers tying a knot in the scarf that she had bound around his arm like a promise – the fall of her hair brushing past his arm as she did – the phantom feeling of her lips at the corner of his mouth. There was a strange temptation to lift a hand and touch that place, as if to prove some trace of it was his to keep.

And would her gifts suffice? “My bounty is as boundless as the sea,” he breathed, quite unable to resist quoting back at her, but beneath all the coyness and idle teasing that were quite suitable for a masked ball, Endymion felt the pulling tide of desperate sincerity. He didn’t know why there was such an idea of romance in the air or in his head tonight, didn’t know why everything seemed so easy, but he hated to think it wouldn’t last. Would it feel the same when he saw her again? He could ask her name now, to be sure he would see her again, but – he was afraid that would tear the illusion down around them, and he wanted, at least, to have the rest of the night to dwell in it. So – “I suppose they will have to, for tonight,” he agreed lightly – a little wistful – but in return, with a little burst of chivalry, took up her hand and pressed his lips, soft, to the back of it. “But I dearly hope that we might meet again, Undine.”

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She didn't want this evening to end, didn't want to put an end to the mystery and magic of their evening. This was every Romantic daydream she had ever had - from her dashing highwayman, the dance, the mask, even their 'almost kiss.'

And yet she knew that the evening was wearing on, and she wanted to hold onto the dream-like experience but she knew if she stayed it wouldn't last - that someone would come up who knew him, or her, and they would say the real name and the rules of society would take precedence and they would be forced to be formally introduced to each other.

No. She wanted to hold onto this for a little longer.

'I'm sure we will Highwayman' she partially whispered as he took her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips, following its path with her eyes - transfixed. She blinked, breaking the spell that his chivalrous behaviour had weaved over her. 'Parting is such sweet sorrow my Highway man.' she gave his hand a final squeeze as she slipped away from him, glancing back only once before she slipped through the door of the ballroom into the hall with the fluu. She stepped into the flames, glancing back at the door to the ballroom, before the whoosh of green flames took her and she was whisked back to The Reach.

What an evening. She flopped onto the bed, smiling broadly, a giddy, excited thrill in her stomach, a feeling that lasted long after her maid had brushed out and braided her hair and she was laying on her pillow, remembering clearly the warmth in those dark eyes.

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