Vince wasn’t convinced by Ms. Wixeldorf’s obvious dodging of the question, even if it did confirm his suspicions. Perhaps the reason the slap was roiling in his gut had something to do with his own relationship with his mother; they were close, to the point that Vincent was absolutely, unabashedly a mama’s boy. He’d never met his father, but he could only assume the worst of a man whose reputation had haunted his son for thirty years after his death. A man who, presumably, had killed his first wife and then gone to Azkaban for it. Someone like that struck Vincent as abusive, even if his mother refused to confirm it, and he counted himself lucky to have never come to it himself. Humans like that didn’t deserve children; or life, but that might be another matter entirely. Had they not been dancing, and his hands otherwise occupied, Vincent wondered if he’d have acted on the urge to stroke her slapped cheek. As it was, he only hummed noncommittally again in response.

The dance continued and Vincent eyed the crowd ogling them as subtly as he could manage. He spotted Maxime watching them amongst the masses. The look on the gentleman’s face was imperceptible but it gave Vince a thrill of satisfaction nonetheless. He grinned broadly for the other man’s benefit, even if it might have seemed like it was in response to something ingenuously witty the darling debutant had just said. “I am enjoying my moment,” he replied, pleasantly. “But I can focus upon it and upon you all in the same.”

The girl changed the subject anyhow and Vincent let her. He had no other particularly pressing questions of his own about her life. He was amused, in part, by her following question however. It was prying, and objectively rude considering she was of a station above him, but Vincent figured general etiquette had long since ceased to apply to them. He and Ms. Wixeldorf shared almost a new understanding; a confidence that could only be brought about by seeing one party naked in entirely un-sexual a manner. (Or as un-sexual a manner as could be had, considering.) Still, he took the compliment on his intelligence with stride.

“Why, I was invited of course,” Vincent replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “The invitation had your mothers name as well as your fathers, if I do so recall. She doesn’t make a habit of ejecting invited guests, does she?” He asked, feigning simplicity. Of course, Vincent knew that the invitation had come at the insistence of the father Wixeldorf, with his promises of future earnings, but the daughter needn’t know that.

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   Beryl Wixeldorf