11 July, 1894 — Midsummer Masquerade, Dempsey Estate, Ireland

Don Juan was enjoying himself. This was the second sibling-hosted ball of the season, which was a treat — the Dempseys were not known for being at the center of society, but perhaps Oz's election had changed that. He liked this one better than the Minister's Ball, as the atmosphere was more his speed; more ethereal and transient, less stuffy. It also helped that he'd gone the entire night only wearing half a shirt. His mother had side-eyed the costume, but even she could not argue with the logic that Puck, as the principle mischief-maker of the fairies, was unlikely to care much about collars and shirt sleeves. The party had been going on some time — he had lost track of how long, just as he'd lost track of which drink this was in his hand — when he spotted a young woman with river reeds in her hair. The reference was obvious, of course. She seemed to have gone a step further with the costume and lightened her complexion (or at least he supposed her pallor was unnatural); not just Ophelia, but Ophelia several hours after the drowning, he guessed.

"It's poor form, you know," he said, tone mock chiding. "To wear the same costume as the hostess." Technically his mother was the hostess, and she was dressed as the fairy queen, but everyone knew it was Lottie's ball and she had come as Ophelia too. Probably it was unfair of him to expect every guest to know what Shallot's costume of choice would be before the party started, but he hadn't seen any other Ophelias here tonight (plenty of Juliets, though — didn't these ladies realize that was a tragedy, too?)

"I thought there was some sort of underground network where you all coordinated these sorts of things," he said with a shrug.

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