August 10, 1893 — Florence, Italy
Seb Talbot was, frankly, exhausted. He hated traveling magically and given that his wand was such a pain in the ass, he’d opted to leave it (her, he’d decided, because all the women in his life seemed to hate him) behind. As a result, he’d been forced to take a portkey and the nausea of the experience still swirled in his stomach even though that had been some hours ago now. The place in which he was staying was a pretty little villa directly overlooking the Duomo in Florence. He’d always appreciated the culture and welcome easiness of the Italians, but Florence and the history here were really what spoke to him. Back home things were… heating, as the season ran full-throttle and his mother’s expectations breathed down his back. Taking to Florence on a whim had been about as responsible as leaving his sister, jilted, in the back of the church when he was supposed to be walking her down the aisle-- but they both got over that some time ago. This too would pass.
So as to not be wholly idle either, and perhaps in an effort to pursue his own interests in finding a more magically inclined bride, Sebastian had accepted an invitation to a masqued affaire for the evening. He would return home tomorrow, safe and sound and his mother would be none the wiser he was sure. But in the meantime, he tugged on the lapels of his prestinley pressed coat and frowned at his reflection. This mask was too tight around his head and made his ears jut out uncomfortably. How in the world was he supposed to attract any decent bride with such an unflattering first impression?
He resigned himself with a sigh. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late and that would make a worse first impression, especially on his hostess, a Mrs… Angelina Valenduris? That surname sounded familiar, even though he couldn’t place it. Deciding it didn’t matter, Seb grabbed his things and made for the city center.
Their venue for the evening was the resplendent Teatro Dela Pergola which had been privatized and magically converted into a ballroom. Where the orchestra ought to have been, there stretched a beautiful black and white checkered marble floor, adorned on all sides by musicians. In the various boxes and along different levels there were stations of food each specific to a region of Italy from which the main event, and its actors, were derived. And in the center of the stage, across the whole backdrop of the grand gala, was an ongoing performance. At this moment it was La Traviata with a delicate aria sung by the mezzo-soprano, that welcomed Sebastian into the room.
Tugging on the string of his black and gold mask, the viscount looked around for a drink or a familiar face. He greeted his hostess and the young lady beside her, a Ms. Sabine Valenduris who looked less than interested in him or anyone else at the moment, then made for a passing tray. This ball was a feast for the senses amidst the soft glow of candlelight, the rich aroma of fine wine, and the melodious strains of a renowned opera filling the air.
Gathering a glass and taking a sip, Seb decided he might as well try and find at least a few dance cards to jot his name on. That was why he was here after all. He scanned the crowd and there, amidst the kerfuffle, a particular figure caught his eye. The masked individual moved with a grace and elegance that felt eerily familiar, though Sebastian couldn’t quite place why. There was something about the way they carried themselves that tugged at his memory. He watched them from a distance, trying to shake the feeling of déjà vu.
Driven by curiosity, he decided to approach. The figure was standing by a golden column, their mask decorated with intricate patterns, and blue hues traced them trying to catch a glimpse of who might be behind there. "Excuse me," he interrupted, his voice carrying a touch of brazen curiosity. “Have we met?”