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?”

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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Up until this point, Irene’s nicest dress had been made of the softest linen, with delicate embroidery sewn along the hem and sleeves. It had been a day dress, but a nice dress nonetheless, and extremely well suited for the fanciest occasions that she had needed to attend. Up until now.

The evening had started fairly regularly, with Irene getting ready for tea and making sure Bear had been fed. She had just stored away the last of her sketches for the day when she heard her name being cried in distress from downstairs. And once Irene had hurried down to meet her cousin, Cecilia had lamented that she had just lost her companion for the benefit she was attending that night. Thinking it was going to be something casual, Irene had readily offered her presence since it seemed to really be something that her cousin had looked forward to.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Which was how she ended up in a spectacular gossamer dress that absolutely dripped with gold. And of course, it was a masquerade, so she had been given a gold lace mask whose appearance resembled that of a fox, with golden ears and a spiraling lattice design down the center of the nose. Once she’d brought it up to her face, the mask had magically stayed on and was quite comfortable. The entire ensemble was actually more comfortable than Irene had thought it would be. Though she much preferred her day-to-day corset, the one she had been laced into was certainly more structured; rigid, but not terribly so. And looking in the mirror, she was able to move quite fluidly, and the dress seemed to follow her movements as if it was made out of water.

It was easily the most extravagant outfit she’d ever worn, and Irene had more than once asked cousin Cecilia if she would be overdressed (her cousin, for her part, was dressed in a lovely silver gown that rippled behind her like a fish’s scales on a tail, and wore a matching silver mask to complete it). Every single time she’d asked, Cecilia had responded with an airy ‘Oh my dear, no not at all. These Italian debutantes and socialites are not afraid of glitz and glamor, and neither should you!’ (It wasn’t that Irene was afraid of it, she’d just never had the money to afford something like this.) Sure enough, when they entered the ballroom, Irene’s appearance might have been reduced to a casual day dress after all. The women around her were beautiful, made even more so by the extravagance of their ensembles. Feathers, jewels, all amounted to a great deal more than she’d just inherited over the summer, it was almost laughable. Having been thus mollified, Irene was content to enjoy her night by Cecilia’s side. It was all quite routine despite the setting; quite a lot of how-do-you-do’s, chatting about her work, and she had even been asked to dance by the nephew of one of the benefactors. She’d suspected it was out of obligation than anything, but was still grateful for having been asked. Plus, she had to admit the man had been a marvelous lead (not that she’d know much about that sort of thing).

After the dance was when Irene finally felt she had to catch her breath, and she made her way over to a refreshment table to grab a glass of elderflower punch before depositing herself at a nearby pillar; it might as well have been a work of art in itself, for how beautiful she found the lines to be. It was while she was admiring the sculpture work that Irene felt someone’s eyes on her and she turned to see a man in front of her. Overcome by the excitement and glamor of it all, she grinned and shrugged (a most unladylike thing to do, she’d been told) merrily. “I don’t believe so,” She responded breezily. “I’m hardly a regular in these types of settings, and I’m not from around here.”

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   Sebastian Talbot

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For all the glitz and glamor that surrounded them, Sebastian couldn’t help but note how particularly elegant this woman was, the very one that had so oddly captured his attention. She was attired impeccably, her entire costume that of a fox and he noted this detail with no small amount of glee. (At last, someone who could appreciate the finer aspects of so beautiful a creature!) It always astounded him how the wizarding world worked, even after nearly twenty-years a part of it himself. Gowns were enchanted left and right to glimmer, shimmer, and slide in ways that mimicked water itself or even fire. He felt a bit of a pauper himself by contrast and tugged absently at the corner of his own mask again.

Black and gold had seemed a simple enough theme, masculine— lazy. Having only just decided to attend and keeping it from his mother altogether, Sebastian hadn’t had the help or time he might have if he’d been more forthcoming. As a result, he was attired simply in a black suit with gold cuffs and a bronze waistcoat, and if there was any proper ‘theme’ about him it might have been harlequin at best. His mask only covered half his face and his cravat had small diamonds subtly hewn into its folds, but at least he’d tried. (Which was more than could be said of some men at these types of things.)

Inclining his head at the pretty debutant and grinning at her nonchalant little shrug, Sebastian chuckled. He couldn’t help the way his gaze trialed over her shoulder as it gently moved up and back down again. “You could have fooled me,” he responded, breezily. She looked like she belonged at just this sort of thing. Her accent too, was a welcome surprise. Familiar. “English then, I presume?” He asked, flashing her a winning smile and hoping it was something she’d feel similarly they had in common. It had been silly of him to approach her not speaking Italian, a gamble he’d taken without even realizing it, but for whatever reason his instinct had paid off. “The Italians sure can put us to shame when they want to,” he continued, lifting his glass of champagne to take a sip. “I can’t even remember the last time I attended something of this magnitude back home.”

It was a silly comment, gone and out before he could catch it. He hoped she wouldn’t take offense to being compared to their Italian hostess in such a way. Was her - evidently English, he presumed - family the type to throw equally lavish affairs? Sebastian didn’t know but something about the woman was setting him out of sorts. He felt the need to fill their silence until he could put his finger on what it was about her, or how they might know one another. Clearing his throat a bit in hopes of recovery, he shifted. “Forgive me— Sebastian Talbot, Viscount Cheltenham,” he introduced, giving her a small tip at the waist.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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   Irene Crawley

Her brows shot up at his response. A somewhat flirtatious one if she wasn’t mistaken, however it wasn’t like she had any luck where that was concerned. So she merely let out a soft huff of a laugh and listened as he continued. It occurred to her only when he commented on her English accent that she must have at least looked English because he hadn’t approached her and spoken in Italian. Even if he had, her response would have been extremely limited (and probably butchered); she should have been grateful for that. And she was for a while, preparing herself to try and converse with this handsome man in front of her. She had been about to ask what home was for him — to make conversation on the off-chance that they might have run into each other; after all, most magic folk in Britain went to Hogwarts — when he gave his name and she almost dropped her glass.

But practiced as she was at keeping her emotions well under wraps, Irene could only freeze in shock as the name hit her with the force of a train. Sebastian Talbot. It had been so long since she’d heard that name. It was from a lifetime ago; a few heartbreaks ago. Of course the powers that be would have sought to plant her in this exact place. Run away to Italy to escape her recent past? Tuh! They’d just send her the actual ghosts of her past in order to keep her under torment.

“Lord Talbot,” She heard herself say; only faintly, because there was a faint buzzing in her ears. How could she get herself out of this? Suddenly her corset was too tight, and she could barely breathe. “My, my.” Bash and Colin. They were practically attached at the hip at times. But then, after the wedding - or, the wedding that wasn’t - she hadn’t seen him ever again. The dynamics of their friendship had always puzzled her, but it had never been within her station to ask how Lord Talbot had managed being best friends with Colin at the same time. And now? Her mind was reeling.

“Well then, Lord Talbot, are you going to ask me to dance?” She did her best to beam at him from under her mask. Her hand gripped the stem of her glass to keep herself from shaking. Thank god her wits hadn’t totally left her. The music struck up in the background; a boon if she ever saw one, hoping that a dance might buy her some time to think about what she was going to do. And how she was going to escape.

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Sebastian was not inane enough not to recognize the way the lady reacted the moment she heard his name. So he’d been right. There was some connection between them, some connection he wasn’t privy to and now felt at a disadvantage in spite of. What was it about her lithe little frame that had drawn him in? He could hardly have recognized anyone from so far across the ballroom, much less someone whose face he couldn’t see. And there weren’t many women that made much of an impression in his life, as far as picking them out of a lineup went. She had to be special, she had to be different, she had to be—

He shook free any rouge speculations and made to narrow his gaze as the woman’s hand seemed to tremble a bit around her glass. All sign of spunk and ease had gone over one of the many golden balconies. Should he be worried, or… offended? Offended felt like the right response. Deigning not to make so harsh a judgment without further proof of identity however, Seb dismissed his reservations and let a smooth smile settle over his features. “Would you like me to?” He parried back, the hint of a tease lilting his quiet tone.

Even as he posed the question, Seb reached out a hand to the lady and gestured towards the dance floor. He was pleased in as much as she had cleared her dance card for him at the very least; a lady like this was bound to have a full set of suitors at her beck and call and he had taken precedence over them. It bought him at minimum that much more time to try and diagnose her identity. And then, subsequently, determine how he felt about her altogether. He inclined his head as if urging her to accept his hand. “This aria is particularly lovely for a waltz.”

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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She could see her acting wasn’t working on him. He’d always been a shrewd study when it came to interpersonal aspects. And her nerves had her faltering in her performance, which saw her press her lips together as she waited for his response. It came, but she could tell that he knew there was more to this interaction than surface level, and it made her regret asking him to dance. Even his response felt as if it held a bit of an edge to it; a dare, almost.

So when he held out his hand, gesturing to the dance floor, Irene knew she had no choice but to take it. For one, she’d started this; and second, to snub him in public (even if this was mixed magical society and his title mattered very little here) would not look kindly upon Cecilia. “Then I suppose we should take advantage of the situation and enjoy it.” She volleyed, doing everything she could to encourage the part of her that had been swiftly blown away once his name had been made apparent. “I do love a waltz.”

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It was going to be a game of cat and mouse, he figured, getting this pretty debutant to give up her identity. He could already sense it from the way she held her own, though evidently shaken by his presence. (Offended was definitely the right emotion, he bristled internally. He’d never done anything to anyone for them to react so harshly, surely!) The music moved them to the dance floor and he wrapped his hand gently around her gloved fingers, leading them to a halt. Then, settling delicately upon her - not so heavily as to make her feel trapped should she wish to bolt, but not so lightly as to be unable to lead - Sebastian sucked in a short breath.

The music began, and so did they.

Across the stage La Traviata had devolved into Faust and Sebastian idly wondered how romantic this could really be to all the scouting society mamas out there. He could spot a few of them from his place on the dance floor, their eyes flashing behind their masks. He let out a soft chuckle and inclined his head towards one particularly put-upon woman - their hostess, actually - and her daughter. “Do you see that?” He asked, eyes darting in their direction so as to not be so obvious. “I pity the poor girl. With hair like that and a mother so hellbent on marrying her off, what must it be like to be a debutant in the spotlight?” Redheads were never his taste and this one, Ms. Sabine Valenduris if he remembered correctly, was certainly not one to be pushed about. She shot back some heated comment towards her mother before whisking on her heel in the direction of a tall blonde— ah. Wait. Valenduris. He recognized Cassian, if vaguely. Anyway, that one certainly seemed like a handful.

Blue eyes tipped back towards his companion and Sebastian wondered if she would reveal anything about herself in response to the exchange. Was she acquainted with their hosts? If so, she was likely a pureblood of some degree— though he couldn’t remember if the Valendurises were particularly purist. Was she herself a debutant under all this glitz? Or actually a married lady, someone he’d perhaps snubbed before, who was now not interested in reminiscing about her own solitary days hunting amidst the crowd. He gave her a slight turn and waited expectantly for the first chess pieces to fall. One way or another, he would know who was under that mask. The game was on.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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Her heart still beat heavy in her chest at the discovery, but as the music dipped in rhythmic waves, she felt herself lulled into a familiar memory. It slowly started to soothe her; and this was why she had suggested a dance. The thing Irene loved about waltzes were the simplicity of it all; and yet it was hardly an easy dance, and it required the both of them to make it look absolutely seamless. Her father, for one, used to take her mother by the waist and waltz them around the kitchen table while Irene sat coloring and giggling. It was said that the mark of a truly talented pairing was that of a lit candle. It would be placed in their connected hands, and any couple to end the waltz with their candle still lit was worth their mettle. Of course, Ambrose Crawley said that was absurd as he chaotically led his wife around, knocking into bookshelves and chairs while a little Irene laughed hysterically and nearly fell out of her own chair.

This, however, was quite different and falling out of her chair was not an option this time around. Irene did her best to keep up with Lord Talbot; but she couldn’t help the memory from resurfacing, so she bit her lip to keep from laughing (lest Lord Talbot think she was laughing at him). He was speaking now anyways, and she (as subtly as she could) looked towards who he was talking about. It put a sour taste in her mouth though; why must he comment on the girl’s hair, when Irene thought that this girl’s beauty quite outmatched her own. Irene knew that while she could never be considered a great English beauty, she was not horrible looking; however it still stung knowing just how different she and Daffodil Potts were that she could never somehow measure up to the young florists’ delicate and pale features. “I think her hair to be quite a beautiful shade, actually,” she replied with some hardness in her tone, though was distracted by trying to keep her position in his arms loose, yet not floppy. It was harder than it looked, but just as her previous partner was, Lord Talbot was a marvelous lead, and she hardly had to think when it came to stepping somewhere she oughtn’t.

“But I have to agree, being in the spotlight seems like an awful experience.” Mentally, she thought to Sophia - she never knew how her friend did it; survived in the spotlight, even thrived in it, when it came to her talents. And then, she thought back to her own ill-fated wedding. All eyes had been on her there. Shock, then pity (and some even looked momentarily gleeful at the delicious gossip there was to be had after it was all said and done). Her own brown eyes cast about the room, praying that there were not too many searching looks cast their way.

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Seb did not miss the way the lady bit her lower lip and his blue gaze zero’d in on it, momentarily distracted. He tried to trace the action through countless memories, hoping it might stir something— anything— but it did not. All he could say was that she was pretty, from what he could see of her at least, and that didn’t help him at all. (Because of course she would be, if he had anything to do with it.) He resisted the urge to comment or ask, or even make assumptions as to why she felt inclined to do such a thing here and now, and instead turned his attention to the Valenduris women.

His companion was graceful in her subtlety, he could note that much. She did not whip her head around, merely casting a cursory glance to take in what it was he’d indicated. So upperclass was certainly looking more promising and that was a helpful enough detail. It ruled out the one person that had been niggling at him, somewhere down near the base of his spine. (Besides, it’s not like she could have managed an event like this; Irene had always been a bit of a bull, or maybe that was just how Sebastian wanted to remember her…) Pursing his lips he inclined his head noncommittally at the woman’s response. “I don’t,” he clipped petulantly. “Red is such a garish, attention drawing color and blonde much too common.” The woman’s tone did nothing to dissuade him either. Perhaps she had a sister with unseemly hair; he wasn’t pressed.

The music continued to turn them about the marble floor and Sebastian wondered if his prying questions would get them anywhere. He supposed he could ask her outright, or find a delicate way to tug her mask off and see if he recognized her, but he didn’t want to be such a brute. He had something of a reputation to uphold, even if he wasn’t doing the best job of it. Her response caught him off guard then and some ground seemed won, momentarily. “Seems like an awful experience?” He echoed. Had she not been through it herself? Or was it so long ago now she didn’t quite remember? “With an aura as magnificent as yours, I can’t imagine you ever being out of it,” he chirped. The spotlight, of course. He grinned teasingly at her, as if sharing some private joke. “Is your husband terribly jealous then?” Jealous enough not to let her out and about too often? She seemed perfectly comfortable ‘in these types of settings’ so it had to be a situation of lost opportunity. “I know I would be.”

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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Red. Blonde. There was really only brown, black and white that left when it came to color of hair that Lord Talbot clearly favored. Even so, Irene wasn’t sure how to respond; disparaging the woman’s appearance went not only against what she was comfortable with, but what she was schooled to do: find beauty wherever she could. Even the ugliest things had some beauty to them, and it was her job to bring it out as an artist (or something romantic sounding like that, though for the past few months Irene wasn’t sure how much of a romantic she was anymore). With a sigh, she prepared to answer back in defense of the redheaded woman, but she didn’t get very far because he questioned her further. Of course, that was where she had inevitably slipped up.

‘Seems’.

Again, she could see the thoughts whirling through his mind, despite the majority of his face being covered. The aristocratic tilt of his head as he peered down at her with amusement was familiar all the same. And she pressed her lips together again at his question, her hand gripping his as she fought to keep herself focused. But dancing and thinking quite literally on her toes, was not easy to do. She swallowed, eyes averting to the seams of his lapels as she contemplated her answer. ‘Is your husband terribly jealous then?’

No, Colin had never been a jealous man, and nor was Elias. But neither of those men had wanted her; so how could she ever claim to have a husband when the wounds still ran fresh and Lord Talbot was pouring saltwater into them? “I’ve never been married.” She responded quietly. The pain of the combined memories seeped into her conscious with no small amount of force. “I likely never will be.” It hadn’t occurred to her until then that this was a choice she needed to actively make if she was going to ever avoid this dark feeling ever again.

She wasn't playing along now, not like she usually would. The conversation had been steered in the exact direction she had feared, and she was ready to be done with it, and him.

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   Sebastian Talbot

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Her exasperation with his probing about the Valenduris girl was endlessly amusing. Sebastian did have a certain preference towards brunettes, and he did believe red was a terribly garish, obnoxious hair color and that blonde was too common but normally he wouldn’t have been spurred to say as much if he wasn’t fishing for information. And though he gleaned very little from his attempt, at least he found that whoever this woman was, he must have teased her relentlessly in the past. She was just so easy to provoke! Perhaps they could narrow the scope down to: upperclass women, easily agitated, variably attractive. Hm. Come to think of it, that narrowed things very little.

As they delved into more fruitful waters, Seb felt the lady’s hand tighten around his own. It was here that he seemed to have caught her, what with his talk of husbands and the like. Curiosity yielded to intrigue as they stepped elegantly through the motions of their waltz. Here was the mouse, pivoting towards its corner. Sebastian flashed her a genuinely surprised look at the admission that she’d never married yet. However telling it was, he couldn’t help but fathom why not. As for that bit about never being likely to, well… He flashed her a wicked grin.

“Why not marry me then?” He asked, outright. It was a ridiculous, thoughtless quip— one he knew she would deny. Could feel it like the very bones that made up his being. But her answer, as they danced towards the centre and he stalked her into a corner, would lead him to the very opening he needed.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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Irene had caught him off guard with her answer, she could see that; but that would likely go away once he figured out who she was. Or perhaps she could figure out a way to escape this night without being identified by him. That would certainly solve the predicament. Irene tried to immerse herself back into the dance but her motivation was quickly dashed by a wolfish glint in his eye and his proposition.

Irene stared at him in shock, her mouth slightly agape as she processed what he’d just said. Had he realized he’d just proposed to a complete stranger? How reckless could he be? What if she was just a good actress and had truly been a debutante looking to trick a husband into marrying her? She almost jerked backwards out of his arms. “Is this something you ask all women who you dance with?” She heard herself say; outraged and gobsmacked instead of a flirtatious tone she might have adopted.

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Sebastian could see even behind the woman’s mask the way her face contorted unhappily. He couldn’t tell if she was angry, surprised, or both but the way her steps seemed to falter only solidified the wolffish grin on his face. He did recognize that marriage, especially to one such as he with feet in two worlds, was not a light, joking matter. He recognized it, and blazed past the reality of it with flying colors. There were few lines the former Slytherin wouldn’t cross to get what he wanted, little manipulations he would later excuse as silly white lies. In this instance, he waited with eager anticipation for the lady in his arms to react and when she did, he laughed.

“No,” Seb heard himself chirp. “Just you, little fox.” Angry and surprised then, he noted by the tone in her voice. “Won’t you have me?” He continued, pressing. “You can’t say you’d never be likely to marry if the reason for it remains that no man has ever been bold enough to ask. I will be bold. I will give you everything you’ve ever needed, the space and connections, to do exactly as you like.”

The niggling suspicion that he was nearing his charge settled itself somewhere between his vertebrae. It was uncomfortable and awkward, even as Seb continued to flaunt his shamelessness and flirt as if he meant it. The question remained as to who this woman was and the pieces were disparate, floating along all sides of the map and refusing to come together. She was just there, out of his reach, the memory tickling something he hadn’t touched in a long time. He couldn’t help but lean into the familiarity of teasing, hoping to pressure her into another slip. He was so close now— he was almost sure of it.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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He might have been looked down upon in the magical community sometimes, but amongst muggle society — amongst commoners — Sebastian Talbot was used to getting what he wanted. Irene wanted to laugh at the irony. The one man in the world whose attentions she didn’t want and he kept pressing. She could feel the color rise in her cheeks under his inquisitive stare. She wished he wouldn’t do that, because he seemed to be probing for something, and she didn’t like being under his scrutiny. It made her want to squirm. But she still couldn’t go anywhere, as the dance hadn’t finished. It was useless to try to remain in control either; Lord Talbot was quite literally the one who was steering.

Little Fox. Irene visibly frowned. She hated when people called her nicknames. But she couldn’t protest, because she had never given him another option.

And then suddenly the room was spinning, not because they were twirling around on the dance floor, but because the last time someone had tried to control her, it ended with her blood being drank. So Irene started to fight it, but it didn't feel good. Her stomach roiled. “You’re wrong there, Lord Talbot,” She pushed back. “I only said I had never been married. I never said no one had ever asked me.” And that should have been quite the end of that subject. “As for what I need...” She could hear the beginning of the end of the song in the background.

But somehow she got thrown back into the past, pleading with Elias.

I want to be loved, I want to be the first thought in someone’s mind the minute he wakes up and I want to feel his arms wrapped so tightly around me that I feel I might burst. I want to feel excited for tomorrow. I want to feel safe and wanted and I want to be someone’s priority. I want to feel as safe as when we stood here after Mr. Hunt’s death, and I am holding on for dear life but my God, Elias, I need you to give me something to hold onto.

And now she couldn't keep her voice from shaking. “You have absolutely no idea what I need.”

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   Rosalie Hunniford, Sebastian Talbot

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Lord Talbot. Something in the petulant way she said his name rung a chord in the back of Seb’s mind. There was only one person who’d ever had the gumption to address him so openly in a repeated fashion, unable or unwilling to hide her true sentiments when it came to his poking and prodding. But that was ridiculous. He’d already dismissed the notion that she could possibly be here. Especially not here in Italy, of all places. But the thought still niggled however much Sebastian tried to displace it. The pieces were starting to fall together, somewhat. The failed engagement was key, but anyone really could have a failed engagement. Perhaps he was just hearing what he wanted to? (Though why he’d want to hear from Irene Crawley he had no fathomable explanation.)

The song was beginning to slowly meander towards its end and Sebastian could feel his time running out. If he didn’t unmask this rouge stranger soon, he’d never be able to shake the feeling of familiarity and it would bother him, endlessly. He had to know, once and for all, who this woman was. What this stranger that so tried to evade him could possibly be hiding. (Because she was evading him, he thought petulantly. If she wasn’t, then obviously she’d have given a proper introduction herself a long time ago.)

He’d just opened his mouth to respond when suddenly her voice shook and emotion seemed to catch the woman by the shoulders. Sebastian blinked heavy blue irises at her and realization finally dawned. You have no idea what I need!

It had been a rainy, humid afternoon. Colin had stepped away to have a word with the housekeeper, a gentle, ancient woman (by muggle standards) who’d always snuck them snacks when they were boys. She was retiring and so Sebastian had invited both Colin and his fiancé to the estate to say goodbye. Irene was lingering by the window looking put out about something as he’d approached.

“Infuriated with the rain or just irritated to be left alone with me?” Sebastian chirped, lacing his fingers behind his back as a maid shuffled about quietly in the corner. He wasn’t a complete rake; he’d made sure to instruct the staff that Irene was to be consistently accompanied like any lady ought to be, despite the grumbling he knew would result. (She’s the same class as us, not a lady. Why should we be bothered?!)

She in turn commented something about his confidence in himself stretching to unrealistic lengths in assuming her mood had anything to do with him which tipped Sebastian’s head and provoked the usual teasing. She had always been so easy to insight to anger; it was like an endlessly amusing toy. They volleyed back and forth and in the end, it was with aplomb that she’d cried out.

“You, Lord Talbot, have no idea what I need! I would thank you not to pry any further!” And then she stormed out of the room.

The same statement rung in the back of his mind now, twin voices merging together. But it couldn’t possibly be her. There was no fathomable chance in hell—

The music slowed and rounded out. Feet came to a halt and where he ought to have released her and bent at the waist to go his own way, Sebastian could only stare blankly. One hand dropped from the small of the lady’s back and the other lingered, holding her delicate hand in his. Then, wordlessly and without warning, he reached up and tugged her mask brusquely off her face.

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Irene Crawley & muse song

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   Irene Crawley, Rosalie Hunniford

She saw it in his eyes when it happened and felt the shift in his reaction. It looked like horror mixed with triumph (though that could just be her misreading his expression behind the mask). Recognition hit him, slow at first and then definitive. In a way she was almost grateful, for not having to carry on this ruse any longer, seeing as she didn’t think she was very good at it. It was a pity, because Irene genuinely loved to waltz and this dance had made a lasting impression on her, but not for the reasons she had hoped. When the evening had begun, Irene had started to feel as close to her normal self as she had been in a long time. But with this encounter, she felt herself shrinking back once more.

She might have retreated even further had it not been for the infuriating Lord and his nagging persistence. Irene had never thought herself an easily angered person - she wanted to be able to find joy where she could - but Bash Talbot had a way about him where he could dig under the surface and poke her exactly where she didn’t want to be poked.

So now that she was almost sure that she’d been found out, Irene wanted to leave. She wanted to find her cousin and leave. But of course it wasn’t so simple. They stopped dancing, and she tried to step backwards to tug out of his grasp. Instead he held fast, only dropping his hand around her waist and never releasing her hand. Because of course he wasn’t done.

For one absolutely insane moment, Irene thought his hand in her peripheral vision would come up to cup her cheek, and she flinched; the last person to touch her like that had been Elias. So the fact that instead of touching her, he tore her mask off her, she was surprisingly relieved again. She should have been infuriated. And perhaps for a second, she was; her eyes had grown hot and her vision had gone blurry. But at the core of it, she was tired. She wanted peace, and thus far, her life had thrown her everything but that and she wanted it to stop.

Stray strands of hair fluttered against her cheekbones as she stared at Sebastian Talbot, feeling ridiculous at being caught playing dress up in front of him. He’d known the background she grew up with. He would probably start laughing any second.

Wordlessly, she curtseyed to him (either it was quite a wobbly curtsy or the room was spinning) and turned on her heel. Somewhere she could hear a clock chime the top of the hour. And though it wasn’t anywhere near midnight… knowing the fairy tale it brought to mind; the sheer ridiculousness of it; all of it, saw something between a laugh and sob tear from her throat as she hurried out into the foyer and through the double doors out front.

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   Sebastian Talbot

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