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[John Doyle]

John felt both Nora and Helen shifting positions, and of course could not miss it when Helen reached across him to pat Nora’s hand. Since he was doing his rigid best to watch the dancers and ignore both of them, he did not acknowledge any of their shuffling. Then he felt a different movement. It started when Nora’s skirt swished against his leg—not a difficult thing to ignore since, after all, her skirt had been brushing his leg all evening. So had Helen’s. There was nothing unusual about it at all. But then he felt something more solid touch his leg, and it took all his self control not to move, but to just keep standing there, staring out over the dancers. It took him a moment to realise that Nora was pressing against him, and just when he did, she started to caress his leg with her foot.

That was quite impossible to ignore, and he was forced to look at her. When he did, he found her looking at him in a manner that he could only term suggestive when coupled with what she was doing. At once he felt blood rushing to his face and his heart speeding, at he cursed that he would display any reaction at all. He immediately thought of his ace in the hole for dealing with situations like this—he’d developed a method after three hours of talking to Nora. He thought of Miss Alexander, and pictured her on his arm instead of Nora, and in doing so was able to maintain his normal colour and slightly dour expression. Not a glimmer of a change showed on his face, and John was pleased to be able to maintain such control. Then Nora said, “It is a shame,” and her voice was languorous and smoky.

Finally John tumbled to what was going on. They were both teasing him. He had known that Helen was. His sister was still fixed on her ridiculous idea that he shouldn’t marry Miss Alexander although, fortunately, she seemed to have given up on that idiocy about him loving Nora—at least she hadn’t mentioned it even covertly in three hours with the woman, so he was fairly certain she had dropped it. That was why she was teasing him. But why was Nora going along with it? Was there some sort of conspiracy here? Had that been what they had been talking about while he was dancing with Miss Alexander? Nora began to rub his hand, and he was interrupted in the middle of considering the possibility that Helen had gotten Nora to agree to help her make him uncomfortable as some sort of revenge for his having danced with Miss Alexander.

The way she was stroking his hand was entirely too distracting. It was impossible to think while she was doing it. He could see that her attention had gone back to the tango, but when he tried to make his do the same, it kept snapping right back to her. It began to irritate him that he was making so much of her teasing, when she obviously didn’t mean anything by it. He should not let himself get carried away. He had to stop it. But he couldn’t make it look like that was what he was doing, because both of them would only tease more for that. What was the best way? Fight fire with fire? Aha, he could try that. But upon deciding this, he realised that there was another problem. Teasing was not something he did. What kind of comment should he make? What should he do? Well, humour was supposed to be spontaneous, wasn’t it? He’d just let something happen.

Shrugging off the mental shudders ensuing from the idea of “just letting something happen” instead of planning it out in minute detail, John made himself relax. And nothing happened, except that Nora kept sliding her fingers over his. Aha! That was it! He entwined his fingers with hers, quite effectively stopping the motion of her hand, and raised it to his lips momentarily. The tiniest of kisses was pressed to her fingers, and he opened his mouth to say something spontaneous and teasing. But his mind went blank, and all that came out was spontaneity and not humour. He said, to his horror, “Mhm, quite a shame.” After a spate of mental cursing for having actually said that, he calmed down enough to analyse the situation logically. So it wasn’t possible for him to tease. Lightness was not in his nature. Hopefully she would just chalk it up to him having a deadpan sort of sense of humour, or… Oh God, just anything but don’t let her think I meant it!

On John’s other side, Helen’s lips were quivering with the effort of not laughing. Poor stupid John. He just could not admit to himself that he was wrong. She wondered briefly what he would say on that date in the future when he was forced to admit that she had been right all along. He was just setting up the occasion to be ten times worse by waiting like this. The more he pursued Alice Alexander and the more that he ignored how Nora affected him, the greater his chagrin would be when he realised his error. Unable to look at Nora, because she knew she would burst out laughing at what the woman was doing to John, Helen watched the tango, and tried to control herself.

[Cecilia Norwood]

Her hands had stopped fidgeting, her mannerisms had completely still to those of a polite and respectable young woman having a conversation with a male acquaintance. Cecilia couldn’t not help but notice how pleasant the smile Mr. Jørgensen gave her was, it was a far better smile than she received from most, because it seemed more genuine and less forced and false. Its crooked nature seemed less likely to be one of those expressions of polite and meaningless emotion, than a broad catlike grin with pearly white teeth from ear to ear.

It may have been a fantasy to believe that her well planned smiles and polite gestures could hide her true melancholy emotions from everyone, and perhaps she hadn’t tried her hardest at concealment at this assembly to make it worse. However, she did hope that it was enough to hide her emotions from Mr. Jørgensen. She believed her response was one that was worth of merit, though if he had half a mind he would know his question had not been answered. She could use such responses with the likes of her dear husband because he was more preoccupied with other matters than to pay close attention to what she was actually saying.

The concept of Byron Norwood ever making Cecilia happy was laughable, but not that anyone would be aware of it. He smiled once again, this time at her rather artful response and again she noted the pleasantness of such a smile. She was more than thankful to have someone speak to her that was not paying pleasant compliments to her husband through her, or trying to show a courtesy to her mother. It was a wonderful change to the evenings disheartening and unpleasant proceedings; though by all rights it should have been a lovely evening, if Cecilia were a different woman and her husband a different man.

She smiled politely at his statement of pleasure in the evening. “I am very pleased to hear that,” she responded genuinely. She could not share his sentiment but that did not mean she could not share his honesty in response. Hearing her name being called was like nails on a chalkboard to her ears, but there was nothing to be done about it. It was her name and there was none other for Mr. Jørgensen to address her by. However her smile failed as Mr. Jørgensen spoke of her husband and called him by his first name. She looked at him perplexed. Did he know her husband? He obvious did to address him in such a casual manner. He had to know him very well indeed. Her heart sank. This was just another occasion of someone paying respects to her husband and the conversation was to merit of her own. “I do not have many friends at this assembly I must confess nor have I made many new acquaintances, but it is a pleasant gathering nonetheless,” she added to appear more at ease in her environment.

“I am sure there have not been,” Cecilia agreed with Mr. Jørgensen as he commented on the evening in comparison to other balls. “They do throw lovely gatherings here, that I must confess.” She looked momentarily at the almost pornographic display on the dance floor that somehow was still being allowed to continue and then back to her present company. She smiled slightly embarrassed by his question, her eyes falling away from him momentarily. “You are very perceptive Mr. Jørgensen, and no, I have no partner for the next dance. I must confess my spirit was not in the dancing mood this evening. I have not ventured near the floor at all.” She laughed at his attempt at describing the display she had just taken a moment to view. “It is a rather…bold dance isn’t it?” she said, searching for a pleasant term for the display. She would have gladly accepted to dance with him, had the question of her husband’s association to him and his reasons for being with her, not preoccupied her thoughts.

Her torture on the reason for Mr. Jørgensen’s presence had been cleared; and that it was out of respect for her husband that he paid her such attention. “Forgive me, for I do not know many of my husband’s close acquaintances, but you seem to know him very well,” she said with a questioning tone. “Let me assure you Mr. Jørgensen that I am perfectly content, and you need not worry after my happiness,” she said with a toothless polite smile, “though I will be sure to convey to my husband what great respect and kindness you showed me.” She fell silent.

She was once again disheartened; it would have been nice to have someone speak to her just for the simple pleasure of her conversation.

[Charlotte Kendall]

After a while it did seem that Anna managed to relax to an extent, but not before having expressed great regret that she had caused Sir Vandenburg trouble and “embarrassment.” She was worried that he was mad at her and despite Charlotte’s attempts to negate these fears, Anna did not seem entirely convinced. It was obvious that she could not see the victory of actually having dared to dance, but instead only the defeat of not making it through without fainting. Feeling bad for her sister, Charlotte tried to think of another - a smaller - challenge to give her, one where she was sure to win. And it occurred to her while she was watching Anna smile at something Christopher said, her hands resting calmly in her lap and her eyes not as terrified as they often tended to be; she would be fine on her own for a few minutes, without Charlotte. That would do her very good. She didn’t even have to make a huge point out of it; she could simply slip away and have a moment to herself, a moment for private things in the lady’s room. Anna would be fine, Charlotte was certain of it. Christopher was right there. But it would still be a triumph to the girl.

And so it was that Charlotte left her sister alone in public, and for quite a while too, as the business she had took quite some time, but she was not worried. Not until she came back in and to her great horror spotted Anna’s seat empty.
“Where is she?”
”Oh, there you are! I wondered where you went.”
“Where is she?!”
”Anna? Isn‘t sh- I thought she was with you!”
“God, Christopher, how obtuse you can be sometimes!” She was being completely unreasonable, and she heard it herself, but could not seem to prevent herself. Waving him off, she spun around and left to search their surroundings and her husband did the same. Tears pressed their way to Charlotte's eyes, not from desperation or fear - Anna was sure to be close by and safe - but from anger at herself and an aching conscience. Why did I do that?! It had been selfish of her, to want a moment alone. She had used a stupid excuse about a challenge for Anna, but really it had been her own needs she was tending to and not Anna’s. She could’ve at least paused to let Christopher know she was leaving!

She spotted her then, with Mr. Pryer, and signalled to Christopher who was moving in a different direction. He sent her a questioning look and she nodded, upon which he lifted a hand to his chest in relief and moved to sit down. Mr. Pryer was looking very merry indeed, and Charlotte couldn’t help but find him a tad comical. She had learned only days ago how smitten he was with Anna, and it made her feel toward him a strange mixture of guardedness and compassion. Charlotte had always liked James Pryer. He was a sweet young man and a good friend of Christopher’s. However, when it came to Anna she could never be too careful. And how well did he really know Anna? If it was merely physical desire that drove him, Charlotte would have nothing of it. She would have to scrutinize him to the last detail, she had already determined that. But she was also determined to show as little scepticism as possible in front of Anna. She was frightened enough already.

Having exchanged pleasantries with the young man and finally put herself and Anna back in their seats, they again started to calm down. A couple of hours passed without incident and Charlotte only hoped she would be able to forgive herself for having put Anna through further discomfort on an already stressful evening. Christopher called her “obtuse” no less than three times during their conversation these next few hours, and his eyes glinted with teasing pleasure as he did. She sighed and nodded and was sorry about that as well, but not as sorry as she was about leaving Anna.

Then came the big scandal - a tango. Mr. Burby stood up to see better. Charlotte and Christopher did not. They could still see what was going on, and Charlotte cursed Sweeney and Smith to the ninth circle of hell for being so inappropriate. Could they not keep such things within the walls of their own houses? Did they have to expose everyone to it, even those who did not want to be exposed? What was it with people who had such an endless need to be seen, to be noticed? Were they insecure? Were they afraid to be forgotten? Were they afraid that they would not be worth anything if they did not show the entire city… what? Their bodies? That they could move in a sensual manner? She rolled her eyes at her husband and he nodded in agreement. And how would Anna react to this?

She got her answer soon enough. A tug at her sleeve and a whimper came from Anna before she hid her face against Charlotte like so often before. Charlotte was not quite sure what to say. It was not like she had foreseen this, and this time she could not chase the exhibitionists away like she had earlier. There was another thing too. Anna still believed sex to be nothing but an evil way for men to exploit and torture women. She would have to learn somehow that that was not the case. Perhaps this would be an occasion just as good as any, to grab the bull by the horns.

And sure enough:
“Do something! He’s hurting her! Make him stop!” She was appealing to Christopher. He looked at her, perplexed, before he sent Charlotte a look she had seen oh, so many times before; one of confusion, pain and a plead for assistance.
”No, Anna, he’s not hurting her.” Charlotte was speaking softly, even though the ball guests around them were all far too occupied with their own whispers and gasps to pay much heed to the Kendalls and Anna.
”They’re dancing,” Christopher explained. Mr. Burby heard this, however, and turned around to comment importantly.
”Mmhmyes. Is the tango not some South American type of dance?”
”I believe it is,” confirmed Christopher.
”Right. Yes, I’ve seen it in drawings before, but never danced. It’s very… Ahem…”
“Intimate,” Charlotte suggested.
”Absolutely. I thought it was a dance for the working-classes, though? You know, in the slums… Where the immigrants live, and…”
”It is, here in Europe.”
”Oh, but not other places?”
”No.”
“Cultural differences,” Charlotte murmured, holding Anna tight and stroking her.

“Anna,” she whispered then, letting the men continue their conversation without her. “Don’t think about the lies, don’t let her control you.” She knew that all these words could not wait, however unfitting it would be if someone overheard. Fortunately the only ones close enough to possibly be within earshot were Sir Vandenburg, Christopher and Mr. Burby, and they were having their own discussion. She still kept her voice to a whisper though, as soundless as possible while still reaching Anna’s ear over the music. “You know men and women alike want to be touched in that manner sometimes. You know I let Christopher touch me that way, don’t you? And he lets me do the same to him, and we do it to be good to each other, because we like it, and because we like each other. That girl there, she likes it too, you can tell by her look, her way of moving. And remember the announcer said it was a gift to her? And he called her talented? We talked about this before, too, remember that? Don't remember the lies, Anna, don't remember them. Remember what I told you. You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to. In my opinion it is not something to be watched. But he is not hurting her. She’s fine.”
”That is so wrong…"
”I know. Take it to the bedroom.” Charlotte sighed inwardly and wished people would just shut up. But then all of a sudden a young lady in their party exclaimed: ”I miss my husband!” and a roar of laughter followed. Soon after that there was an exchange of words between a daughter and her father right behind them.
”God, I wish I could dance like that.”
”Watch your mouth, young lady.” Charlotte smiled. Hopefully that would help underline her little speech and Anna would believe her, or at least not hate Christopher for not interrupting the dance. Imagining him doing that forced her to have to suppress a giggle. That would indeed be something. She sent him a loving look that he did not notice, because he was rubbing his forehead, muttering ”I’m getting a head-ache.”

[Mikhail Sweeney]

The tango was such a passionate dance that Mikhail lost himself in it for a while. He was absorbed in the movements of Madeline’s body against his, and his against hers. He imagined that she would be much like this in bed. The tango was like a stylized form of sex. He imagined her following him in the oldest dance as she was following him in this tango, and it was like a spell came over him from her. There was only her in the room, and only the tango in the world.

On one move though, where her hand was trailing up his leg, he snapped out of the spell she was casting over him. That was for later, and this was for now. He became aware of the crowds again, and even of individual people. He saw the bastard Nils scowling before he pushed his way away, and smiled. As they passed near the edge of the crowd on one caminada, Mikhail heard one person say, “What an outrage.” He only smiled wider.

Another time he heard a woman sigh, and saw the black look on the face of her escort, and it inspired him to put extra flourish in his movements, and when a group of people burst out clapping as if this were some kind of show before they realised the improper of that and abruptly stopped, Mikhail grinned at Madeline. For though those people were uncouth and obviously newly rich, unmannered merchants or something, they were right. It was a kind of show.

It was a show that she and he were giving. It was a show of how beautiful they were, how graceful, how talented, and how bold they were. Above all though, it was a show of how those things allowed them to get away with behaviors that others less talented, less elegant, and less daring could never get away with. It was a show of their superiority, and the applause of the merchants was acknowledgement that they were superior.

This was what he had hoped for, all he had hoped for from the dance. Madeline enjoying it as much as him, the people staring in appreciation, or shock, or envy. The knowledge that every eye was on them, the ability to know that the judgements being made, no matter what they were, were being made about them, by hundreds of people. The dance continued, and Mikhail reveled in the limelight, and reveled in Madeline’s body, continuing to caress her slyly.

Finally, at the very end of the dance, the music rose with a crescendo to end with the same abruptness that a man left a woman with, as it was supposed to. Exactly on time, Mikhail swept Madeline into a closing embrace, holding it as a pose, like was always done at the end of a tango. At the moment the music stopped going, Madeline and Mikhail both stopped moving as well.

There were many forms of the closing he could have chosen. There was no requirement of form, except that it should hold passion and it was preferable if both dancers were extended well, to display the clean lines of the body. But Mikhail chose the embrace that he did for a specific reason. He was very well aware that everyone was watching, and that had the effect on his choice of ending.

He pulled Madeline too him, she followed of course, and when the music stopped his right arm was supporting most of her weight and his left was gently holding hers extended straight up. His right leg was extended along her left, their bodies were tightly clasped together, and his lips hovered just over hers. And that was the reason he had chosen this embrace, just so that they would end up posed before the entire room almost with him kissing her.

He did not actually kiss her. He had taken his liberties during the dance, caressing her in front of all these people in a way where she would know that he had crossed the boundaries of the tango but they wouldn’t. Now he was looking into her eyes, his lips a few millimeters from hers, waiting to see if she would kiss him. Daring her to kiss him, actually, daring her to take the same kind of liberty he had.

--They’re like this, to be exact Thanks to Mjinga for picture--

[Madeline Smith]

The dance was slowly nearing the end. Madeline was both sorry and glad. Not glad because she hadn't enjoyed the dance, far from it. This had been one of the best dances of her life-and she was not exaggerating here. This was a great compliment from her, for Madeline was one person that had a lot of experience. When experienced people would acknowledge something, it was more worth than acknowledgement from newbies. The Southern Belle had danced the tango before, and she couldn't say which time had she liked more. Now, there were the people, the clapping of the hands of some, the scandal, the shock...But back then, people were not scandalized, they were not feeling the dance was horribly inappropriate. Just on the contrary, they appreciated her and her partner, they clapped their hands without blushing because of it afterwards. Plus, the ambient-it was on a ship, on the deck, underneath the starry sky...

Madeline closed her eyes and allowed herself to be taken back into that time. It was a June night, and she was in the arms of Fernando De La Vega. He was a passionate man from Argentina, travelling to Spain. He had been an able dancer-better than Mikhail, in her opinion. He had dark hair and the greenest eyes she had ever seen in a man. Blue and green were her favorite eye colors, and the first thing she ever noticed about men(right after the body, of course) were the orbs. The body was far more important, but eyes could help...Anway, that night there had been a party on the ship, and Fernando had orginized for a tango to be played. She agreed to dance it with him/he asked her, of course). The people were around them, looking at them in awe. The joy was evident on their faces, and they kept clapping their hands repeatedly. Oh yes, Fernando had truly been an expert...too bad he wasn't here now. But Mikhail shouldn't see her thinking like this.

Fernando had ended the dance by leaning over her and kissing her with such fire and passion every fibre of her body shuddered in temptation. The people on the ship never minded that. Actaully, they did mind it, but in a good way. They applauded even louder. Madeline recalled she had felt like an Empress back then. Fernando had made her feel like an Empress. And back then, she had wished for herself to remain there with him forever. Well, not that she ever intended on being Fernando's woman...no, she would merely sleep with him or use him for fun. There were plenty other attractive men on that very ship. Once she'd have her way with all of them, Madeline would wish to leave the ocean and stand on dry land.

She didn't like to think her life was all about men. Madeline's life was all about herself. Men pleased her, so she liked having them around. The same was with dresses, jewels, gloves, bonnets, shoes...In her world, everything was subordinated to her, everything was here for her. The world was her playground, and she knew how to play on it very well. The world danced to the music she played. Very self-centered and egoistic she was. Really, she pondered, had those suffrage supporters not insisted on thos horrible bloomer outfits, she might have just thought a tad better of them. Althoguh they all were very stupid to her. There were so many better ways to control men than to be equal! Only fools couldn't see manipulation, backmail and such as acceptable methods. Hmph! Madeline had had at least partial control of all the men she had been with. At least partial.

The dance was very near the end now. The reason Madeline was glad was because endings were the most spectacular parts of tangos. They were like orgasms at sex-you got the pleasure as the reward for all the movements and all the sturggle before. What particulary interested Madeline was the way Mikhail would end it. Would he end it boldy as Fernando had? Or would it be an end insecure and unsatsifying to her? She begged to differ. Eager, she anticipated for his next move. The final was played by the orchestra...

Mikhail leaned over, just like Fernando had. He had that look in his eyes as he bent down further and further, his lips searching for hers...And then he stopped. Not even and inch from her lips, he stopped. Everything was crystal clear to Madeline-he wanted to see whether she wanted to be kissed. Whether she was ready for such a thing. Was she going to give him the pleasure of it? Hmm...no. She wasn't. Why would she kiss him? Yes, this was a game, and she was not going to give in to him. Not just yet. She was going to do something that would leave an imprint on Mikhail, that would urge him to pursue her further. So, instead of kissing him, the Southern Belle moved her head closer to his, and allowed a fraction of her lips to merely brush his. It was very far from a kiss. There was a wild look full of seduction on her face and burning in her eyes. Then, she moved away, curtsied, and walked away. There was a smug smile on her face and her head was high up as she elegantly moved through the surprised mob and out of the ballroom.
*********************

Prudence was silent in the carriage on the way home. She probably knew Madeline didn't want to be disturbed. The young woman's mind was preoccupied with the tall man she had left in the ballroom...and with the message he was going to send her tomorrow.

(((Exit Madeline Smith, Next Post In Her Majesty's Prison Farringdon Circle))))

[Murderer]

The figure moved through the darkened hallways of the Lindeman Theater, skulking in the deeper shadows of the doorways as it moved through the passageway. The Easter Ball was in full swing only a few doors away, but the nature of the ball was such that there was no one out here in the hallways. The figure was enormous, wearing one of the huge greatcoats from the props room, thick gloves, and Wellingtons. The clothing was so enveloping that it was difficult to say what gender the person was, and so hugely sized as to completely disguise the figure’s build. It could be anywhere from eight to twenty-eight stone. There was no one in the halls but the figure.

And its quarry.

The gentleman, although it was perhaps disputable whether or not he was actually a gentleman, named Mr. Mallister walked about grimly. He was in the theater hallway, having just come off a string of rotten luck regarding the night’s persuasions. First one thing and then another had prevented him from having his fun. He was so absorbed in cursing fate for his most recent failure, and so drunk, that he did not notice the soft footsteps of the figure approaching behind him. Not until the figure hailed him.

“Mr. Mallister.
Mr. Mallister swung around bad-temperedly. Yet another fool, seeking to make his life miserable. Who would it be this time? The night watchman, an uncultured brute if there ever was one, had yet to make an appearance and thus completely ruin the night. An alcohol reek seeped out of Mr Mallister’s mouth as it opened in surprise.
“You again? What are you in that coat-” Mr. Mallister began, but the figure interrupted him, its voice curiously dead of all emotion and color.
“It is a pity, Mr. Mallister, but necessary.”
“Here now! It was only a—!” Mr. Mallister began to protest at the expression on the figure’s face, but he was cut off again, rather literally.

The blade was long and sharp, not of British make. It was one of the barbarous tools from India, a dagger set on the end of curious hand-grip that allowed it to be wielded in the same manner as a set of knuckle-dusters. It was a punching dagger. It slid into Mr. Mallister’s throat with hardly any noise, except for a soft rush of escaping air as it sliced through the larynx to cut the vocal cords and the hideous sound of metal grating on bone as it struck Mr. Mallister’s spine and glanced off.

Mr. Mallister stood for a moment, surprised horror on his face, even though he was certainly dead. The murderer withdrew the knife, and with the sudden lack of support the body came tumbling forward to land in the arms of its killer. Cradling the late Mr. Mallister almost in the manner of a lover, the murderer inspected its work. The knife had punched through Mr. Mallister’s cravat and collar. Both were becoming blood-soaked, nearly a solid red in color, but they were absorbing all of it. Not a drop found its way to the floor. Satisfied, the murderer continued to hold Mr. Mallister to its chest, so as to keep it so. The corpse was dragged a few hundred yards and during all that time, never a drop of blood managed to spill to the floor to leave a trail. The passage of murderer and murderer’s victim went unmarked.

The murderer set down the body on the top of the great velvet main staircase of the Lindeman Theater. Time was precious, for every moment might mean discovery. Yet still a thorough job must be done. Eight quick slashes with the knife and a great gaping hole was opened in the belly. Two more slashes and the intestines pulled free. Quickly the yards and yards of tubing were strung along the banisters of the staircase like some gruesome Christmas decoration. Organs were pulled out and placed in a line descending the center of the stairs, one to each step. The corpse was then adjusted at the top of the stairs, spread-eagled and with the head hanging down the first step. The slice in the throat ripped raggedly around the edges from the strain, tipping the head back in a grotesque parody of an open-mouthed grin.

The work finished, the murderer stripped off gloves, Wellingtons, and raincoat, and placed them beneath the stairs. They did not belong to the murderer, but rather were theater property. It was no loss to leave them and gave no clues, whereas if they were found in the possession of the murderer they would be incriminating evidence.

It took no more than five minutes for the murder and mutilation to be accomplished. Clearly this was not the first time that the murderer had done this.

[Anna Sutcliffe]

Charlotte softly reassured Anna that the man out on the floor was not hurting the woman. Christopher said they were dancing, and then a conversation sprung up about it. This, more than individual assurances, comforted Anna. She knew with absolute certainty that, if the man had been hurting the woman, Charlotte and Christopher were not the sort of people to stand around having a relaxed conversation while it was going on. Charlotte continued to murmur comforting words, and Anna felt a bit foolish. They had talked about it before. She should have remembered. She tried to force herself to watch as punishment, but once Charlotte said she didn’t have to, she quickly relapsed. Anna didn’t see the end of the tango, because she was sitting with her face buried in Charlotte’s shoulder, trembling. She could hear it, though. The music stopped, and there was a sudden disapproving pause in the already disapproving murmurs that had been going on. She didn’t dare lift her head to see what was going on, though.

***

Miss Emmaline Dawkins was wandering through the corridors, starting up the edge of a grand staircase. She had set up a meeting between herself and a charming gentleman she had met, by the name of Graham Baxter. She was now trying to find the place, but was highly irritated at the moment. She’d set it up in a very romantic location, namely “the highest room in the tallest tower.” The Lindeman Theatre was a bit short on high towers; there were only two, and they rose not more than two stories above the rest of the building. Miss Dawkins was afraid that Mr Baxter had decided that the other tower than the one she had gone to was the highest one, and so was now trying to find her way over there. But it was slow going, the Theatre being filled with numerous corridors, and dark as the devil’s arse to boot. And what was that dreadful smell?

Suddenly her foot collided with something on the stairs, and in startlement she nearly lost her balance. She let out a dainty squeak as she grabbed the banister to keep from falling down the steps, and her hand closed over a thin ribbon of spongy material. Slightly crisp yet at the same time rubbery, bits of it flaked off onto her glove when she let go, and Miss Dawkins wondered what it was. Some part of the Theatre not properly maintained? She tried to feel for whatever it was that her foot had collided with, but it seemed she had knocked it away. Shrugging, she continued up. In the faint light coming from the corridor at the top, she saw a silhouette on the floor as she gained the last step.

It was a man, at the head of the stairs, sprawled out. Miss Dawkins, perhaps not the wisest woman in Lindebo to be setting up midnight trysts that might ruin her reputation, was nonetheless a gentle lady. She had been born and bred in a circle of society that knew nothing of such brutalities as had been done to Mallister, and so she did not think that he might be dead—she couldn’t see the mess made of his innards in the gloom of the stairs. She thought he was drunk, passed out on the stairs, and she knelt by his head, timidly placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Sir,” she said, shaking him slightly.
There was a wet sound from the limp form on the stairs, and, concerned, Miss Dawkins put her hands to the man’s face. She peered close. Oh! It was Mr Ferdinand Mallister! She’d met him before; in fact, she’d had a secret tryst with him before. She shook him again, saying more loudly, “Mr Mallister!”
He didn’t move, and she patted his cheek, wondering what to do. Her thumb slid into an opening, and touched something hard. All at once she realised her hand was in his throat, the thing was his spine, and that he was most certainly dead. Brutally murdered. In her hurry to stand up, she tripped on her skirts and fell across the body, landing with a wet slurp. It was not even a question of picking herself up then. She flew off the body, heading down the corridor away from it as fast as possible. As she ran, a scream built in her throat, and rang out to echo off the walls.

“ÆÆÆÆÆÆÆ!!!!!”

***

There was a faint screaming in Anna’s ears as the crowd once again began to murmur, and she tried to shut it out. These memories were not ones she needed. Mrs Humperdink was not here, only Charlotte. There was no little Anna screaming from the hurt. There was no little Anna screaming from the candles, the shovel handles, the hairbrushes. There was no little Anna screaming from anything. She was big Anna now, and Charlotte was here to protect her, and Christopher, and there was no screaming! The girl had not been tortured by the man, both Charlotte and Christopher had said! It was not her! But the sound wouldn’t go away, and Anna had to cover her ears. “Make it stop,” she whispered desperately to Charlotte and Christopher. “Make it stop!”

But it didn’t. It only grew louder, and then suddenly a young woman ran into the room from the corridor, bursting through the doors with a crash, screaming hysterically. She had blood on her white gloves and the chest and skirt of her dress. The crowd parted before her, people backing away hastily as she ran first this way and that, seeking support and comfort and not finding it in a crowd of people repulsed and frightened by her appearance. Finally, some brave soul came over to help her, guiding her to a divan, where she began to alternately scream and sob out her story.

The news spread through the crowd like a wildfire, and within ten minutes of the woman’s entrance everyone at the back of the room knew that there had been a gruesome murder, and that the body of Mr Mallister was in a corridor. Fortunately the constables were summoned by Mr Nettleby—a man motivated by the need to keep the Theatre he managed respectable in order to retain his job—as soon as the bloody woman ran into the room, and the corridor in question was blockaded before more than a couple of morbidly curious people had found it.

None of this was known to Anna, however. As soon as the woman had run in, blood all over and screaming of a murder, of Mr Mallister’s murder, her mind had drawn in on itself. There was only one possibility. The worst had come to pass. By this time tomorrow she might have collected herself sufficiently to be capable of realising the necessity to cope in an orderly manner, might be able to see the need to move on at once, might be able even to try and discuss it with her sister in a rational manner. But she was not able to do any of those at the moment. Her head was filled with only one thought. Charlotte. Charlotte had killed again, and the body was in the corridor, mutilated as the others had been. Charlotte had done it. Oh God, Charlotte!

Anna looked to her sister, saw the iron mask over her expression, locking out emotion. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she lost consciousness for the second time that evening, unable to cope with this hideous development at the moment.

[Wallace Vandenberg]

Wallace had followed the trio out of the hallways, silently thinking and not interupting any conversations. Right now, he was feeling that they needed to be left on their own, but he couldn’t leave without making it seem like he was dreadfully insulted. He was walking a very thin line, so he just followed, smiled and kept silent. There wasn’t anybody in the group talking to him, and he didn’t feel the need to talk, just hung around the fringes of the small group that cluttered around the two sisters and husband. It gave him time to think, time to let his mind wander and assess the situation from new and diverse angles. Miss Sutcliffe was, to say the least, an enigma and so was her sister. Christopher on the other hand was a straightforward man, seemingly dependable and with his heart in the right place. No it wasn’t something recent, all parties had accustomed to it already. And it seemed like the primal source was memories. Wallace shivered inwardly as he wondered what memories could strike such fear into someone. He needed a drink, this had been quite an eventful night, so he joined Christopher when he proposed to get some with a polite nod. He poured himself some Port and looking around if nobody saw him, downed the large bottom of alcohol in one go.

The night was still young and yet so eventful. He poured himself a second glass, deciding that this one would have to serve longer than the previous, he immediately went away of the large stock of spirits. One thing he knew for certain though, no more dancing for tonight. Already there had been two accidents in three dances and he didn’t want to risk a fourth, he sipped the contents of his glass. No when he looked back on it, this had been a rather enjoyable night. He calmly walked back to his corner and retrieved his cane, it would repulse all but the most determined dancer. Of course, he doubted that anyone would want to dance with him out of own choice, so the aforementioned reasoning was mostly intended to cover up for the fact that he just liked to have it around, because it made him feel more secure. He smiled at his own vanity as he finally acknowledged that it was in no small part because; just like the pendant at his neck it was like his badge of…where was his pendant? Wallace quickly patted himself but found nothing. Where had he lost it? He had had it when dancing with Miss Suttcliffe. Had he dropped it in the confusion afterwards? He had no idea…best course of action would be to alert one of the servants and wait, bronze didn’t grow legs and ran off. He quickly approached one of the men in livery standing along the side of the room.

“Excuse me…”
“Can I be of assistance, sir?”
“I lost a kind of necklace, bronze, with inscriptions in Latin. If you’d find it, I’d be very grateful.”
“I shall keep an eye out, sir.”
“Thank you.”

***

The hours passed without word and Wallace had just been looking around for the time being, not actively seeking, just wandering the ballroom, exchanging a few words here and there and keeping an eye open. He didn’t miss the announcement though, a tango…his methodical mind quickly categorized, visualized and then decided that he must have heard it wrong. Until the dance actually unfolded. Sure there were worse things, but this was a social faux-pas, another scandal that the vultures of society would feast upon for weeks. Wallace just watched, and found that the dance was every bit the book had described, racy, exposed and not intended for this kind of social gatherings. He ignored the pair that decided they wanted to make out so blatantly in public. Youngsters, so little respect for decorum, the man probably didn’t care what he did to his partner’s reputation. He shook his head as he walked back towards the refreshments table, not acknowledging their dance along with the appreciative gasps or angry mutters that ran rampant across the assembled. When he had replenished his glass with port, he turned back and calmly watched, unaffected by it. Sure it was nice enough, but from a purely aesthetic view it wasn’t enough to cause such reactions. He took another sip and as the dance neared its end, he heard a scream, filled with panic. He moved swiftly, his posture springing from stable to flash, running for the source of the scream. It was a young girl that burst into the room, her face contorted in shock, Wallace was the first to intercept her and did so. He quickly, but firmly grasped her shoulder, his voice and face very calm.

“Come along, Miss, calmly, you’re safe…calm…”

He guided her to the sofa, she sobbed and shivered all the while. She was in shock, obviously. She sat down, but ready to spring or snap. Her eyes were glazy and didn’t see anything, anything but what she told repeatingly, haltingly, panic sometimes rising over her again. Mallister, the man he had encountered, who had been busy with his own natural desires, was dead. Murderer, his body mutilated and spread across the staircase, where she had literally stumbled upon it. Edward came forward, again showing remarkable insight into this situation. Vandenburg berated himself for not seeing the young man’s potential sooner, as the barrister offered the young lady a royal helping of brandy to calm her nerves a bit. She took a shivering sip and kept whimpering softly.

“Edward, you make sure Milady is alright, I’m going to check out the crime scene before anyone disturbs it…”

Edward nodded silently as he began to mimic Wallace’s behavior, calm, respectful and confident, keeping the people around him as much at bay as he could. Wallace rushed off, out of the ballroom and into the horrifying picture that seemed to have stepped right out a nightmare. He turned up the gaslamps for a better look. Mallister was dead, that was sure, and he had been dead almost immediately, if the deep laceration at his neck was any indication. His entrails had been scattered around the staircase, it was gruesome, the work of a lunatic…or someone who was quite well in the head, but very angry…or someone who reveled in this kind of thing. He grasped the cane he carried like a club and searched on, careful not to disturb anything. It seemed the killer had been wearing a disguise, he hadn’t made an attempt to hide it well, just stuffed it beneath the macabre staircase from hell. Wallace didn’t touch anything, but he knew that this was one smart assassin, he could’ve been anyone, and by placing the clothes of the kill so close in sight, he made that evidently clear. He could’ve snuck in and left after his bloody handiwork, or he could still be lurking around here, laughing and reveling in his latest crime. Wallace twisted the top of his staff, loosening the blade in its concealed scabbard. He was alone, and very careful in his movements. The constables arrived before anything happened though and began collecting evidence, Wallace keeping close watch. This might just be one of the most important cases in his life, and he wanted to be ready for it…

[Nils Jørgensen]

Nils laughed softly at Mrs Norwood’s last statement. Her phrasing clearly revealed that she thought he was there only on account of her husband. Truth be told, it was correct for her to think that he might not have been so concerned if he had not had some previous connection to her. After all, who did care for near-perfect strangers as much as those whom they knew to be connected to friends or family? But it was wrong of her to think that his regard came purely from her association with his friend, for who did regard others based solely on whom they knew? Well… that was erroneous logic; the peerage did that all the time. But, blast it, he wasn’t peerage, nor even close, and he was not so cold as that.

He told her, the laugh still in his voice, “There is no need, Mrs Norwood. I should tell him myself if I thought that kindness were something that I needed to make a point of.” Nils smiled at the thought of actually having the hubris to tell anyone, I was kind to your wife the other day. Make a note of it! He hastened to add an explanation for his jocular statement, lest she feel belittled. “You need not feel that my...” There was a pause in his sentence as he tried to think of the English word. There was one, he knew there was, but it wasn’t coming to him. He substituted a phrase that meant the same thing, since he couldn’t think of it. “…interest in your happiness comes from a desire to—” What the hell was the word here? Ingrate? That was it, he thought. “—ingrate myself with your husband. I do know him quite well, as you have noticed, and I don’t think to make him more fond of me by a false concern for you.”

Have thus cleared up the air for his part in this, Nils decided that, as he had already been improper enough to state that he actually had some interest in Mrs Norwood as a person beyond her being her husband’s wife—something he had avoided with his previous wording but now had just baldly stated—there was no point in avoiding a second possible offence. He spoke up about the fact that she was clearly lying about her contentedness with the evening. “I do not mean to insult you, but I do not think you are being completely honest, Mrs Norwood. You do not appear perfectly content. You really must tell me what is wrong, for your own sake instead of your husband’s.” Nils thought of something; perhaps it was his prying that was the problem here. He added, “If it is I that makes you unhappy, I shall certainly leave you alone at once. You need not fear for insulting me.”

Which was curiously true. It was something he had never figured out the cause of, but it was completely ingrained on him. He never could bring himself to be offended at a woman, even when he knew she had done him wrong. Since Mrs Norwood telling him to leave would hardly count as anywhere near doing him wrong, he imagined it quite impossible that she could offend him. Suddenly, a huge commotion grew by the door, and Nils looked to try and see what the issue was. The press of the crowd was too great for him to see anything, however, but babbling conversations broke out and spread through the packed ball-room. Within a minute, Nils had a good idea what had happened just from listening to the people around him. The story was told in disjointed exclamations and pieces all around him.

“It’s Mr Mallister, they say.”
“A body!?”
“Yes, mutilated!”
“That poor girl! Imagine stumbling over a body!”
“She found it on the stairs?”
“Throat cut, they say. How dreadful!”
“The girl is bloody. She did it, I expect. Hysterical, lunatic, that’s how these things go.”
“Oh, I can’t take this! Don’t tell me!”
“My Lord, Mr Mallister, dead?!”
“Murdered, under our very noses! Sweet Mary Mother of Christ!”
“We’ll all be next!”

Realising that this last overheard comment was somewhat hysterical as well as impossible—whomever had murdered this man Mallister could not possibly get all of them next—there was nevertheless some reasonable concern behind the statement. Anyone might be next. A thought occurred to him; Mrs Norwood’s husband was away on a business trip. She could not possibly have arrived here with him. Unless she had a brother handy, that meant she would not have arrived at the ball with a male escort. Which meant she would be going home alone except for whatever woman she had brought with her, most likely her horrid mother from the other day. That could not be allowed, not while there was a murderer about and Nils had breath in his body.

He turned to her, his face grave from the news of the murder, concerned for her well-being. “Mrs Norwood, I know your husband has left. Have you arrived here with anyone? Do you have a man to escort you home? If not, I insist that I should accompany you. You must not endanger yourself by attempting to go alone.”

[Alice Alexander]

When Alice left the Baron Wothersham her pretty little features had been contorted into an expression of polite excitment. The moment she found that she was alone she allowed her muscles to relax into an mildly exhausted expression. All she wanted to do at the moment was retire to the ladies lounge for a nice cup of tea.

"Erm...Excuse me...Miss Alexander, could I possibly have this dance?"

She turned around to see a long faced man with startlingly pretty features. His skin was perhaps more porcelain like than even Alice's and his eyes an even paler blue, so much so that they blended into the whites of his eyes.

"I'd be delighted," she lied easily.

She noted that the boy glanced over at two people who must've been his parents. She realized then that he probably had no real desire to dance with her and that she was an excellent contact to make in the opinion of a parent.

"Are you having a good time at the ball?" she asked meekly.

"Yes, I am," he commented in a more sympathetic tone than she had expected.

Alice also noticed that his mannerisms were surprisingly feminine and that when he looked down, it appeared to be at nothing more than her dress. It dawned on her once more that he didn't want to dance with her anymore than she wanted to dance with him. They passed the next dance in silence, though it was more understanding than the usual awkward ones.

"Thank you Mr. Crane," she commented said when the dance was finally done. He thanked her as well and departed.

She spent the next few hours dancing with the various eligible bachelors of the town and becoming increasingly board with the sly, debonair attitudes that they assumed were charming.

She'd been on her way to the ladies lounge (finally) when she heard an announcement for the next dance. Her first instinct was to speed up so she didn't get accosted again by a potential dance partner.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! I have the honor to announce that this next dance is to be a tango, presented by Mikhail Sweeney to his lady, Miss Madeline Smith, in appreciation of one of the most talented creatures he has ever known!”

She stopped dead in her tracks. A tango? There was going to be a tango at this ball. There was going to be a tango at the ball that Alice Alexander had made her debut to society. She would have been perfectly passive and understanding of a a secretive scandal. Had a couple been found in a compromising position in a broom closet or even a public fight, she couldn't have cared less. This however was blatant attention seeking. Little did Alice know but at the moment the cold, hard, disgusted look on her face was the very same one that usually graced the face of her mother. Her willowy arms were crossed over her chest in quite an unlady-like manner. She usually didn't consider herself to be one to adhere to the prudish custums of society but this was so obvious and so exclusive of everyone else that she simply had to take notice.

An older woman who was head of a woman's club in town who actually looked physically sick was rushed by Alice by her daughter, though whether the sickness was an effect of the dance or drink was not entirely sure. She felt her slight body collide with a slightly more muscular one.

"Oh...I'm sorry," she said over her shoulder, not really noticing who was behind her.