In which various Dramatic Characters prepare for the evening's festivities, and receive strange and unexpected communications, and make new acquaintances in varying fashion.
The fairy does in fact spend her time examining each item in her room, trying to put some sense to many of the glass and crystal items she finds lying around. She glances down at her clothing, and frowns, realizing it doesn't suit the affair. She heads for her luggage, and spends the rest of the time picking out an appropriate evening gown for the dinner.
While she is preparing herself for a dinner that promises to be most lively, a knock comes on her cabin door. When she answers it, she finds a bell boy holding a package and a card. The bell boy, apparently no older than fifteen or sixteen, seems to be paralysed as he stares at Constance. He gapes, and a strange sound seems to be coming from him, reminescent of a baby squirrel fallen from a tree.
Constance favours the young mortal with a stunning smile guaranteed to melt the control of any but the most controlled of men. She reaches down and takes the card and package from his trembling hands, and leans forward to very lightly brush her soft lips across his cheek. "Thank you, dear one. Now run along, and be about your duties, before you get in trouble," she says with a warm smile designed to take away any sting he might feel hearing her words.
Once he is gone, she closes the door, and goes back to her vanity table, setting the package down, and opening the card with graceful fingers.
The card is engraved with Jean-Michel du Pont-de-la-Vierge's name, and bears only a few handwritten words, scribbled in ink: "As discussed. With my profound thanks, JM."
The package is wrapped in plain brown paper, and held together with ordinary string.
Constance considers the card, letting her mind go back throught the previous conversation, and then turns her attention to the small package. She opens the string, and unwraps the box. Then she opens it.
Inside, triple wrapped in a large piece of silk cloth, is a book. The binding is of faded green leather and the edgees are gilt. The covers bears the words, engraved in gilt scrollwork: "Histoire des familles nobles et royales du royaume de France, avec armoiries et annotations, par le marquis François de la Crénellière"1.
Inside the cover page is an ancient-looking bookmark of hand-painted silk stretched onto a canvas backing, bearing what appears to be a coat-of-arms. The book itself dates from the turn of the century, about twenty or twenty-five years after the Revolution, showing some wear and tear, but the bookmark is definitely older.
Constance remains absorbed in the discovery of the intricacies of human politics, as complex as any machinations of the Faerie Courts. After perhaps fifteen minutes of reading, she is again interrupted by a knock on her door.
Fascinated by the intricate play of human poitical infighting, so like Faerie political games, Constance almost misses the light knowcking at her door. Sighing, reluctant to close the fascinating book, but drawn by the need for social etiquette, she shuts the book and carefully sets it down, before going to the door, and opening it to see who is there.
The same bell boy is there, trembling like a poplar in the wind. He holds a gorgeous, extravagant bouquet of flowers, almost hiding behind the riot of colours. Roses, irises, violets, baby's breaths, hyacinths, Lady's slippers, and a wealth of ferns overflow from his arms as he tremulously hands the arrangement, and another card, to Constance.
He starts talking, loses his voice, clears his throat and tries again. "Delivery for Lady Constance de Forrest," he announces. His voice is deeper than one might expect in a flustered sixteeen year old.
Constance looks in mild suprise at the enormous explosion of multi-colored flowers, so beautiful, almost as lovely as the ones that grow in the deep glades of her own dear forest. She takes the gorgeous bouquet with a smile to the trembling young man, and leans forward to softly kiss his cheek. "Thank you,"she whispers in his ear, her warm breath brushing the hair on his neck.
Then she closes the door as the young man made his exit, and walks back to the table. 'I'm never going to make dinner if this keeps up,' Constance thinks with a small laugh. Then she sets the bouquet down and looks for a vase nearby, before opening the card and reading it.
Constance examines the strange card, puzzled. The fellow expresses desire to meet her, but leaves no address, nor a name other than an illegible scrawl? How odd. I wonder how he expected me to contact him? she wonders. Perhaps this is a human custon, which he assumes I would know about, but which I find myself unfamiliar with. Maybe one of my new friends would have more information.
Still, something about the card makes her wary, especially on board the Parsifal, where she cannot use her Faerie magick to protect herself. Not for the first time, she is keenly aware of the extreme vulnerability this trip has put her in, and regrets somewhat the choice of travel her quest has necessitated.
She sighs, and slips the card into her bag, and, ready to dine, she
heads out the door, and towards the dining hall.
He explores again the various card games going in the airship's three Smoking Rooms and two bars. As he walks down the companionway of Deck Five, having just spent some time in the Third Class Smoking Room, he spots the tall shape of the Dragon Lord walking down towards the Main Dining Room, whistling cheerfully.
Mateo, noting that the Dragon Lord is proceeding toward a dining room in good pace, pulls his Hunter's watch from his pocket. The small stone in the fob glitters even in the light of the corridor. The chain slides pleasantly along his palm and the casing glows in warm golden hue.
Mateo frowns, looks at his pocket-watch, and confirms that it is not quite dinner time yet. In fact, it is just before six o'clock, and dinner won't start until seven. Yet the Dragon Lord is marching into the Main Dining Room with a purposeful stride. Employees of the Royal Bavarian Airlines bow deeply or curtsy to His Lordship.
A small "oh my" passes Mateo's lips as he notes that a formal dinner is some time off. It would be very near impossible to break into a private dinner party.
As he is already dressed for dining, Mateo allows a moment to collect himself and follow on the trail of the Dragon Lord toward the dining hall.
Opportunity... opportunity... for what?
Mateo walks briskly down the hallway following the wake of the Dragon Lord. Opportunity waits for no man.
As Louis Leopold Belpaire starts walking down the companionway from the Forward Promenade, where he was enjoying some fresh air, towards the center staircase, he spots the tall, unmistakable form of a Dragon Lord going down the stairs. The Dragon walks down at a fairly rapid pace, whistling gaily. He stops on the Fifth Deck, and starts walking towards the Main Dining Room. It is not quite dinner time yet; the dining room will not start serving for another hour or so.
As Belpaire, lost in thought, almost unconsciously follows the Dragon Lord from a distance, his mind is working furiously. It is a second nature for him to observe and collect information, so this perhaps explains his choice of direction; or perhaps it is simply that he heard the Dragon Lord mentioned in an interesting conversation before. Whatever the reason, his sense return to full alertness when, after going down four levels to land on Deck Five, he spots an Italian man he has noticed before, following the Dragon.
The Dragon Lord is perhaps twenty or twenty-five meters ahead, strolling towards the Main Dining Room situated aft, and Louis Leopold Belpaire is still at the entrance of the central staircase. The Italian man emerges from the Smoking Room situated aft, spots the Dragon lord and starts walking in his direction, walking right past Belpaire! he seems intent on following the Dragon rather than catching up with him, and walks behind him into the Dining Room. Belpaire follows in turn.
Lord Swiftwing surveys the dining room with all the aplomb and hauteur of a new owner, looking for some suitable minion to talk to. Immediately, the stewards scramble to attend him. The maître d'hôtel promptly emerges from the kitchen, walks up to the Dragon Lord, and bows respectfully.
"How may I help Your Lordship?" he asks.
Lord Swiftwing gives a most benevolent smile to the man.
"My good fellow, my valet will be along shortly to arrange the small matter of seating arrangements at my table tonight. I would appreciate you devoting your full attention to the matter. I was also hoping to invite some officers to my table, and was wondering where the Parsifal's Sorcerous Officer might be found at this time of day."
The maître d'hôtel nods. "Yes, Your Lordship. It will be my pleasure to attend this matter with your valet. As for the Sorcerous Officer, this would be Fraü Patrizia Ehrenburg, Sorcerous Security Officer on board. Right now, I believe she would be in her day cabin on Deck Ten. This area is off-limits to unaccompanied passengers, but allow me to send a steward with you."
He looks at one of the employees hovering nearby and signals him.
"Thank you, good fellow. I am in your debt." The dragonlord tips the maître d'hôtel an exhorbitant amount of money (about twice the going rate for both the current assistance and the future assistance with seating) and begins to follow the indicated employee from the dining room.
Seton, upon his return to the lounge, takes note of the regal dragonlord and his party. Carefully eyeing the situation over, he makes his way across the room to introduce himself. With a dignified bow, he addresses Swiftwing.
"I am most honored to be in your presence Lord Swiftwing, allow me to introduce myself. I am Seton Jalgar, former columnist of society for the Free Garten Press and currently aspiring author. If you will recall, I made mention of you a few times in my column, all of them favorable of course, but it is quite the honor to be here in person. I am sure that you are most busy with your own affairs, and I shall not hold you up further, I merely wanted to introduce myself to his Lordship."
Jalgar turns to Louis Leopold Belpaire next. "Ahh, Monsieur Belpaire, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am no stranger to your work, and have always thought it to be of the highest caliber. Perhaps when you are not engaged in other affairs we can discuss your feelings on your work."
He turns to the third man. "My humble apologies sir, but I am not as familiar with you as I am your company. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me your name so that if I do know you, I can properly address you?"
The dragonlord bows slightly. "Herr Jalgar. I have followed your work with admiration. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." He profers a card to the aspiring author. When Jalgar continues to speak, Swiftwing appears slightly surprised, and turns to regard the newcomers with a raised eyebrow and a slight frown.
When Jalgar finishes, Lord Swiftwing turns to regard him again.
"Forgive me, sir, but I fear that other business precludes my remaining
to discuss your work, much as it would give me pleasure to do so.
Perhaps we can meet again later. If not, please feel free to call
upon me at my home." Turning to the other two, he nods slightly and
says, "Gentlemen, if you would excuse me," then motions for the crewman
to lead the way and sets off down the corridor.
He smiles a bit wryly as he realizes he was only partially correct in his earlier assessment of the situation. She had placed him here because his services were needed yet it was also a test. One he had been unsettlingly close to failing but in the end he had faced the challenge and, so far as he could determine, had succeeded.
This is certainly cause for some sort of celebration! Eh bien, what to do? He would have liked very much to join the official Parsifal tour, however as it is nearly six o’clock he has missed it and he is currently far too ebullient to sit still and focus on his prayers, so he opts to practice his fencing. Yes, the exercise shall certainly settle him down and put him in a meditative frame of mind more suitable for offering up his thanks. It means he will not be arriving for dinner directly at seven, however as he cannot speak to Fraülein Rohling until Lady Constance has discussed matters with her and he has no commitments until after dinner he does not anticipate any difficulties on that count.
Speaking of Miss Rohling, there is that other matter he must tend to. He returns to his quarters and sends the package as he has promised. Only then does he turn his steps towards the gymnasium on Deck Four.
After sending the well-wrapped package to Lady Constance, Jean-Michel steps out of his cabin again. He climbs two levels to go to the Gymnasium, scarcely able to think of the Parsifal as an airship. A Gymnasium? Preposterous! This is a flying whale -- but a whale that can fly faster and further than anything has a right to. It is grand and majestic and luxurious, but almost too perfect. Jean-Michel rathers misses the nervous trembling of less lofty airships, where the passengers can feel one with the air currents. Ah, well... He might as well enjoy the luxuries!
He whistles a jaunty tune as he walks into the large room. Only a few people are there: two here practicing boxing in Queensbury style, a few there lifting weights, one over there pulling on strange pulleys and levers... No one is fencing right at the moment, so Jean-Michel will have to settle for shadow-fencing for the nonce. Perhaps this will attract a sparring partner...
Quietly he retires to the dressing chamber and changes into the heavy canvas, protective practice gear. He ties his hair back with a blue silk ribbon then checks to ensure everything fits properly, especially the gloves and mask. Yes, all is in place so he unmasks, chooses a sabre (of the French school variety, of course!) and returns to the public area.
Although this is a gymnasium in an airship, still he observes the customs as if it were a proper Salle d’Armes. First he salutes the judges’ positions, then the spot where his opponent would normally stand, his blade hissing in the approved manner. With the salutes complete, he dons his mask left-handedly with nonchalant familiarity. As it has been a few weeks since he has formally practiced, he slowly eases into the preparatory crouch then, at a very leisurely pace, begins working through the six positions, gradually increasing the tempo until the parries, thrusts, stops and ripostes blend smoothly into each other. Precisely as he had anticipated, habit and the exertion combine and he becomes very focused, his mind cleared of extraneous worries and distractions. He is even able to compensate for the difference in sentiment de fer between this blade and his.
After a while he pauses to check the time. Yes, he can stay a bit longer although he debates with himself whether he should stay or leave now. He is certainly feeling more settled however fencing solo does leave a little something to be desired.
As Jean-Michel takes a moment of respite, he realises that he has attracted spectators. Most of them are the gentlemen who were previously boxing or exercising in the area, but one of them is far more exotic.
A tall, slender young woman is watching him with undisguised interest. She is dressed in some sort of grey cotton trousers, fairly baggy at the knees but tapering towards the ankles, yet not in Ottoman fashion. Her upper body is clad in a short vest with the sides crossing over her chest, held by a belt; the vest is made of cotton as well, printed with a simple, repeated floral motif. The woman's hair is long and black as the purest jet, drawn tightly into a very long pony tail reaching her slim waist. Her eyes are also black as night, so dark that no pupil can be seen.
Under her right arm, she carries a fencing mask, while the left holds two swords swung negligently on her shoulder. One is a classic fleuret, looking very new, while the other is a long wooden affair, with curious slits between the various strips of wood, or rather bamboo.
Noticing that Jean-Michel has spotted her, she gives him a slight bow and a demure smile. "Güten Tag," she says in musical, strangely accented German. Noting Jean-Michel's short hesitation upon hearing Goethe's tongue, she tries again. "Good day? Bonjour?"
Having previously doffed his mask when checking the clock, Jean-Michel’s affable smile is plain to see as he regards her with unabashed interest of his own. He is mildly concerned, however, over the manner in which she carries her mask and swords; normally the mask is carried in the crook of one’s left arm and the sword is held in the right with somewhat more dignity. Perhaps she is left-handed? Hmm, that type is always one of the more difficult opponents to face. Casting his mind back to his conversation with Mademoiselle Rohling, he wonders if perhaps this exotic beauty is a dilettante, which would also explain the condition of the fleuret. 'Or perhaps your skill with the blade has so be-dazzled her that she has forgotten the most basic rudiments of fencing?’ He barely represses a laugh at that thought. A single bout with Yves is all that has ever been required to cure Jean-Michel of that conceit.
His curiosity as to her fencing peculiarities fades as he fully takes in this lovely sight. Bien mieux! Ah, if only more of his opponents were as attractive as this one he should not begrudge the extra scars…
Jean-Michel bows; since he has none of his cards on his person, a verbal introduction must suffice. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle, je m’appelle Jean-Michel du Pont-de-la-Vierge. Comment allez-vous?” Smoothly he transitions to slightly accented English, “If it would simplify matters, English may also serve.”
The young woman's smile widens a bit. It is a very enigmatic smile, showing no teeth and involving her dark slanted eyes as much as her lips. She bows again. "I hope my limited knowledge is enough in French or English," she answers. Her voice is low and sweet, in the mezzo-soprano range, and very soft. Her accent is exotic, as she almost sings the syllables, but her enunciation is very good, with just a bit of hesitation on R's and L's. "My name is Kuromizu Ketsuke Osada.
She gestures with her face mask. "Forgive my inexcusable audacity, but I have taken up fencing recently, and I would be indebted to you if you allowed me to hone my poor skill against your superior command of the sword."
Jean-Michel smiles wryly at her compliment. In French he replies, “My thanks for your kind words, Miss Osada, however should you ever happen to witness a bout between myself and my brother you would very likely reconsider the level of my abilities as he has trounced me quite thoroughly on every occasion where we have crossed swords. Be that as it may, I am present and he is not so I shall attempt to do my best. As there are at least two predominant schools and a variety of techniques I shall briefly touch upon the method which I was taught and in this way, if there are any differences between our teachings, we may avoid potential confusion before we begin our practice.”
As he exchanges his saber for a fleuret he reviews with her the basic rules regarding etiquette, safety (most especially in regards to the button, mask and gloves!) and scoring. Bearing in mind the potential pitfalls in the language barrier and still unsure whether she is truly an amateur or merely a dilettante, he observes her closely for signs of perplexity, uncertainty or incomprehension. Throughout it all he maintains a matter-of-fact, rather than condescending, bearing.
The exotic young woman proves to be an intent, attentive student. She listens with great concentration to Jean-Michel's instructions, mirroring as best she can his grip, stance and moves. Whenever Jean-Michel corrects her, she accepts the instructions with perfect grace and a smile.
Although she is an apt enough pupil, moving with lithe grace and smooth, fluid gestures, it is quite apparent that she comes from a completely foreign school. She tends to use moves that are surprising, as if they belonged to a different sport. Most of the time, this makes it easy for Jean-Michel to score points, as she reveals openings, but occasionally the moves are so surprising that Osada ends up with the upper hand. She strives hard, however, to discipline her reactions into the proper code of European fencing.
As an opponent, she shows promise. Her unusual height (she is actually a hair taller than Jean-Michel himself) gives her reach, her balance is perfect, and she is extremely observant. Even more important, she is willing to learn. Her movements are generally slower than what is normally seen in a fencing bout, yet she can show cat-like reflexes. All in all, it is very enjoyable for Jean-Michel to practice with someone of such good spirits, courtesy and dedication, even though she is has a lot to learn.
Too soon, Jean-Michel realises that dinnertime is approaching quickly and there is still someone who is expecting him to pay a call. She, above all others, would understand the delay; however it would be unmannerly to keep Her waiting too long.
“I thank you for a most enjoyable time, Miss Osada.” Jean-Michel bows, “I regret there shall not be another opportunity to pursue our studies as I have an engagement after dinner and tomorrow we arrive in Bayern, however… If I am not being too forward, perhaps we might dine together tonight? Although I have traveled perhaps a bit more than many people I have never been to your homeland and should like to hear something of it.”
The graceful fencer flashes a smile that crinkles her eyes but reveals no teeth. She dips into another bow. "You are too kind to this unworthy one. I would be delighted to dine with you, Monsieur du Pont-de-la-Vierge," she answers, freely mixing Eastern and Western rules of courtesy.
Glancing at the clock, Jean-Michel sees it is 6:40 and becomes aware
that time is passing all too swiftly. He
arranges to meet Miss Osada at 7:45 then retires to the gymnasium’s
dressing room; after freshening up he
proceeds to Deck Five.
As he prepares, Jean-Michel muses upon the peculiar nature of time. Earlier that very day, during the journey from Marseilles to Rome, he had been most anxious for time to pass and now he finds that time is vanishing altogether too quickly. He wonders if this is perhaps a joke being played upon him, for it seems that no sooner has he found another woman with whom he may truly speak with as an equal than he must leave her as their paths wend their separate ways. (Ah, Cayo Tiburón. If only he had not acted against her…!) After three years of journeying in the Nuage he has become somewhat more accustomed to that sort of life, the continual approach followed by inevitable departure (which is sometimes a blessing!), nevertheless until recently he has retained at least a small measure of control over his next port of call. Now, however, his final destination remains shrouded from him. Shall it truly be Bayern, or is that only the first stop in a great journey? At this moment there is no way for him to ascertain which it shall be and, as it seems to be Heaven’s will that he remain in ignorance, he shall cease to worry over it as worrying accomplishes nothing.
Pausing before the mirror, Jean-Michel scrutinizes his appearance. For such a grand and special occasion he has chosen his best suit, a few shades lighter than his usual dark blue; his carefully groomed, golden hair cascades over it as an accent. His vest is a paisley creation liberally mottled with red, bright yellow and purple; it is, in fact, his favorite vest. The highest possible gloss has been bestowed upon his boots while his gloves and hat are an impeccable match. Finally, a silver-headed walking stick completes the ensemble. (Ah, to be permitted to carry his silver-headed swordcane! But on the Parsifal he knows full well that is forbidden.)
For a space Jean-Michel stares at himself in the mirror, amazed at how little the man in the mirror resembles him, at least in the manner that Jean-Michel is wont to think of himself. Then a grin steals across his face as he indulges in one of his rare moments of vanity. In an overly dramatic manner he bows in acknowledgement of thunderous applause and the calls of his admiring audience. With a commanding gesture he orders them to be silent but such is their adulation that they do not stop, nay, they applaud that much more enthusiastically.
A glance at the clock puts an immediate end to his play-acting but not
his amusement. With a quiet laugh at his follies and a smile yet
on his face he departs for the First Class Library and his meeting with
Miss Osada.
To Be Continued...