The Wisterian

Chapter 12: Hooded

"I uh..."

"Rowan!" Bramble calls smoothly, insinuating himself between the pair. "I've been looking for you simply everywhere."

His green eye shadow sparkles over his long lashes and cat eye mascara. Glitter dusts his face and emerald green clothes, his tunic, also unbuttoned, shows off his sculpted chest and traditional tattoos.

He bows shallowly to Stol. "Father, this is Rowan, an artisan I imported from abroad to redo the paneling in my quarters. You know I can't stand magical furniture. Too much maintenance." He shudders for effect.

Stol huffs, motioning for Bramble to get on with it.

"I paid her to entertain Briar for the evening. You know how she gets at these things." Bramble lies smoothly, seamlessly offering a hand to Rowan. "Excuse us, I really must present her to the countess. Acacia has been begging me for an introduction for ages."

He tugs on Rowan's hand, and she stands nervously. Bramble whirls them around, confidently striding off with Rowan in tow.

He leans close, "Crisis, averted. But I would steer clear of him for the rest of the night. If you can." He smoothly guides them through the crowd, leaving confused stares and gossip in their wake.

He rolls them to a stop in front of Briar. "I can't believe you left this fine specimen unattended. Simply unacceptable dear sister. You never know who might scoop her up."

He leans towards Rowan, voice pitched low. "Nice suit, by the way. Looks far better on you." With that, he sashays away to a group of swooning nobles vying for his affections.

"Your brother is..." Rowan starts, exhaling slowly.

"Something else entirely." Finishes Briar, with a little laugh. "What happened? Are you okay, what did Bramble want?"

"He rescued me from your father actually."

Briar glances at Stol, eyes widening. "Uh, we better go." Her father glowers sternly in their direction. "Shall we dance?"

The sweet sounds of string instruments accompany them to the dance floor. The masquerade bustles with revelers, nobles, gentry, and artisans alike. Many in the traditional dress of their kingdoms, others in the latest fashions, all swirling in a complicated dance.

Rowan smooths the fabric of her borrowed clothes, self-consciously comparing herself to others in the room. Her clothes may be made of the finest silks, but she knows her rough hands and broad shoulders signal her as an outsider. She plasters on a fake smile and sets her shoulders back, determined to prove she belongs. Or at least fake it enough to have a pleasant evening with the most wonderful, poised, and fascinating woman she has ever met. Not to mention hot as heck.

The night's entertainment descends from the ceiling, a traveling troupe of acrobats. They dangle on silken fabric strung from the vaulted ceiling. Some contorting upon the stage, others blowing fire in great arcs around the room, creating flaming sculptures that dance over the top of the masquerade. Couples and throuples, undulate on the dance floor, a rainbow of glittering diversity. All in silken finery, none in hoods.

Briar leads Rowan to the dance floor, one arm winding around her waist, the other taking her hand to lead them into a jaunty dance. Rowan hesitates, heart pounding as she scans the crowds. Someone is going to notice she doesn't belong. She misses a step, landing on Briar's toe.

"Shoot, sorry. I'm a bit rusty." Rowan lies, wincing. She's never danced like this before.

Briar chuckles, dancing her feet out of the way and husking into Rowan's ear. "That's alright, we have all night to practice." Rowan steels her nerves, following Briar's liquid movements.