The Vanished Pearls of Orlov

"Ugly, crippled, and penniless, just like Albion promised."

     Iolanthe stepped out from behind the screen. She was dressed in her best; a figure-flattering gown in a color that enhanced her skin and hair. Her cane was chosen to blend in so it was less noticeable, but it was carefully shaped and carved, a piece of sculpture in its own right. Overall, she wore her sheerest veil; scalloped pearlescent gossamer edged in pearls to give it just enough weight to remain in place while floating around her head like a nimbus of pearly light. It was cut to accentuate her dark brown eyes, heavily fringed with thick eyelashes. She had often thought her eyes were her best feature, followed by her thick, dark hair. The pearls edging the eye openings on the veil emphasized her eyes even more.

     She would never be pretty but she could be well-groomed at all times, even elegant. Beautiful, flattering, well-fitted clothing felt like armor; a shield against unfriendly eyes.

     Today, she felt as though she wore rags suitable for swineherds.

     Rastislav noticed first.

     "The cripple crawls out of her hole," he said.

     Albion was far more polished. He smiled charmingly, as if he was truly happy to see her and not because she was the living promise of Orlov coin to pay his gambling debts, and, as an afterthought, pay for his wife's medical care.

     "Ah, the delightful Iolanthe, I presume. Charlton, come meet your bride-to-be." He pranced forward; his hands outstretched as if asking her to dance.

     She curtsied graciously, using her cane as support. Iolanthe had practiced for many long hours to remain smooth and fluid. It didn't come naturally and she was always afraid of losing her balance and falling. Albion, she noticed, was still a handsome figure of a man especially when compared to Rastislav's raddled face and paunchy body. That is, until you considered how cheerfully he was selling his miserable, frightened daughter to the sot. Other people's feelings meant nothing to him when his own comfort was at stake. His pleasantries were more of the same; a façade with about the same value as a set of fake pearls. Good fakes, even expensive ones. But still fake.

     Charlton and Walter had both been staring at the locked door to the chapel, the door that concealed and trapped the unlucky DelFino girl. They turned together.

     Charlton's face didn't change. He remained sullen and angry, like a snared badger waiting for a chance at escape from the trap.

     Walter grinned widely as he looked her over.

     "Gleesh, Charlton," he said. "Your bride-to-be. Ugly, crippled, and penniless, just like Albion promised. See, your dad can be truthful. She's probably stupid too."

     Charlton's face darkened even more.

     Iolanthe forced out a courteous smile. It wasn't anything she hadn't heard before from the sot and now she knew the full measure of Walter DelFino's character.

     "Walter," Charlton said pleasantly. "Shut up." He clenched his fist, the one he had been making and unmaking for as long as Iolanthe had been watching, turned, and slammed it into Walter's nose.

     Walter crumpled to the floor, his nose streaming blood like a faucet. He sputtered, whimpered, and spat, but didn't try to regain his feet and fight back. He still hurt everywhere, so he concentrated on locating a handkerchief for his nose while working out plots for revenge, later, when Charlton might have forgotten the incident. He knew better than to say anything more, and he couldn't understand why he'd opened his fool mouth in the first place, but my Gods, Iolanthe Orlov was plain and lame and her exquisitely well-made, albeit provincial clothes did little to hide those facts. No wonder she wore a veil. The wonder was that it wasn't opaque.