momebie

Original fiction.
~1000 words.

“We crossed swords the first night we met,” Edmund says. His mask is resting on the top of his head, curved beak pointing up toward the chandelier and making it look, from William's seated angle, like he is hanging from it. Edmund is the only person who feels at ease enough in the Henley family home to have taken his mask off. William suspects it's because Edmund has no airs, no sense of propriety, and no wish to make a name for himself. All admirable qualities for someone of new money.

At Edmund's words most of the women are smiling coyly behind their gloved hands or decorated fans. Standing around William there are masked men and women decorated in laces, silks, and fine brocades collected from traders on the Chinois border. After all, when Grand Dame Henley requests your presence in her home dressed to please royalty and masked to complete espionage, you comply and you do not stray from script. William is just pleased to see his peers taking some interest in what they wear, since the new fashions do nothing but make the women look mannish and the men look less so.

“He does mean steel, ladies,” William says, self-consciously adjusting his crisp, black lace cravat. “I'm afraid you'll find no tawdry penny dreadful affairs here.” At that the men are laughing and William lets himself relax. He's just about to remove his own mask when a heavy hand falls on his shoulder.

“I trust you're keeping my mother's guests well entertained, Mr. Wilson.”

A frisson runs through the group, as if someone has suddenly pulled the marionette strings of polite society tight. William looks over the high, winged back of the chair to see that there's a man behind him dressed in bright red with a simple, black cloth mask tied about his head. It covers his face from his brows to his nose. He's directing his question at Edmund, but he doesn't release William's shoulder. This must be the Mr. Henley that Edmund invited him to meet.

“It is what you're paying me for, sir,” Edmund says, and gives a mock bow.

“Much appreciated.” Mr. Henly looks down at William. “You won't mind if I steal Mr. Claxton away for a moment, will you? I do believe this is his first time in our home and mother will want to meet him.”

“Be my guest,” Edmund says. The group chuckles politely.

Sycophants, William thinks.

“Mr. Claxton,” Mr. Henley squeezes William's shoulder briefly before letting it go. He turns and exits the parlor without any other instruction to William, who stands, collects his cane, and hurries after him.

Mr. Henley weaves through the other guests, not acknowledging their presence, though William notes that every one of them gives him the courtesy of stopping their conversations and nodding as he goes by. William keeps an eye out for Dame Henley, not wanting to be startled into doing something embarrassing. He does not see her anywhere. Mr. Henley takes a turn down a dimmed hallway and by the time William reaches the head of it he has disappeared.

William pauses, not knowing what to do. “Mr. Henley,” he calls. When he receives no answer he starts down the corridor, looking into the open doors as he goes. As he passes the last door there's a noise behind him and he swings around, arching his arm and bringing his cane up to eye level just in time to block Mr. Henley's hands as they come down toward him, bringing a heavy vase with them. When William's cane makes contact with Mr. Henley's wrists he drops the vase. William watches it bounce once on the thickly padded rug and crack from lip to base.

"I trust no one will miss that," he says.

“You are fast.” Mr. Henley admires the vase between them, lightly rubbing his right wrist. “Edmund mentioned that you were a better swordsman than he was, but I hardly believed it.”

William lowers his cane, clutching it tightly in his fist. He can feel his cheeks flushing. “That's hardly a matter of distinction. Edmund Wilson has the the worst form of any saber fighter who has ever lived.”

“You have to admit, he gets results.” Mr. Henley reaches up and unties the knot at the back of his mask, pulling the thin, black fabric away from his face. "Jon Henley," he says.

“I know who you are," William says, a tinge of disdain hiding a tremor in his voice. He will not be made to look foolish at the hands of a man whose family are not his betters. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Henley, is there a reason you have just tried to kill me, or am I free to go?”

“I had to make sure you were going to be useful." Jon holds his hand out, palm flat. "Your mask please.”

Ludicrous. “What?”

“Remove your mask,” Jon says. “This meeting has already exceeded my taste for theatrics and I have rounds to make among the guests.”

William does as he's told, tugging at the silk ribbon with his free hand. When the mask loosens he pulls it away and places it in Jon's open hand. Relieved of his mask, William can take in both Jon and the wide hallway. Jon looks smaller than William had previously thought him, not nearly as intimidating as the rumours about him would suggest.

Jon stares at William for a moment, summing him up. “Do you ever feel as though you've been rendered obsolete?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“The way you dress and the way you carry yourself. You are positioning yourself as one of the ineffectual elite. You've carved a niche for yourself in dandyism and now that niche threatens to break open, leaving you exposed. If you are not careful, Mr. Claxton, you are going to slip through and be left behind.”

“With all due respect,” William says. “I find my niche as comfortable as any that has presented itself to me. Is there a point to this, Mr. Henley?”

A slow smile cuts its way across Jon's face and William feels that tension again. This time it's inside of him, threatening to split him open. He suddenly feels as though he's standing at one of history's ledges. Does he jump, or does reach back and depend on the strength of a thin branch that could drop him at any time.

“Mr. Claxton,” Jon says finally. “How do you feel about overthrowing the monarchy?”

This bit of back story for the steampunk universe was written (with apologies to