On the top floor of The City, in a manor lit under the artificial starry sky, a banquet was underway. Under the delightful chandelier, all the idiosyncratic individuals of the high society had gathered.
Bellies protruding from buttoned-up suits, older gentlen dined with younger ladies. Fancy were their conversations, and as vain as their appearances.
Though they enjoyed it, the soft orchestral music in the room wasn't without its detractors.
"Our music pit produces better timbre."
"Our players know the strings, keys, and everything else in between."
"Classical is too old-fashioned for ."
It was a battle of impressions and airs.
The new age of nobility mingled together, denouncing the obsolete practices. Predictably, the old stuck to their ways.
But no matter who, no matter the gender or age, their gaze constantly searched left and right for the lady of De Roschillians.
And always they found her with a skinny man of low birth. His ghastly, empty stares and his pale visage didn't seem to suit their aesthetic sense, as they kept condescendingly whispering about it.
Even as Charles partook in the dinner alongside his fiancée, they pointed out his shortcomings.
"Look how he holds his fork. And did he—"
"Oh, shush. No need to vilify the poor boy. If he knew what a soup spoon was, he would have used it instead of the dessert spoon, no?"
"Indeed, not every human is made equal. So are not educated in courtesy and decorum. If he were to be successfully taught, one would imagine even mutts could talk."
The conversation wasn't ant to be private. Their voices were loud enough that their chatter traveled over the occasional interval in music.
But the pair didn't seem bothered. Charles was his usual self, if not a little lost in thought. Marianne didn't mind the attention; perhaps she even preferred it.
The comnts didn't halt even after dinner. In the washroom and even on the dance floor, it followed Charles.
"No grace to his steps."
"Awkward, isn't he?"
"Always a step too late."
"What a disgrace."
Marianne observed Charles as they went round and round in circles around the dance floor. She peered deep into his eyes, searching for so sign of weakness.
She was satisfied, assuming his detached attitude as a cover for a fleeting sense of inferiority.
"Co."
She pulled him by the hand and took him away from the cheerful venue. It took a while to arrive at their destination—a closed amusent park nestled in an old part of The City near the theater.
"Baptiste brought here once when I was little; Papa had asked him to." For a mont, she looked pensive. "He hasn't aged a day since—that Baptiste."
The words seed to drift away in the cold wind.
Marianne grabbed the rickety gates and looked back at her fiancé. It was locked, prompting Charles to jump over the fence to unlock the gate.
It opened with a creak.
Marianne gave a half-curtsy before marching forward.
"It's privately owned."
Which raised questions about the legality of their visit, but that didn't seem to be a concern for soone nad De Roschillian.
The amusent park at night was like a graveyard. tal here and tal there, it was a place full of children's resentnt.
An electronic buzzing from sowhere alard Charles.
…and will be mine! She. Will. Be. Mine! Mine, mine, mine!
It was a malfunctioning radio with a bronze exterior. It was attached to a car battery and playing an old song.
Like a dictator delivering impassioned speeches to his gullible flock, the singer continued.
Won't she be mine?
Yes, yours!
Mine, mine, mine! Mine!
Yours, yours, yours! Yours!
It had rhythm and simplicity. A catchy song bound for fa.
Yet it had eerie undertones.
In the cold night, that song seed to spread its own special chill.
It accompanied them to the rry-go-round and the Ferris wheel, which Charles's fiddling had brought to life.
The forr was one of the few places where neon lights weren't used. The latter, on the other hand, provided the most enchanting view of the purple, pink, and blue reflecting in the adjacent artificial lake.
For the first ti, it looked like the pair was enjoying themselves.
"You bring your cara everywhere?" Marianne asked, eyeing the satchel hanging from the head of the carousel pony.
She flipped her hair to one side.
"Take a picture."
She crossed her legs and rested her chin, staring at him intently.
Charles quickly assembled his cara and held the position. Against the golden light in a neon city, she looked magnificent.
And he clicked.
Then, again.
And overwhelming sentint welled up inside.
Although he didn't dare look at the pictures that ca out, he admired her. Everything about that mont seed without a blemish. There was no doubt that she was worthy of being a muse.
But was she the right choice as his muse?
That question needed an answer.
Thoughtfully, The Photographer studied her.
"Would you mind a few more?" he asked, his eyes half-closed.
Marianne smiled through her eyes.
"There."
He took her across the lake, and against the backdrop of a colorful rry-go-round, he made her pose like.
"Can you imagine a moon? It's there in the sky. Gaze at it."
He grunted and took a few pictures.
"High in the sky."
She followed his instructions, and he took her pictures.
"No, that's not right, the angle. It needs to be more than forty-five degrees."
Rapidly, haste and disappointnt crept into his tone.
"Wait, right here!"
Breathing unsteadily, he ran back all the way to the mansion. A quick glance resulted in the discovery of a regal, cream-colored umbrella hanging from one of the wagons.
He snatched it and stumbled through the streets. When he reached a tiny tailoring shop, his steps ca to a halt.
The dress worn by the mannequin in the display had caught his eye. He couldn't help but notice that it had the sa color as the umbrella.
It was a cheap imitation of the dresses noble ladies preferred, but it was perfect for his purpose. He ran into the shop, threw his wallet at the old man behind the counter, and undressed the mannequin.
With a cream dress and a cream umbrella in hand, he rushed back to his cara and to Marianne.
But only the complex machine was there.
Tired of waiting in the cold, his fiancée had left.
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