A night to remember

[Marlowe]

Odd how one can feel more at home when surrounded almost entirely by strangers, in a settlement rife with peril in every nook.

Quincy stood disconcerted at how much it all catered to who he was and what he craved: the lush decor of the Ancestry Treasury halls; his peers' refined garments on par with elaborate hairstyling and the best cosmetics silver can buy; and music, of course. Not just any music, but the kind he could appreciate without having to actually partake in it. It's been so long since the tunes he was hearing didn't rely on his fingers!

Cornelius certainly had a clear picture of what he wanted: Quincy's musical cues, the auctions for stupendous pieces of equipment and even the one for the elegant damsel's availability for a date night, the announcements... The doctor seemed to be right up his alley. The first half of the evening felt like a marathon, as he had to go to the stage and back a few times, all the while trying to locate a few friendly faces amidst the masks -and- ask Miranda for a dance he played in his head so many times.

Quincy managed a few successes, but making his way to the flower stand in the museum's main hall was an uphill battle of hidden faces coming to congratulate him on his performances. He didn't know whether there was genuine enjoyment or it was simply proper etiquette, but he wanted to at least be able to place who he was shaking hands with! Save for a couple of pleasant exceptions, it'd be just a voice he wouldn't be able to place again. Eventually, he took a nice bouquet home for Miranda to paint, as he was aware of her appreciation for flowers.

The crowd seemed sparse upon his return, at least at the main hall. Quincy took the opportunity to head down the basement, he knew Drusilla enjoyed that place, and he wanted to exchange a word or two with her. He recognized Constantine's voice when bidders were disputing Cornelius' fabulous shoes, but couldn't reach him in time until the Kaduraan mingled again among the sea of masked guests.

There was, in fact, a woman there when he reached the landing, but as soon as her words reached him, he knew it wasn't Drusilla.

"Evening", she said flatly, clad in a fine ocean blue dress. The mask she wore didn't conceal enough of her facial features.

"Good evening, Miss Harlow".

Most of the encounter was familiar and professional in the beginning, but Quincy noticed a different disposition of the Herald's editor then: Jeane wasn't offering him clear-cut answers, as if she wanted to just finish her task before working on the next one. Maybe it was the festive mood upstairs, but she was bouncing quite a bit off him as they kept on.

"Why did you allow such a piece to be published?", he asked a few minutes in, standing behind a chair and gripping its back. "It contained very little but the bashing of my name, personally". She sighed and motioned for him to sit down, as she did the same.

"That whole paper was a bit of a scandal sheet, yeah". Suddenly, she rose to her feet. "Actually, come in the back with me".

Quincy followed her into Atticus' office, somewhat surprised about her casual attitude about it. Only then it dawned on him that there might be more going on behind the curtains, a notion further reinforced when Atticus pushed the door open with two drinks in hand. He hoped to Decus he hadn't inadvertently become a third wheel.

"Just bringing- oh", Atticus laughed, handing a glass to Jeane. "Sorry".

"I thought you died", she said, taking the drink. "We're having a conversation, can you give us a minute?".

"It's my workshop, but sure, Harlow", he said, closing the door on his way out. Quincy managed to stifle a chuckle, coughing on cue.

"I'm a bit torn you see", she said, putting down her glass. "I want the publication to be as honest as possible".

"I see".

"What's the line between harmful and honest? We do need to be a bit more careful on what we publish", she motioned about with her hands to find a way through her thoughts, "People love hearing of others' dirty laundry, and in some ways it's a good thing, yeah?".

Jeane was surely talkative, and he could see this was really bothering her. She wanted his take on that, and Quincy tried to evade it until she stood between him and the door; she was having none of it, so he yielded. Was his point of view good enough? He deemed himself ill prepared to match his editor's choices, but he realized he wouldn't leave that room without speaking his mind. He did leave eventually though, taking good advice to keep the journalism doors open and a bit of inside information on Walsham; but it did take a lot out of him, he was exhausted.

Quincy dragged his feet upstairs, amazed he even had the energy to crawl back into his room. Maybe he left the front door unlocked, but the idea of going back to check was simply ludicrous; he'd rather replace whatever was stolen than demand more from his feet at that point. Relying purely on muscle memory, he entered his room and sank onto the chair to his vanity.

He reached for the pots with bits of cotton, rubbing the heavy makeup from his cheeks and forehead. It was then that he caught a glimpse of his bed on the vanity's mirror: the covers were undone, and he spotted a silhouette on it. When he approached, he saw it was Miranda, deep asleep in the dim lit room. Her gala dress was lying on the floor close to the bed, and so were her boots. She was wearing his poet shirt, the fabric reaching up to two inches above her knees.

Quincy watched her for a while, the oily cotton still in his hand. He was amused: her cottage was about the same distance from the Old Town archway as was his house, yet there she was. The rest of his makeup came off pretty fast, he'd do the touch ups in the morning. His hand was already working the door latch on his way out when it suddenly stopped. Was he leaving his home again, just when he wanted to do the opposite?

Nivi's hoarse words came to his mind again, her natural gift to make him feel foolish in a matter of seconds. Didn't she say she wouldn't mind him laying beside her that time? Wasn't she wearing his clothes, asleep on his bed? Did he not just give her a red rose in front of scores of people when all eyes were on them, for crying out loud? Quincy repeated Nivi's question in his mind: what was he doing?

He, too, changed into comfortable and loose clothes and picked his side of the bed. The day had been rife with missed opportunities: the regrettably short dance with her as the pianist went for a short break just when they were at it; misplacing both Constantine and Drusilla the entire night; and, he suspected, the night might've ended differently if he had returned sooner to meet Miranda still awake.

But he was fulfilled; such a colorful evening among the gray, ordinary days that surreptitiously add up on one's shoulders. Quincy surrendered to sleep, gently carried by the faint floral aroma that traveled from her hair.