Chapter Twenty
Chapter
Twenty
Le Cirque Magique
Satrine
A block up from our house, around the corner, and
just a block further, there were milliners, dressmakers, jewelers, cobblers,
bauble shops, tailors, teahouses and candy stores.
A block down from our house, and three blocks in the other
direction, there was a large art museum, cafés, restaurants, bookstores, flower
shops and sophisticated drinking establishments.
The streets in between were lined with tall, leafy trees
(though now, these leaves were turning to wondrous fall colors) and stately
black lampposts.
All the buildings were made of a soft gray that was only
perhaps three shades deeper than white. They were clean, and there was
something in the stone that made it faintly glitter.
Flowers were as they seemed to be everywhere in my limited
experience of this world, placed at a priority. Window boxes abounded. Massive
urns burst with blooms in front of houses. Beds were filled in the parks.
Hanging baskets fell from lampposts. I even saw a few rooftop gardens that
appeared especially verdant.
In between these areas, in a way that reminded me of
Savannah, but here it was more prolific, there were parks, some large, like the
one opposite our house (and, I’d learned, another one opposite Ansley and
Loren’s) that took up an entire city block. Some smaller that
just offered some greenspace between townhomes.
I loved the area, and Mom, Maxie and I had spent a great
deal of time enjoying it.
It was wondrous, as this world seemed wont to be.
But it made me sad that in my old world, the people in power
put profit over peace. Building things and selling things and making everything
about money, in doing so, covering up all the green.
Make no mistake, even in our area of Newton, one that was
clearly clean and upper class, we were in a city and there was hustle and
bustle. People going places, striding down the sidewalks. Horses and carriages
on the cobbled streets.
But with the trees and the flowers and the green spaces,
even with the bustle, there was beauty. There was a sense of serenity. An offer
from nature to slow down and witness her abundance and be thankful.
That was my experience in our, perhaps, eight-block radius.
Outside of the ride to the constabulary, I hadn’t seen much
of the city.
Until I sat next to Loren on the way to Le Cirque
Magique.
And I learned much of the rest was the same.
Although we rode through districts that were less about
townhomes and shops, and more about banks, merchants’ offices, brokers,
solicitors, physicians and estate agents, and the parks were less plentiful
(but they still had them), the trees and streetlamps remained. The buildings
still glittered, people strolled the streets, horses and carriages clomped
along the cobblestones, and the city seemed alive.
I loved sitting next to Loren.
I loved we were going out on a date.
I loved that, at the end of the date, he was a sure thing.
I loved the gown I was wearing.
I loved that he was holding my hand and that seemed to be a
thing with him, which I loved even more.
But I couldn’t tear my eyes from the carriage windows so I
could drink it all in.
It was a good thing.
For when the hotel in which Le Cirque Magique
occupied its upper floor, the tallest building in the city, standing at nine
stories (all this, Aunt Mary had shared with me, beside herself with glee Loren
was taking me to Le Cirque, a restaurant in a hotel, both of which
were apparently renowned across the Vale), came into view, I gasped.
It reminded me of The Plaza in New York.
Except better.
We stopped at its grand entry, which had three plush, royal
blue carpet runners running down the steps to the street from its three ornate
double doors, and at once, a footman was there to open our carriage.
He pulled down the steps, and it was Loren who alighted
first so he could assist me.
The hotel was called The Heritage.
It was not adorned in gold, but gleaming silver that
complemented the glittering gray stone.
It was outlandishly ostentatious.
And I hadn’t even walked inside, but I already knew I loved every
inch of it.
Loren guided me in, and I nearly fainted at the opulence of
the lobby.
Black marble floors, veined in silver and blue, blue marble
columns veined in black and silver. Enormous dripping crystal chandeliers.
The middle was an atrium domed in stained glass.
It was staggering.
“Milord, the private car awaits,” a liveried employee
murmured to us, and I looked to him, then to Loren, who dipped his chin to the
man.
We were led to the side, down a short hall, and the man
opened a carved pocket door, where inside, with a magnificently tiled floor,
and silver gilded mirrors, there was an elevator.
“Oh my,” I whispered.
Loren led me in, our escort came in with us, and at once, he
closed the door and pulled a cord.
I felt Loren’s lips at my ear.
“The riffraff take the stairs,” he whispered on a tease,
because no “riffraff” ever came here.
It was just that this elevator was saved for people as
important as the Marquess of Remington.
I turned startled eyes to him, it occurring to me for first
time since I met him how prominent his title was.
He was.
He winked.
The car lurched, I grabbed on to him, and we started going
up.
One could say they didn’t have the elevator business quite
flowing in that world. It took forever to get to the top.
But I didn’t care.
I was holding on to my man and he was taking me on the best
date I’d had in my life, I knew that even if it hadn’t really started.
We arrived at the top, our guy opened the doors and led us
out, but Loren slowed our progress and said something I didn’t get.
“Twenty men.”
I gazed up at him. “Sorry?”
“The lift. For a smooth ride, they shift around, it’s like a
dance. I requested they show me how it’s done once, and it was remarkable. It
takes twenty men to lift us to the top.”
Holy cow!
“Men pulled us up here?”
He gazed curiously at me. “How else would that car rise?”
How else indeed.
I shrugged.
He smiled.
He then stopped us at the wide entry to a vast room.
I stood in the middle of the doorway, looking into the room.
And I nearly burst into tears.
Every inch of the ceiling fell with extraordinary crystal
chandeliers, one fat white candle burning in each. The walls between the
windows had a line of crystal sconces holding three candles. The tables had
elaborate crystal candelabrum, the bases of them high so diners could see each
other. The smaller tables, the holder had five tapers. The larger, seven
candles. Larger than that, there were several holders on the table.
The walls were upholstered in something dark but gossamer.
Web-like and subtly glittering.
The tables were covered with pure white tablecloths. The
silver and crystal on them picking up the candlelight and sparkling. The plates
did too, as they were made of glass edged in silver.
It was dim, the lighting so carefully orchestrated, blow out
a single candle, and it would be nearly impossible to see.
And all around there were views of the city.
The black-uniformed waiters, carrying trays of food and
drinks, maneuvered the dark space like acrobats.
It was a circus.
And it was magical.
I felt Loren divest me of my cloak to give it to a waiting
attendant.
And I heard a collective gasp.
My gown, a nude beige silk that was form-fitting to above my
knees, then flared out in a circular skirt, but faded to a see-through netting
above the bodice, was stitched impeccably with cut-outs of immaculate black
lace. The lace floated in lines down the skirt and rounded the hem. It also
raised over my breasts and capped my shoulders. And a band of it was stitched
at my waist like a belt and my neckline to serve as a necklace.
The back, leading over my ass and down the train, was even
better.
My hair was up in a sleek style. I carried a black satin
clutch with a rhinestone buckle as a catch. Long black gloves were smoothed up
my arms. And I wore no jewelry but large diamond studs at my ears.
And it was good I went for it for my first date with my guy.
Because every eye in the room was on me.
“Well…shite,” I breathed.
“You’re magnificent,” Loren whispered in my ear, tucked my
hand in his elbow, and guided me into the room.
Every gaze followed.
We walked behind the ma?tre d’ as he took us to a table at
the back and to the side that was small, rectangular, had a five-candle
candelabra, and two plush, black-velvet chairs on the outside facing the view
where the table was set against the window.
And Newton lay before us, twinkling like London while Peter,
Wendy and friends flew over it to Neverland.
Loren held out my seat.
I sat.
He joined me and was barely down when two gorgeously etched
flutes of champagne were laid in front of us, the bucket with the bottle put on
the table, and whoever offered these swept away.
Our backs were to the room, I could still feel the attention
even though a hum had struck up.
And I didn’t care a whit.
I reached for my glass.
Loren took his.
I turned to him.
He’d dressed for the occasion, apparently, in all black,
including boots, shirt and neckcloth.
He looked like a glamorous scoundrel.
Delicious.
I tipped my flute toward him.
“This will be the best, most enjoyable, most memorable
evening I’ll ever have in my life,” I announced.
“Will it?” he asked, sounding amused.
I was not amused.
“It will,” I stated, my voice edged with steel.
His attention on me grew acute.
“Satrine,” he whispered, his voice
rough.
“You may think you’re dark,” I told him. “And I’m finding
you are. Dark like this.” I indicated the room with a sweep of my flute. “Edged
in gossamer and crystal. Lit with fire. A beautiful cocoon where I feel safe,
truly safe, for the first time in my life.”
His voice was now thick, and that fire was burning into me
from his eyes.
“Sweeting.”
I leaned into him and whispered, “So stay dark, my handsome
man. I’ll take you precisely as you come.”
I sat back, clinked my glass against his, and drank.
He didn’t drink.
He took my flute after I took my sip and set it beside his
own, which was already on the table.
Then he pulled me into his arms, my ass barely still on my
seat, my chest plastered to his, and he laid a wet, heavy, scrumptious kiss on
me.
He released my mouth but not my body.
I swam up from the kiss.
“I’m falling in love with you,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Good, because the same is happening to me,” I replied
breathily.
He smiled, a small, happy, beautiful smile.
I wasn’t sure I gave as good as I got, but I tried.
“Remington, my chap.”
We both turned our heads.
At a table a few feet away, a man with a bald pate, bushy
white hair at the sides, and even bushier mutton-chop sideburns was smiling at
us.
“Here’s to your good fortune, sir,” he said, raising a glass
of red wine our way.
“Yes, hear hear,” the woman with
him agreed, rising from her seat.
The man followed her as we heard another “hear hear.”
And then more.
And more.
Everyone rose and raised their glass to the Marquess of
Remington and his bride.
So…freaking…cool.
“Is this…uh, normal?” I asked under my breath.
“They don’t know what I did, but they do know it was offered
the highest decoration from the king when I served in his army,” he answered
low. “And that decoration is rewarded very rarely, so they can assume it was
something.”
Well then.
Since it was something, that most certainly
explained it.
I smiled at the room, all on their feet, raising their
glasses to my man.
And I did it huge.
“And I believe it’s safe to say,” he went on in a drawl,
“they agree with me that your gown is quite remarkable.”
Oh my gods!
He was just…plain…awesome!
With that, Loren set me more fully in my seat, took my glass
and handed it to me, nabbed his own, and I followed suit as we twisted in our
chairs and raised our drinks to the assemblage.
A muted, tasteful cheer broke out.
And we all drank.
Totally.
Best…
Date…
Ever.