Pieces of Time

Piece 2- Embers of Hope

Alissida

The red silk of my dress snaps out behind me as I whirl around, my chin raised, eyes defiant. Then, in the whisper of a breath, I leap into the waiting hands of the stranger before me, arms raised above my head as he catches me firmly around the waist.

The world stills. I hold back a gasp as he lifts me effortlessly into the air, my limbs unfolding into a graceful arc. The music fades, time slows, and I raise my eyes to the bejewelled ceiling, to the crowds, and finally, to the deep blue eyes of the stranger as he lowers me gently to the swaying ground. Gripping his arms, my eyes wide, I barely have time to note the strength with which he holds me until we are once more moving with the music, his arm around my waist, his fingers lacing through mine as we spin in a never-ending circle.

The mask, a clever imitation of a lion, barely disguises the smile playing on his lips, and the eyes that flicker longingly to my blood-red lips, lingering. Then, I watch as he takes in my flowing hair, my bedroom eyes, my fiery dress, and lastly, my crimson heels. I grin, throw my long, dark hair over one shoulder, and press my body into his, just as I've been taught. His arm tightens in answer, those blue eyes darkening with intensity. But as my eyes catch the glint of another's across the room, I force myself to spin away into the crowd, rippling red dress and slim figure swallowed by the crowd in a matter of moments. I do not look back, though my heart burns in my chest, and tears fill my kohl-lined eyes.

Hours later, I trudge slowly up the winding staircase to my room on the highest floor. Like a princess locked in a Tower, I think mildly to myself.  My mind still reels in disarray, inundated with the the memory of his eyes. I know those eyes. I know every pigment, every shade of blue, the way they reflect the light from every direction. I know them.

But who do they belong to?

Arriving at my door, heels clasped in one hand, I notice a single note stuck to the stained wood, 3 words scrawled across it. For a moment, I let myself hope it's the blue-eyed stranger who held me tonight. Held my body, my heart, my very soul. He's probably forgotten you already, speaks a voice in my mind. With a start, I realise it's the silky, purring voice of Madame Ferroni.

I read the note. A sharp intake of breath, and my heels clatter loudly to the ground, the noise a near-silent thud in the back of my mind as I lift a trembling hand to the barely perceptible bruise on my left cheek.

My office. Now.

I'm not stupid enough to pray it's a summon to collect my wages. In fact, it may as well be a death warrant.

Sebastian

Those lips. Those blood-red lips. And damn, that dress. It's been hours, but I can still feel the phantom softness of silk, the lean strength of her body beneath my hands. It's her, I know it. I've found her. I breathe, in and out, in and out, calming my thundering heart as I approach the door, breathless from climbing those stairs. That would explain the muscles, I think, grimacing as I press a hand to the stitch developing in my side. I may be able to throw a punch, but climbing 4 flights of stairs? A different story. How the hell did she do it in heels?!

I silence my breathing, pull my shoulders back, and straighten the red roses clutched in my hand. Walking confidently forward, I lift my chin, prepare to knock on the door, and...

"Shit!" I splutter, and I trip over said pair of heels, twisting just in time to avoid careering face-first into the wall. "What in the name of God..." I pick myself up, dust off, and study the heels scattered on the ground. Recognising them instantly, I frown, my gut squeezing in warning. I crouch down, careful to avoid squashing the already sorry-looking roses, and pick up a shoe. It's tattered and faintly stained, but matches perfectly with the ones in my memory. I smile, stand up, and summon the strength to knock on the door.

No answer. I breath in, and knock louder. Nothing. Disappointment curdles in my gut as I turn away, the roses wilting in my fist. I must have been wrong. But, as I take a weary step towards the stairs, a flutter catches the corner of my eye. A note. I catch it before it hits the floor, my brows furrowing as I struggle to make out the 3 words.

The roses tumble to the floor.

My legs are crashing down the stairs, taking them in threes, before the petals hit the ground.

I just hope I'm not too late.