Cigno

Scène Trois

The two dancers raised their palms as the first notes warbled from the violinist. Madrigral could only watch as Allegro danced in the arms of another woman. As he cradled her waist with his free hand. As he sidestepped and swung her in a huge circle so the lavender waves of her dress flared out the exact moment the cymbols clashed. As he pulled her close—a breath separating their chests—and waltzed while the violin crooned. As he spun her and dipped her low to the floor at the crescendo. As he pulled her up so fast their faces almost touched. As he thanked her for her elegance with a kiss on the hand. As he always did to the Waltz of the Saints. As he always did with Madrigal.

The Saints had played a trick on her. A most vile, heinous trick.

Lord Luca stormed onto the dance floor and snatched Lady Chiarina away. He swept her into a new dance, signaling the rest of the nobility to join them. Madrigal walked off the dais, chest too tight, mask too hot, eyes too watery.

She skirted the dance floor, avoiding the twirling skirts and splayed hands of careless dancers. As a shadow, no one bade her any attention, so she was able to slip through a pair of doors which lead outside. Closing them behind her, the ensuing silence relieved some of the tightness in her chest.

Empty, the veranda overlooked the Danseur estate. Its white marble glowed in the moonlight. A pair of owls swooped over the silver-limned lake, gliding in sync over the wind-born waves. Their cries were soft and curious, asking who she was.

Her hands crumpled the vines twining around the balcony. Who was she? Who did she think she was? She'd been an orphan and a ward before. She'd thought she was a fiancee and a Lady, but clearly she'd lost those titles, so what did that leave her with? Who was Madrigal Cabriole?

"Lady Cabriole." She didn't recognize the suave voice nor leather-clad hand, but she did recognize the dark-feathered mask. Sort of.

"I'm no Lady."

"Not yet," he said. The gentleman in black still had his hand extended, so she placed hers atop his. Though the summer wind stroked her skin, it was not responsible for the goosebumps. No, her skin prickled in response to the biting cold leather.

He bowed over her hand, the painted beak of his mask grazing the backside of her palm. She withdrew her hand, rubbing warmth into the places where he had touched. Try as she might, she couldn't place his voice nor his mannerisms. Not to mention there weren't any Famiglias whose colors were straight black.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Lord..."

"Arlecchino. Just Arlecchino." He bowed again. "But there is something I can do for you."

She tilted her head, interested in how a plebian could assist a faux-noble such as herself.

"You see, I am what they call a wish-granter—a magician of sorts. I specialize in happy endings, particularly those of young ladies whose lives are in peril."

"Peril?!" Madrigal stumbled backwards, twisting around to scan the veranda.

Arlecchino laughed, cupping her hand in his, distracting her. "Forgive me, mi cigno, for my poor choice in words. I did not mean your life itself is in peril, but your life as the wife of the Lord Danseur."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're quite aware of the peril I'm talking about." After a few seconds of silence, he continued. "Did you not witness firsthand the charm of Lady Chiarina? Have you not wondered how someone so innocent in appearance could beguile all those conniving Lords and Ladies? It makes no sense that someone of her demeanour is to wed Lord Luca of all people."