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runespoorTitle: Babylon, to the Victorian Mind
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runespoor7
Prompt: 011 - Red
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda, Narcissa (Andromeda/Ted)
Rating: PG
Words: 5000
Summary: AU. London, early 1870s. A chance meeting at the opera house, and how the real show isn't on the stage.
The gas lights glittered and flickered in their glass cases. They reflected on crystal chandeliers, sparkling on the diamond-shaped pendants of the women in the crowd below. The noise of a thousand well-bred voices arched up against the high ceilings in a steady indistinct buzz; the colourful evening gowns glided over the golden parquet, long skirts muffling the sound of fine boots, patches of brilliant material contrasted by the severe black tailcoats, with their pristine white shirts and shiny top hats. It looked like the sea, as painted by an Impressionist; pinks and blues and greens and even some yellows, in satin or velvet. Flowers, at any rate. There would be no black and white on the sea.
Not that many of the fluttery ladies and patronising lords would know about it; Impressionists did retain a suspicious perfume of scandal.
Andromeda Black, who revelled in scandal as much as she did in little-known history books, discarded the metaphor as she'd have done with a trinket that lost its lustre. From the top of the stairs where she was standing – high up in the opera house – the intricate designs of the social game showed plainly, a language she deciphered without a thought, paths of elegant clothes that contradicted those of the honey-toned marquetry and that somehow added depth to it. A dance more fascinating than that which had just unfolded on the scene, a few minutes ago.
She smoothed her dress with the flat of her hands, not in a hurry to throw herself back into the lion pit. More like snake pit, she reminded herself. A fleeting smile flashed across her features. She took a last moment to review her pose, then walked down the stairs, her inner nervousness belied by her majestic countenance.
Or perhaps less majestic than arrogant. The scarlet brocade swung behind her at the same rhythm as her hips, giving her straight back a sassy tinge as she swaggered on.
She thought she didn't imagine the startled looks as she went, or the occasional nudging from one finely-dressed member of society to his or her equally reputable partner in gossip. It had just been four years she hadn't appeared in society, not enough for anyone to forget her; and even those who hadn't known her then – for, Black or not, she'd after all only been an unmarried girl of nineteen – she carried enough of the family resemblance to be instantly identifiable.
Tonight was the night she was going to reclaim what was rightfully hers by birth, and if she was going to have to break her family's pedestal to do so, and to drag them in the mud until her heritage was twisted beyond recognition, then so be it!
The opening night of Coppélia was bound to be the perfect occasion. If Andromeda wanted to be honest, if only with herself – God forbid – she'd admit she chose the ballet on purpose. Contrary to Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas, it was in no way linked to her new life; and, unlike Giselle, she'd never seen it with her family Before. (The concept wholly deserved the capital letter.)
Andromeda remembered well the first time she'd gone to the opera; she had only been a child then, and she flanked her older sister, dark Bellatrix in her blue gown. It had been Giselle. She remembered how proud she'd been to be treated like a grown-up, and how perfectly odious she had acted towards Narcissa, who was two years younger, the baby, the blond Black, always the odd one out. Finally, Andromeda was to be allowed the same pleasures as Bellatrix! Bella, two years older, confident in her maturity, had seemingly indulged her, though she'd warned Andromeda beforehand that she should be prepared for a dreadfully dull evening. The dancing wouldn't be so bad, she'd said, but the intervals would be awful – there would be grown-ups talking grown-up things to the girls' parents, and they wouldn't even be permitted to run mildly amok as they did at home.
Of course, Andromeda had effortlessly carried it out, and everyone had complimented Father on what an adorable little creature she was.
Fifteen years later, the thought suddenly occurred to Andromeda that maybe Bella's jealousy was born as soon as that evening.
She couldn't, however, indulge in wishful thinking regarding Bellatrix. Bellatrix wouldn't be there; she was honeymooning on the Continent – in Italy, Andromeda supposed. Hadn't Bella always said she wanted to see Italy? Or it had been Prussia. Well – Germany.
How surprising, Andromeda noted, that she should know so few things about her favourite sister. Maybe they had started to fall apart sooner than she'd always thought. Maybe her leaving the family hadn't been as abrupt as she'd always believed. Certainly that would explain why she had resolved to leave at all.
One way or another, Andromeda was resolute in casting Bella away from her mind for the time being. It wasn't Bellatrix she needed concern herself with.
As if on cue, a pale blue cerulean evening dress appeared in Andromeda's field of vision. It was topped by pale blond hair and pale white skin. The figure looked very romantic; tall, thin, and deceptively fragile. Andromeda, of course, knew better.
She loudly gasped.
"Oh my – Narcissa! What a surprise!"
Andromeda's enthusiastic words caught her sister out of guard – the cap startled, the blonde turned around, petticoats rustling, eyes wide. Of course, Andromeda's cheerfulness was denied by the sudden constriction in her chest, but Narcissa couldn't know that. She mustn't let her sister even glimpse at it, Andromeda needlessly reminded herself.
Ignoring her sister's expression, pale as if she was facing a ghost, returned from the infernal realm to steal the souls of the living, Andromeda recklessly went on. "What a coincidence to meet you here!"
The young woman purposely beamed at her sister's interlocutors. She wasn't sure if she ought to be gleeful or disappointed that she knew all of them. "Mr Avery, Mr Wilkes, what a pleasure to see you again! Miss Meadows – I mean to say, Mrs Wilkes – may I take this occasion to congratulate you in person."
The trio blinked, as if blinded by the brightness of Andromeda's most insincere smile. They hadn't changed one bit in four years. John Avery looked as twitchy as ever, Edmund Wilkes still had his weak chin and recessive hairline, and Dorcas Meadows' dumpiness hadn't improved with her marriage. If anything, the additive years had rendered them even more portly and insignificant.
She allowed herself a few seconds for basking in her family's obvious superiority compared to the commoners in the diminutive gene pool of the British pseudo-gentry. The three awkwardly mumbled a chorus of unintelligible excuses and hurried away. Obviously, she'd done them too much credit to think they could endure ten seconds of patented Black obnoxiousness, and it saddened her that her family had really sunk so low as to frequent the likes of Avery, but eclipsing them away served her purpose.
As such, she focused her attention on Narcissa.
Being the sole subject of a Black's attention was similar to facing a firing squad or an assembly of keen prying romantic heroines at the best of times, and from their father Cepheus Black the three sisters retained an even deadlier version of this talent. Of the three, Andromeda was by far the most talented, the very Blackest of the Blacks. If her sisters had ever had the same potential, they had wasted it in mindless conforming.
She stood in the centre of the spotlight, black hair, white skin, red gown. She hadn't needed to look around to know she was the only one who wore that colour, blood and arrogance and never shying away and turning scandal into an ermine cape. Who else would have dared?
"It has been such a long time, don't you think?"
Around the two sisters, the brouhaha of the hall had somehow diminished. It was all blurry – the colourful dresses and the black frock coats muted by the confrontation. Easy on the drama – Andromeda vainly tried to put a rein to her natural tendencies.
After the longest time, Narcissa finally spoke up.
"Andromeda – it – yes, it had been a while." She looked as if she'd wanted to say something else, but hadn't been able to bring herself to do so. After a few seconds that Andromeda interpreted as an internal fight going on, she muttered, "We ought to do some catching up." But she sounded as if she didn't believe she'd manage to drive her sister away.
How right she was.
With the sort of experience only a life spent mingling in the highest circles of society could bring, Andromeda superbly ignored her implication. It wasn't hard for Andromeda to look superb, not today, after she'd given precise thought to every article of clothing and accessory that covered her. It wouldn't be long before Narcissa's shock evaporated and she took in the resplendent appearance of her sister.
"Yes, certainly!" she practically cried out, a trick she hadn't pulled since she was eight. "I am not letting you out of my sight for the entire entr’acte – you absolutely have to tell me everything," she pressed on.
The blond-haired woman smiled at Andromeda – a smile so fake Andromeda thought even Bellatrix would have questioned her. Andromeda, of course, didn't. For one, she already knew what was on her sister's mind. For another, it would have ruined her threat.
"You look beautiful," Narcissa addressed in a tone the three sisters had learnt from their mother. They used it when they wanted to make clear they meant something completely different from what their words indicated. It was known for having left grown patronising gentlemen blushing and spluttering at the insinuation. The girls' mother had been an accomplished lady. "Such a smart hat. And your gown – that's a very skilled dressmaker you have."
She left unmentioned Andromeda's hair, which was as glossy and shiny as ever, jet-black knot under the crimson material, and her skin, whiter and colder than either of her sisters', the web of veins glowing from inside as if it were marble, and the confidence that surrounded her as a warm, deadly aura for all hisses to break against. As such, Andromeda neither bristled nor sneered at her sister's pointed comment on the huge gap that divided their respective positions. Instead, she permitted a playful smile to tug at the corner of her lips.
"Who knows," she said lightly, "maybe we have the same."
Narcissa recoiled under the affront. Her eyes turned to ice.
Her head tilted back, Andromeda detailed her baby sister from under heavy eyelids. Her own eyes were kept in shade; if any pair of irises glistened and shone during this confrontation – for Andromeda knew what she was in for, and Narcissa, never having been a fool, doubtlessly must have realised it by now – it wouldn't be hers. It has been such a long time since the two of them had last seen each other – sharing a significant look, exchanging gossip, squealing in delight at the latest invitation to a ball. But even then, they hadn't been that close, had they?
Their girlhoods had been marked with dissension, not just for Andromeda and Narcissa, but between the three of them. When she tried to make sense out of it, she concluded that it had become irremediable at their mother's death, but she knew better than to believe in destiny. Bellatrix had grown in responsibility and prudery until it became, in Andromeda's eyes, the defining feature of her character; Narcissa had been chasing for a husband since she was fifteen, in respectable families Father approved of; and Andromeda's sarcasm, her easy social skills and her easier vicious flamboyance, had cut her off. In the end Bella and Cissy were leagued against their wayward sister more often than not, wary of her nonchalant unpredictability and scandalous declarations. 'Scandalous' had been their word, though Andromeda relished in it; they had no idea then how very, very far from scandalous what they knew of Andromeda's behaviour was.
Andromeda braced herself for what she was going to say, knowing perfectly well that what she was about to do would destroy all illusions of companionship. So they must look, trained and cordial to the social eye, even if Narcissa's back was a bit too rigid, even if Andromeda's smile was a bit too wide.
"I'm afraid I can't return the compliment." Andromeda did her best to sound silly and socially inept. It was, she found out, surprisingly more difficult than her habit of dropping powerfully hurtful and offensive comments in the innocent, matter-of-fact tone of one who knows that nothing can attain her. If anything, she was now less attainable than ever. Something about stones and glass houses – it can do no harm if there's nothing to be broken.
Once upon a time, she'd owned a whole palace out of it, and it hadn't been mere glass, oh no, but Bohemia crystal, and finally the crystal had shattered and all that was left was the bohemia.
She clung to that thought and trod on. "Marriage doesn't agree with you."
Andromeda hadn't been invited to Narcissa's lavish wedding, any more than she'd been to Bellatrix'.
Narcissa – the real, flesh-and-blood one, the twenty-one-year-old woman, not the girl imprisoned in Andromeda's memories – looked as if she'd just been slapped.
With mild trepidation, Andromeda waited for her reaction. Had it been Bellatrix, Andromeda's best gown would have already been shred to tiny sticky bits, and possibly incinerated in the red-hot fury of the righteous one as well. On the other hand, that would have also been the younger Narcissa's move.
Staying petrified was something Andromeda never would have expected from Narcissa. Then again, Bellatrix would have taken drastic measures against anyone who'd have predicted Andromeda's ultimate fall, and Narcissa had held close to the conviction that Bellatrix was to remain a spinster, so perhaps they'd never been all that close to begin with, for all the Black Sisters mythology that shrouded them.
"Lucius – Lucius isn't – Lucius hasn't –"
Voice too strangled to continue, Narcissa looked down. A wave of sympathy surged through Andromeda. It was terribly unfair. Of course, it was nothing compared to Andromeda's own situation, which was, as far as she was concerned, the very epitome of unfairness.
"Oh… yes. I learned. I'm sorry, Narcissa." Andromeda has stripped her voice of its frivolous accents, and instead settled on a grave low tone, almost compassionate, because she knew that every of her word will be a stab into, if not her sister's heart, at least the security of her social status. "They say he murdered a servant, don't they? It's horrible. For such a–" Andromeda briefly considered speaking her mind "– promising young man to be accused on so heinous grounds…"
Narcissa's gasps, and subsequent search for a handkerchief, were frantic and messy enough for Andromeda to know they were genuine. Her cheeks were wet and blotted, her eyes blood-trimmed, her mouth distorted into a grimace of pain. She wasn't attractive.
Andromeda knew, from afternoons spent sneering at her baby sister's attempts as achieving perfect Ice Queen-ness, that it was how Narcissa felt she would prove her worth to her family. Historically, it was codswallop, but there was nothing Andromeda could have done about Narcissa's minding of opinion, had she even had the energy to undertake that kind of hopeless crusade.
One day, she had stumbled onto Narcissa's diary and had leafed through it as she'd have done with any book, out of boredom and absent-mindedness, and had found nothing of even remote interest in it. The words had been as groomed as her everyday countenance, as proper as her behaviour, as likely to be praised if they were exposed in the light of day.
And Bellatrix had become more like that, too, as the years went by, as Mother died and it became increasingly obvious – or so Regulus, the baby of the family, who'd been ten at the time, told Andromeda – that Bellatrix would do anything to gain Father's favour, the most obvious way being conforming herself to his wishes; it was a question of common sense.
For everyone involved, Andromeda would have liked to be able to wish it were the case, but the Blacks were nothing if not contradictory. The current condition – which Andromeda defined in the loosest meaning of the word, as one that had burst into existence four years earlier, and in which she purposefully neglected to count Lucius Malfoy, the pathetic excuse for a pseudo aristocrat – had little to do with common sense, in that none was in possession of it, and more to do with drama, in that they all loved it too much.
It was the eternal dilemma between light and dark that made the Blacks who and what they were, the setting and thwarting of the norms, the outer dignity that went hand in hand with the atrocious crimes, the passion they throve on, the rampant madness, the sterility that menaced with every generation, the cruelty and the ambition and the fanatical devotion to one's superior goal, even surpassing the bonds of blood.
The irony, also. Bellatrix – who would have been Joan of Arc had she been born at the right time – was now on her honeymoon on the Continent; Narcissa – whose quest of the perfect husband had been fulfilled – now risked losing both her husband and her position; and Andromeda – whose love for spotlights had exceeded even the Black norms – who had brought the house down and burning around her ears in the most remarkable grand gesture witnessed by the family since Elizabeth I – was now standing in the outskirts, half-hidden in the shade. Neither dark nor light; hidden, one might say, in plain view.
In a red dress that mocked all conventions as loudly as Andromeda's inappropriate laughter, as insolently as her singing racy refrains. Shadow no more, really.
Narcissa's struggle for control embodied well enough the Black inconsistencies.
How you hurt the ones you love, Andromeda mused. She thought that maybe there was a grain of truth in the rumour that the servant had been an indiscretion of Lucius Malfoy's; at least, it seemed that Narcissa certainly feared so. It would probably have been easier for her if she hadn't been in love with him by the time they'd married, but even Andromeda, in all her unshakable arrogance, could see that stating so would be hypocritical in the extreme.
"They think he did it," Narcissa finally sniffled, "but I know he hasn't!" There was an echo of the savagery Andromeda recalled.
Andromeda nodded.
"Of course, it is between the hands of the police…" she diplomatically remarked. She kept very still; her nerves felt as taut and brittle as glass. Not on the verge of breaking, she firmly told herself. Not with all the efforts she was making.
Narcissa's eyes flashed in anger – and sudden realisation.
"You would know," she snarled, "wouldn't you? Isn't that why you – left us?"
Andromeda smiled. The discussion was were she'd wanted it to be for almost four years now, four years spent in a small drab house in the suburbs, without the domesticity and the comfort she was used to, without the parties and the laughter and the champagne that were home, without her family, only surrounded with vulgar strangers she had no interest in knowing and who despised her for it, a world that was all glaring light and pitch black.
"Ted's profession has very little to do with why I left." Her smirk, she was well aware, was downright predatory.
Andromeda was used to the red. That was where she belonged. Not the grey humdrum of an old sheet she had to dry by hand in the kitchen, but the violent blood red of malevolent society, counterpart to the red lights of a high-strung cabaret, where singers stood on tables and sang at the top of their lungs, like she did herself, six evenings a week, with Ted who sometime came and pretended he didn't know her, but who watched her out of the corner of his eye with his arms crossed and a crooked smile when she smugly flipped her hair behind her shoulder and cocked her head until she was looking at him down the tip of her nose, like an opening night at the opera.
That was the life she'd left her family for.
Narcissa's prim face turned ashen. "Please. I do not want to hear about you and your – catamite."
Andromeda arched an eyebrow.
"I don't think that word means what you think it means," she drawled, because it was all she could do to stop the laughter from bubbling out. The things respectable society did to otherwise intelligent girls.
Narcissa pretended she hadn't heard. It was a skill every Black had to develop sooner or later, else they'd have had their egos pitilessly scathed by Andromeda's lashing-outs long before she'd even reached her tenth birthday. "I shall never understand how you ever could meet with that policeman."
It was rhetorical. No Black had been able to ignore the fact that Andromeda-of-the-blood-of had run away with the brother of the heir's governess – a governess who had, incidentally, been sacked when she had been discovered for a Catholic.
Obviously Narcissa had been thinking along those lines, because a squeaking noise escaped her lips. In her defence, Andromeda's self-satisfied smirk had been a clear provocation. No doubt at the perspective of a Black and the brother of a domestic. Or at the perspective of a Black and a Catholic. It was difficult to say, with her family.
"You eloped with – with –"
"No, no, this is a misconstruction." Even Andromeda's father would have been impressed with the wickedness of her grin. "I didn't elope at all. I just left. After all, I deduced none of you would be present at the wedding, therefore why not forego the ceremony altogether?" Her voice has recovered the accent of one whose fathers have been educated in Eton since it was funded. At this instant, posh sounded like Andromeda Black.
The wrinkles of repulsion on Narcissa's nose were enough to send a shiver down Andromeda's spine, certainly the perspective of Catholic hands roving on innocent flesh. Yes; it had been the good decision, no matter the sacrifices. And perhaps it would help Narcissa to put her own situation into perspective. Of the two of them, Andromeda was really living.
Narcissa, after all, was going down; it was obvious from Cepheus' absence, as well as that of her in-laws. She was going down fighting, at the opera on the opening night, but she was no match, not against society at large, and in any case not against Andromeda.
Who would soon, very soon, be once more part of the world which had disowned her when she'd just lived by its rules, in that those don't apply to Blacks. A flare of light played on the dark red brocade, as an intricate design of rivulets of blood and pools of darkness, distant in its imperial arrogance and promiscuous in its eye-catching violence.
"But worry not," Andromeda added sweetly. "Ted and I are perfectly well-matched on the subject of faith."
"So instead of living in sin with a Catholic, you are living in sin with an atheist." The flatness of Narcissa's tone was bordering on the morbid. "Anything else you would like to share? Perhaps how you came into possession of such a gown?"
The last month had taken its toll on her. Bubbles of pleasure were mounting to Andromeda's head as if they were from clear champagne.
She decided to impart the coup de grace.
"Why, Father's monthly allowance, of course."
Her eyes were a study in candidness.
I always was his favourite, she didn't need to add. I always was the only one out of the five children to be anything like a true Black. I always did things extravagantly, and it's not so much about to pay off as to engrave my triumph back into the annals of the family, in letters of blood and fire, and any money that'll get spent will be very much yours. That's what happens when you marry into money, Cissy.
Cepheus Black himself had pinpointed the socially-acceptable version of Andromeda's sudden disappearance, as an illness that endangered her health so seriously that she'd had to retire to the country home at the height of her prime. It had always looked like a way back home should she see the errors of her ways; and now it appeared as a carefully thought-out loophole.
"Oh," feebly escaped from Narcissa's lips.
"And now what do you want?" Narcissa's lips added, blessed be her calculating little soul.
Andromeda elegantly half-shrugged, attracting a glance of definite interest from one of the nearby gentlemen, which she ignored with the nonchalance of a duchess.
"Why, I want back, of course." I want the parties and the petty cruelty and the making fun of other people, I want the glitter and the glamour, and what's more, I want Ted to be next to me and to laugh when I trample on your husband's considerable ego.
"Got bored with the destitution, did you?" Narcissa pathetically failed at sneering.
"Now don't be silly," Andromeda smiled. "I only want my child to be well-acquainted with our world, so that when time comes, he or she will know the meaning of the blood of Black."
Narcissa made a very convincing imitation of a fish.
Andromeda piously went on.
"So you understand, it would really be easier for everyone involved if your husband wasn't found out to be the culprit, as I am sure you already know. I'm sure that, if one cared to look, your maid would be found out to be of a dubious morality. Perhaps she would have been seduced, and, finding herself in an interesting position," Andromeda, who'd never used this phrase without a raised eyebrow, carefully worded, "she committed suicide – much more expectable a sin from a maid than murder from a gentleman."
The blonde's eyes were cast down. Her sister could practically hear the wheels turning. Andromeda wasn't anxious; it wasn't much of a choice, really. It wasn't as if Narcissa, personally, had anything to lose. Pretty much a win-win situation, in monetary talk.
And, well, a sister's husband, no matter how wretched the man, was nevertheless part of the family. Sticking together was required.
"Ye-es," Narcissa finally let out. "Of course. Yes." She bit on her lower lip. "There – is going to be a party next week, for Bellatrix's coming back from her honeymoon. It would – we would be delighted if you were one of us."
"Two," Andromeda corrected, without ever stopping smiling. "I am convinced Ted will love to come."
"Of course," Narcissa repeated. "He is welcome to."
This was an instant for gloating and gloat Andromeda did. It would make no permanent damage to Narcissa's pride, and four years spent fantasising about Ted – charming, witty, unassumingly revolutionary Ted, who now so happened to be leading the investigation concerning the Lucius Malfoy scandal – walking all over the Blacks' famed ideals of blood purity and getting thanked for it had honed Andromeda' revenge to perfection.
The corridors of the opera had started to empty; people were flowing back to their seats, called by the high ringing that signalled the end of the entr'acte, and the two sisters were left looking away from each other, standing apart. Andromeda still outshone her pale flower of a sister, tall, thin, and fragile – not so deceptively that she didn't bend, just supple enough that she didn't break.
"You can send the invitation to this address," Andromeda handed a slip of paper to her pallid sister. "It was lucky I had it on me," she couldn't refrain from commenting, as a last pique.
Narcissa seemed to come to her senses. "Yes," she echoed. "A very lucky coincidence indeed."
Her eyes were glistening, a bit too much even under the chandeliers.
Andromeda didn't want to leave her sister alone at worst or surrounded with well-meaning fools at best. She could imagine, all too well, how Narcissa would fight against the tears, how she would pretend to be absorbed in the spectacle, how her only concern would be to hold back until she was safely in her bedroom, and how she would ultimately fail – the shameful, hurried flight before the end of the ballet, under the mocking gaze of a hundred of respectable spectators.
However, if she didn't, perhaps she would lack the will to carry her plan out. Perhaps she would let Ted talk her out of it. Perhaps she would compromise Narcissa beyond all hopes of social redemption.
Perhaps all Narcissa wanted was to be left alone.
Andromeda decided she was wearing a scarlet gown, and took her sister's arm to escort her back to her box.
She didn't glance at her sister's face for a trace of acceptance, but when she swept into the box of the dress circle, the only thing she saw was the shimmers of the red velvet curtain that welcomed her home.
For the first time that evening, she smiled without a second thought.
Author:
runespoor7Prompt: 011 - Red
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda, Narcissa (Andromeda/Ted)
Rating: PG
Words: 5000
Summary: AU. London, early 1870s. A chance meeting at the opera house, and how the real show isn't on the stage.
The gas lights glittered and flickered in their glass cases. They reflected on crystal chandeliers, sparkling on the diamond-shaped pendants of the women in the crowd below. The noise of a thousand well-bred voices arched up against the high ceilings in a steady indistinct buzz; the colourful evening gowns glided over the golden parquet, long skirts muffling the sound of fine boots, patches of brilliant material contrasted by the severe black tailcoats, with their pristine white shirts and shiny top hats. It looked like the sea, as painted by an Impressionist; pinks and blues and greens and even some yellows, in satin or velvet. Flowers, at any rate. There would be no black and white on the sea.
Not that many of the fluttery ladies and patronising lords would know about it; Impressionists did retain a suspicious perfume of scandal.
Andromeda Black, who revelled in scandal as much as she did in little-known history books, discarded the metaphor as she'd have done with a trinket that lost its lustre. From the top of the stairs where she was standing – high up in the opera house – the intricate designs of the social game showed plainly, a language she deciphered without a thought, paths of elegant clothes that contradicted those of the honey-toned marquetry and that somehow added depth to it. A dance more fascinating than that which had just unfolded on the scene, a few minutes ago.
She smoothed her dress with the flat of her hands, not in a hurry to throw herself back into the lion pit. More like snake pit, she reminded herself. A fleeting smile flashed across her features. She took a last moment to review her pose, then walked down the stairs, her inner nervousness belied by her majestic countenance.
Or perhaps less majestic than arrogant. The scarlet brocade swung behind her at the same rhythm as her hips, giving her straight back a sassy tinge as she swaggered on.
She thought she didn't imagine the startled looks as she went, or the occasional nudging from one finely-dressed member of society to his or her equally reputable partner in gossip. It had just been four years she hadn't appeared in society, not enough for anyone to forget her; and even those who hadn't known her then – for, Black or not, she'd after all only been an unmarried girl of nineteen – she carried enough of the family resemblance to be instantly identifiable.
Tonight was the night she was going to reclaim what was rightfully hers by birth, and if she was going to have to break her family's pedestal to do so, and to drag them in the mud until her heritage was twisted beyond recognition, then so be it!
The opening night of Coppélia was bound to be the perfect occasion. If Andromeda wanted to be honest, if only with herself – God forbid – she'd admit she chose the ballet on purpose. Contrary to Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas, it was in no way linked to her new life; and, unlike Giselle, she'd never seen it with her family Before. (The concept wholly deserved the capital letter.)
Andromeda remembered well the first time she'd gone to the opera; she had only been a child then, and she flanked her older sister, dark Bellatrix in her blue gown. It had been Giselle. She remembered how proud she'd been to be treated like a grown-up, and how perfectly odious she had acted towards Narcissa, who was two years younger, the baby, the blond Black, always the odd one out. Finally, Andromeda was to be allowed the same pleasures as Bellatrix! Bella, two years older, confident in her maturity, had seemingly indulged her, though she'd warned Andromeda beforehand that she should be prepared for a dreadfully dull evening. The dancing wouldn't be so bad, she'd said, but the intervals would be awful – there would be grown-ups talking grown-up things to the girls' parents, and they wouldn't even be permitted to run mildly amok as they did at home.
Of course, Andromeda had effortlessly carried it out, and everyone had complimented Father on what an adorable little creature she was.
Fifteen years later, the thought suddenly occurred to Andromeda that maybe Bella's jealousy was born as soon as that evening.
She couldn't, however, indulge in wishful thinking regarding Bellatrix. Bellatrix wouldn't be there; she was honeymooning on the Continent – in Italy, Andromeda supposed. Hadn't Bella always said she wanted to see Italy? Or it had been Prussia. Well – Germany.
How surprising, Andromeda noted, that she should know so few things about her favourite sister. Maybe they had started to fall apart sooner than she'd always thought. Maybe her leaving the family hadn't been as abrupt as she'd always believed. Certainly that would explain why she had resolved to leave at all.
One way or another, Andromeda was resolute in casting Bella away from her mind for the time being. It wasn't Bellatrix she needed concern herself with.
As if on cue, a pale blue cerulean evening dress appeared in Andromeda's field of vision. It was topped by pale blond hair and pale white skin. The figure looked very romantic; tall, thin, and deceptively fragile. Andromeda, of course, knew better.
She loudly gasped.
"Oh my – Narcissa! What a surprise!"
Andromeda's enthusiastic words caught her sister out of guard – the cap startled, the blonde turned around, petticoats rustling, eyes wide. Of course, Andromeda's cheerfulness was denied by the sudden constriction in her chest, but Narcissa couldn't know that. She mustn't let her sister even glimpse at it, Andromeda needlessly reminded herself.
Ignoring her sister's expression, pale as if she was facing a ghost, returned from the infernal realm to steal the souls of the living, Andromeda recklessly went on. "What a coincidence to meet you here!"
The young woman purposely beamed at her sister's interlocutors. She wasn't sure if she ought to be gleeful or disappointed that she knew all of them. "Mr Avery, Mr Wilkes, what a pleasure to see you again! Miss Meadows – I mean to say, Mrs Wilkes – may I take this occasion to congratulate you in person."
The trio blinked, as if blinded by the brightness of Andromeda's most insincere smile. They hadn't changed one bit in four years. John Avery looked as twitchy as ever, Edmund Wilkes still had his weak chin and recessive hairline, and Dorcas Meadows' dumpiness hadn't improved with her marriage. If anything, the additive years had rendered them even more portly and insignificant.
She allowed herself a few seconds for basking in her family's obvious superiority compared to the commoners in the diminutive gene pool of the British pseudo-gentry. The three awkwardly mumbled a chorus of unintelligible excuses and hurried away. Obviously, she'd done them too much credit to think they could endure ten seconds of patented Black obnoxiousness, and it saddened her that her family had really sunk so low as to frequent the likes of Avery, but eclipsing them away served her purpose.
As such, she focused her attention on Narcissa.
Being the sole subject of a Black's attention was similar to facing a firing squad or an assembly of keen prying romantic heroines at the best of times, and from their father Cepheus Black the three sisters retained an even deadlier version of this talent. Of the three, Andromeda was by far the most talented, the very Blackest of the Blacks. If her sisters had ever had the same potential, they had wasted it in mindless conforming.
She stood in the centre of the spotlight, black hair, white skin, red gown. She hadn't needed to look around to know she was the only one who wore that colour, blood and arrogance and never shying away and turning scandal into an ermine cape. Who else would have dared?
"It has been such a long time, don't you think?"
Around the two sisters, the brouhaha of the hall had somehow diminished. It was all blurry – the colourful dresses and the black frock coats muted by the confrontation. Easy on the drama – Andromeda vainly tried to put a rein to her natural tendencies.
After the longest time, Narcissa finally spoke up.
"Andromeda – it – yes, it had been a while." She looked as if she'd wanted to say something else, but hadn't been able to bring herself to do so. After a few seconds that Andromeda interpreted as an internal fight going on, she muttered, "We ought to do some catching up." But she sounded as if she didn't believe she'd manage to drive her sister away.
How right she was.
With the sort of experience only a life spent mingling in the highest circles of society could bring, Andromeda superbly ignored her implication. It wasn't hard for Andromeda to look superb, not today, after she'd given precise thought to every article of clothing and accessory that covered her. It wouldn't be long before Narcissa's shock evaporated and she took in the resplendent appearance of her sister.
"Yes, certainly!" she practically cried out, a trick she hadn't pulled since she was eight. "I am not letting you out of my sight for the entire entr’acte – you absolutely have to tell me everything," she pressed on.
The blond-haired woman smiled at Andromeda – a smile so fake Andromeda thought even Bellatrix would have questioned her. Andromeda, of course, didn't. For one, she already knew what was on her sister's mind. For another, it would have ruined her threat.
"You look beautiful," Narcissa addressed in a tone the three sisters had learnt from their mother. They used it when they wanted to make clear they meant something completely different from what their words indicated. It was known for having left grown patronising gentlemen blushing and spluttering at the insinuation. The girls' mother had been an accomplished lady. "Such a smart hat. And your gown – that's a very skilled dressmaker you have."
She left unmentioned Andromeda's hair, which was as glossy and shiny as ever, jet-black knot under the crimson material, and her skin, whiter and colder than either of her sisters', the web of veins glowing from inside as if it were marble, and the confidence that surrounded her as a warm, deadly aura for all hisses to break against. As such, Andromeda neither bristled nor sneered at her sister's pointed comment on the huge gap that divided their respective positions. Instead, she permitted a playful smile to tug at the corner of her lips.
"Who knows," she said lightly, "maybe we have the same."
Narcissa recoiled under the affront. Her eyes turned to ice.
Her head tilted back, Andromeda detailed her baby sister from under heavy eyelids. Her own eyes were kept in shade; if any pair of irises glistened and shone during this confrontation – for Andromeda knew what she was in for, and Narcissa, never having been a fool, doubtlessly must have realised it by now – it wouldn't be hers. It has been such a long time since the two of them had last seen each other – sharing a significant look, exchanging gossip, squealing in delight at the latest invitation to a ball. But even then, they hadn't been that close, had they?
Their girlhoods had been marked with dissension, not just for Andromeda and Narcissa, but between the three of them. When she tried to make sense out of it, she concluded that it had become irremediable at their mother's death, but she knew better than to believe in destiny. Bellatrix had grown in responsibility and prudery until it became, in Andromeda's eyes, the defining feature of her character; Narcissa had been chasing for a husband since she was fifteen, in respectable families Father approved of; and Andromeda's sarcasm, her easy social skills and her easier vicious flamboyance, had cut her off. In the end Bella and Cissy were leagued against their wayward sister more often than not, wary of her nonchalant unpredictability and scandalous declarations. 'Scandalous' had been their word, though Andromeda relished in it; they had no idea then how very, very far from scandalous what they knew of Andromeda's behaviour was.
Andromeda braced herself for what she was going to say, knowing perfectly well that what she was about to do would destroy all illusions of companionship. So they must look, trained and cordial to the social eye, even if Narcissa's back was a bit too rigid, even if Andromeda's smile was a bit too wide.
"I'm afraid I can't return the compliment." Andromeda did her best to sound silly and socially inept. It was, she found out, surprisingly more difficult than her habit of dropping powerfully hurtful and offensive comments in the innocent, matter-of-fact tone of one who knows that nothing can attain her. If anything, she was now less attainable than ever. Something about stones and glass houses – it can do no harm if there's nothing to be broken.
Once upon a time, she'd owned a whole palace out of it, and it hadn't been mere glass, oh no, but Bohemia crystal, and finally the crystal had shattered and all that was left was the bohemia.
She clung to that thought and trod on. "Marriage doesn't agree with you."
Andromeda hadn't been invited to Narcissa's lavish wedding, any more than she'd been to Bellatrix'.
Narcissa – the real, flesh-and-blood one, the twenty-one-year-old woman, not the girl imprisoned in Andromeda's memories – looked as if she'd just been slapped.
With mild trepidation, Andromeda waited for her reaction. Had it been Bellatrix, Andromeda's best gown would have already been shred to tiny sticky bits, and possibly incinerated in the red-hot fury of the righteous one as well. On the other hand, that would have also been the younger Narcissa's move.
Staying petrified was something Andromeda never would have expected from Narcissa. Then again, Bellatrix would have taken drastic measures against anyone who'd have predicted Andromeda's ultimate fall, and Narcissa had held close to the conviction that Bellatrix was to remain a spinster, so perhaps they'd never been all that close to begin with, for all the Black Sisters mythology that shrouded them.
"Lucius – Lucius isn't – Lucius hasn't –"
Voice too strangled to continue, Narcissa looked down. A wave of sympathy surged through Andromeda. It was terribly unfair. Of course, it was nothing compared to Andromeda's own situation, which was, as far as she was concerned, the very epitome of unfairness.
"Oh… yes. I learned. I'm sorry, Narcissa." Andromeda has stripped her voice of its frivolous accents, and instead settled on a grave low tone, almost compassionate, because she knew that every of her word will be a stab into, if not her sister's heart, at least the security of her social status. "They say he murdered a servant, don't they? It's horrible. For such a–" Andromeda briefly considered speaking her mind "– promising young man to be accused on so heinous grounds…"
Narcissa's gasps, and subsequent search for a handkerchief, were frantic and messy enough for Andromeda to know they were genuine. Her cheeks were wet and blotted, her eyes blood-trimmed, her mouth distorted into a grimace of pain. She wasn't attractive.
Andromeda knew, from afternoons spent sneering at her baby sister's attempts as achieving perfect Ice Queen-ness, that it was how Narcissa felt she would prove her worth to her family. Historically, it was codswallop, but there was nothing Andromeda could have done about Narcissa's minding of opinion, had she even had the energy to undertake that kind of hopeless crusade.
One day, she had stumbled onto Narcissa's diary and had leafed through it as she'd have done with any book, out of boredom and absent-mindedness, and had found nothing of even remote interest in it. The words had been as groomed as her everyday countenance, as proper as her behaviour, as likely to be praised if they were exposed in the light of day.
And Bellatrix had become more like that, too, as the years went by, as Mother died and it became increasingly obvious – or so Regulus, the baby of the family, who'd been ten at the time, told Andromeda – that Bellatrix would do anything to gain Father's favour, the most obvious way being conforming herself to his wishes; it was a question of common sense.
For everyone involved, Andromeda would have liked to be able to wish it were the case, but the Blacks were nothing if not contradictory. The current condition – which Andromeda defined in the loosest meaning of the word, as one that had burst into existence four years earlier, and in which she purposefully neglected to count Lucius Malfoy, the pathetic excuse for a pseudo aristocrat – had little to do with common sense, in that none was in possession of it, and more to do with drama, in that they all loved it too much.
It was the eternal dilemma between light and dark that made the Blacks who and what they were, the setting and thwarting of the norms, the outer dignity that went hand in hand with the atrocious crimes, the passion they throve on, the rampant madness, the sterility that menaced with every generation, the cruelty and the ambition and the fanatical devotion to one's superior goal, even surpassing the bonds of blood.
The irony, also. Bellatrix – who would have been Joan of Arc had she been born at the right time – was now on her honeymoon on the Continent; Narcissa – whose quest of the perfect husband had been fulfilled – now risked losing both her husband and her position; and Andromeda – whose love for spotlights had exceeded even the Black norms – who had brought the house down and burning around her ears in the most remarkable grand gesture witnessed by the family since Elizabeth I – was now standing in the outskirts, half-hidden in the shade. Neither dark nor light; hidden, one might say, in plain view.
In a red dress that mocked all conventions as loudly as Andromeda's inappropriate laughter, as insolently as her singing racy refrains. Shadow no more, really.
Narcissa's struggle for control embodied well enough the Black inconsistencies.
How you hurt the ones you love, Andromeda mused. She thought that maybe there was a grain of truth in the rumour that the servant had been an indiscretion of Lucius Malfoy's; at least, it seemed that Narcissa certainly feared so. It would probably have been easier for her if she hadn't been in love with him by the time they'd married, but even Andromeda, in all her unshakable arrogance, could see that stating so would be hypocritical in the extreme.
"They think he did it," Narcissa finally sniffled, "but I know he hasn't!" There was an echo of the savagery Andromeda recalled.
Andromeda nodded.
"Of course, it is between the hands of the police…" she diplomatically remarked. She kept very still; her nerves felt as taut and brittle as glass. Not on the verge of breaking, she firmly told herself. Not with all the efforts she was making.
Narcissa's eyes flashed in anger – and sudden realisation.
"You would know," she snarled, "wouldn't you? Isn't that why you – left us?"
Andromeda smiled. The discussion was were she'd wanted it to be for almost four years now, four years spent in a small drab house in the suburbs, without the domesticity and the comfort she was used to, without the parties and the laughter and the champagne that were home, without her family, only surrounded with vulgar strangers she had no interest in knowing and who despised her for it, a world that was all glaring light and pitch black.
"Ted's profession has very little to do with why I left." Her smirk, she was well aware, was downright predatory.
Andromeda was used to the red. That was where she belonged. Not the grey humdrum of an old sheet she had to dry by hand in the kitchen, but the violent blood red of malevolent society, counterpart to the red lights of a high-strung cabaret, where singers stood on tables and sang at the top of their lungs, like she did herself, six evenings a week, with Ted who sometime came and pretended he didn't know her, but who watched her out of the corner of his eye with his arms crossed and a crooked smile when she smugly flipped her hair behind her shoulder and cocked her head until she was looking at him down the tip of her nose, like an opening night at the opera.
That was the life she'd left her family for.
Narcissa's prim face turned ashen. "Please. I do not want to hear about you and your – catamite."
Andromeda arched an eyebrow.
"I don't think that word means what you think it means," she drawled, because it was all she could do to stop the laughter from bubbling out. The things respectable society did to otherwise intelligent girls.
Narcissa pretended she hadn't heard. It was a skill every Black had to develop sooner or later, else they'd have had their egos pitilessly scathed by Andromeda's lashing-outs long before she'd even reached her tenth birthday. "I shall never understand how you ever could meet with that policeman."
It was rhetorical. No Black had been able to ignore the fact that Andromeda-of-the-blood-of had run away with the brother of the heir's governess – a governess who had, incidentally, been sacked when she had been discovered for a Catholic.
Obviously Narcissa had been thinking along those lines, because a squeaking noise escaped her lips. In her defence, Andromeda's self-satisfied smirk had been a clear provocation. No doubt at the perspective of a Black and the brother of a domestic. Or at the perspective of a Black and a Catholic. It was difficult to say, with her family.
"You eloped with – with –"
"No, no, this is a misconstruction." Even Andromeda's father would have been impressed with the wickedness of her grin. "I didn't elope at all. I just left. After all, I deduced none of you would be present at the wedding, therefore why not forego the ceremony altogether?" Her voice has recovered the accent of one whose fathers have been educated in Eton since it was funded. At this instant, posh sounded like Andromeda Black.
The wrinkles of repulsion on Narcissa's nose were enough to send a shiver down Andromeda's spine, certainly the perspective of Catholic hands roving on innocent flesh. Yes; it had been the good decision, no matter the sacrifices. And perhaps it would help Narcissa to put her own situation into perspective. Of the two of them, Andromeda was really living.
Narcissa, after all, was going down; it was obvious from Cepheus' absence, as well as that of her in-laws. She was going down fighting, at the opera on the opening night, but she was no match, not against society at large, and in any case not against Andromeda.
Who would soon, very soon, be once more part of the world which had disowned her when she'd just lived by its rules, in that those don't apply to Blacks. A flare of light played on the dark red brocade, as an intricate design of rivulets of blood and pools of darkness, distant in its imperial arrogance and promiscuous in its eye-catching violence.
"But worry not," Andromeda added sweetly. "Ted and I are perfectly well-matched on the subject of faith."
"So instead of living in sin with a Catholic, you are living in sin with an atheist." The flatness of Narcissa's tone was bordering on the morbid. "Anything else you would like to share? Perhaps how you came into possession of such a gown?"
The last month had taken its toll on her. Bubbles of pleasure were mounting to Andromeda's head as if they were from clear champagne.
She decided to impart the coup de grace.
"Why, Father's monthly allowance, of course."
Her eyes were a study in candidness.
I always was his favourite, she didn't need to add. I always was the only one out of the five children to be anything like a true Black. I always did things extravagantly, and it's not so much about to pay off as to engrave my triumph back into the annals of the family, in letters of blood and fire, and any money that'll get spent will be very much yours. That's what happens when you marry into money, Cissy.
Cepheus Black himself had pinpointed the socially-acceptable version of Andromeda's sudden disappearance, as an illness that endangered her health so seriously that she'd had to retire to the country home at the height of her prime. It had always looked like a way back home should she see the errors of her ways; and now it appeared as a carefully thought-out loophole.
"Oh," feebly escaped from Narcissa's lips.
"And now what do you want?" Narcissa's lips added, blessed be her calculating little soul.
Andromeda elegantly half-shrugged, attracting a glance of definite interest from one of the nearby gentlemen, which she ignored with the nonchalance of a duchess.
"Why, I want back, of course." I want the parties and the petty cruelty and the making fun of other people, I want the glitter and the glamour, and what's more, I want Ted to be next to me and to laugh when I trample on your husband's considerable ego.
"Got bored with the destitution, did you?" Narcissa pathetically failed at sneering.
"Now don't be silly," Andromeda smiled. "I only want my child to be well-acquainted with our world, so that when time comes, he or she will know the meaning of the blood of Black."
Narcissa made a very convincing imitation of a fish.
Andromeda piously went on.
"So you understand, it would really be easier for everyone involved if your husband wasn't found out to be the culprit, as I am sure you already know. I'm sure that, if one cared to look, your maid would be found out to be of a dubious morality. Perhaps she would have been seduced, and, finding herself in an interesting position," Andromeda, who'd never used this phrase without a raised eyebrow, carefully worded, "she committed suicide – much more expectable a sin from a maid than murder from a gentleman."
The blonde's eyes were cast down. Her sister could practically hear the wheels turning. Andromeda wasn't anxious; it wasn't much of a choice, really. It wasn't as if Narcissa, personally, had anything to lose. Pretty much a win-win situation, in monetary talk.
And, well, a sister's husband, no matter how wretched the man, was nevertheless part of the family. Sticking together was required.
"Ye-es," Narcissa finally let out. "Of course. Yes." She bit on her lower lip. "There – is going to be a party next week, for Bellatrix's coming back from her honeymoon. It would – we would be delighted if you were one of us."
"Two," Andromeda corrected, without ever stopping smiling. "I am convinced Ted will love to come."
"Of course," Narcissa repeated. "He is welcome to."
This was an instant for gloating and gloat Andromeda did. It would make no permanent damage to Narcissa's pride, and four years spent fantasising about Ted – charming, witty, unassumingly revolutionary Ted, who now so happened to be leading the investigation concerning the Lucius Malfoy scandal – walking all over the Blacks' famed ideals of blood purity and getting thanked for it had honed Andromeda' revenge to perfection.
The corridors of the opera had started to empty; people were flowing back to their seats, called by the high ringing that signalled the end of the entr'acte, and the two sisters were left looking away from each other, standing apart. Andromeda still outshone her pale flower of a sister, tall, thin, and fragile – not so deceptively that she didn't bend, just supple enough that she didn't break.
"You can send the invitation to this address," Andromeda handed a slip of paper to her pallid sister. "It was lucky I had it on me," she couldn't refrain from commenting, as a last pique.
Narcissa seemed to come to her senses. "Yes," she echoed. "A very lucky coincidence indeed."
Her eyes were glistening, a bit too much even under the chandeliers.
Andromeda didn't want to leave her sister alone at worst or surrounded with well-meaning fools at best. She could imagine, all too well, how Narcissa would fight against the tears, how she would pretend to be absorbed in the spectacle, how her only concern would be to hold back until she was safely in her bedroom, and how she would ultimately fail – the shameful, hurried flight before the end of the ballet, under the mocking gaze of a hundred of respectable spectators.
However, if she didn't, perhaps she would lack the will to carry her plan out. Perhaps she would let Ted talk her out of it. Perhaps she would compromise Narcissa beyond all hopes of social redemption.
Perhaps all Narcissa wanted was to be left alone.
Andromeda decided she was wearing a scarlet gown, and took her sister's arm to escort her back to her box.
She didn't glance at her sister's face for a trace of acceptance, but when she swept into the box of the dress circle, the only thing she saw was the shimmers of the red velvet curtain that welcomed her home.
For the first time that evening, she smiled without a second thought.
