Perry retraced his steps to Madame Wanton’s party. This was his third time. The Author had shown him Inconsiderate, alone in her room, sitting quietly after he left. She would remember none of it. But he would dance with her again. There was still so much he wanted to know. Maybe he’d ask her if peacocks got embarrassed. Or not. I mean—he could, if he wanted.
Madame Wanton noticed him the moment he stepped through the doorway. She didn’t glance up at first. Instead, she finished a sentence to some forgettable lord, accepted a glass of wine, and only then—only then—did she look.
“Mr. Graycloak…” she said at last. “You’ve returned.”
She had remembered again. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The Author must have a reason. Inconsiderate faded from his mind like music after the last note. He turned his full attention to Madame Wanton.
“I trust the wine was more satisfying last time than the company.” Her eyes shimmered—cool, unreadable. “Though I hear you’ve taken to slow dancing with the furniture.” She sipped her wine, calculating. “Shall I have the floor polished for you? Or are you planning to talk tonight?”
“Come now, my Lady,” Perry said gently. “Pettiness is beneath you.” He offered her his hand—open, unhurried. “Show me how to dance,” he said. “And I’ll teach you how to duel.”
Madame Wanton laughed—soft, amused, unreadable. She stepped forward and studied his hand. “You presume I’ve forgotten how to dance,” she murmured. Then she looked up. Her eyes were sharp. And calm. “And worse—You presume you’ve learned to fight.”
A heartbeat passed. The music shifted—slow, deliberate, precise. Then, without a word, she placed her gloved fingers in his. “Very well.”
As they moved toward the center of the floor, she glanced up—measured, regal, unblinking. “But understand this, Perry.” Her voice was silk. “If you bleed tonight, it won’t be from the dancing.”
Perry took the lead—but felt her resist, just enough to remind him who she was. “I presume nothing, Madame Wanton. Or should I call you…”
The question hung in the space between their steps. Madame Wanton stepped in—closer, but never too close. Her form was flawless. Her rhythm, a half-beat behind—just enough to force his correction. “You presume nothing,” she echoed, voice cool. “And yet you ask me for my name.”
She spun—light, precise—tugging Perry with her. Then stopped. Just short of yielding control. “Names are dangerous things, Mr. Greycloak.” She pressed into his resistance, testing the strain between them. “A man like you should know: A name given is a secret surrendered. And I’ve surrendered enough in this lifetime.”
She let out a long breath. “But if you insist on calling me something…”. She paused, then added, quieter: “Try Evadne—” She leaned in, her eyes sharp with challenge. “But only once.”
“My dearest Evadne,” he said, soft with reverence. “Now I will teach you how to dance.” He relaxed into her rhythm, letting her lead. “And you will show me how to duel.”
A tremor ran through her—just enough for him to feel. “Careful, Mr. Greycloak,” she murmured. “If you give too freely… you might discover what it’s like to truly be seen.”
–
Evadne twirled him with a dancer’s instinct. It was a test. A tease. And, just for a moment, a memory. Of a girl who once spun with joy, not strategy.
“Dueling isn’t about wounds, Perry,” she said, voice low with fire. “It’s about knowing how much to cut—and when to stop.” She lowered her gaze. Not in submission. In calculation. “And knowing which blows you’re willing to take… just to find the answer.”
“Tell me then, Madame… what answers do you need?” Evadne. He didn’t speak the name. But it echoed between them all the same.
She closed her eyes and took three slow steps. “None that I’d admit to.” She leaned in—closer than before. “But I think I need someone to tell me…” A pause. Her breath caught. “…that the person I used to be wasn’t a fool.”
She pulled back—just enough to meet his eyes. “That she was brave.” A breath. “That she was… right to believe in love.”
She smiled softly. But her eyes held sorrow. “I don’t think anyone will.”
“Not she!” Fire sparked in Perry’s eyes. “You.” His voice softened, steady now. “You are no fool, Evadne. Not now. Not ever.” He let the words settle between them. “But let’s dance a while… before resuming our duel.”
Evadne drew a quiet breath, her body softening in his arms. Not as a lover, but as a woman no longer holding herself together out of necessity.
The song ended but Perry and Evadne kept dancing. A new melody began, softer than the last. Perry drew her closer. “Tomorrow they’ll all forget,” he said quietly. “But not you.” He searched her eyes. “Why do you think the Author wants this?”
Evadne let herself be drawn close. There was no seduction in her expression—only stillness. “Because someone has to remember,” she said, her breath slow and measured. “Maybe I was meant to. To hold the thread when the rest unravel.”
She looked into his eyes, no veil between them now. “Or maybe…” Her voice softened. A small smile touched her lips. “Maybe he just wanted someone to keep you honest.”
“Why do you throw parties?” Perry asked softly. Then, after a pause: “This time I will presume, my dearest—for the same reason I attend them.” He didn’t need to finish the thought. The invitation was already there.
Evadne stopped mid-step.
She didn’t blink.
She didn’t smile.
“Not for pleasure. Not for company.” Her voice dropped. “I think I throw them to keep the Dream from fading. To remind myself that all of this once meant something.” Her voice wavered. “But I’m tired, Perry. Tired of pretending I don’t remember. Tired of watching the same broken souls break the same way, again and again.”
She stepped closer. “If you’re asking me to help you…then I will.” Her voice steadied. “But I don’t serve the Dreamer. I serve the story.” A long breath. “And I want to see how it ends.”
“You will. I promise.” The song ended. Perry squeezed her hand, then bowed, deeply. “But for now, Madame…” A faint smile. “You have a party to run. And I have one to attend.”
Evadne let her hand linger in his—just a breath too long. She didn’t curtsy. She stood before him like a queen sending her knight to battle.
“Then go,” she said. “Ask your questions. Wear your masks. But remember, Perry…” She leaned forward, fire flickering beneath her breath. “…this Dream is layered. And not all dancers know they’re asleep.”
She turned and slipped into the crowd—her expression unreadable once more but her soul very much awake.
