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“I am not myself with people […] but am I myself when alone? That seems unlikely, too.”

— Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963 (via jacobwren)

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Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, From “Substitute Heart”

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ruthleveen​:

closed to: @mvsquerade​​​

location: ravensmoor rose garden

time: late evening

What she expect, honestly? Who knows. This night has been just as glamorous and luxurious as one would expect it to be. However, there is one thing that Ruth did not account for in her preparations for the night: the loneliness. Somehow she managed to convince herself that just because she was invited to this absurd party, she would feel as though she belonged. That is not the case. 

That little slip of paper which arrived at her doorstep seemed to, momentarily, endow the girl with a sense of confidence. But, upon arrival, that feeling did not last long. From her perspective, the guest list is random and aimless, and Ruth cannot help but feel as though she is at the butt of some rather grand joke. She has spent the night waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the host himself to pop out and declare that she and others like her were only brought for the sake of laughter. 

The iron bench she now sits on is not comfortable, no, but the pleasant silence that the rose garden provides is more than enough to make up for it. As she stands, intent on walking the garden’s meandering path, her dress catches itself on a sharp point of the bench’s iron floral motif, ripping a tear in the delicate cloth. Already on an emotional razor’s edge, that is enough to tip the scale towards a full break. Her jaw clenches, and she sinks back down onto the bench, her eyes growing hot with unshed tears. 

Ruth rests her face in her hands, hoping to quell her heated cheeks, and begins humming a familiar tune. 

❖

As Zoya breaks away from her nameless companions and wanders further through the garden, she finds someone seated alone, head in her hands. In the dark, she cannot make out the tear in Ruth’s dress, but she recognizes the hunched figure of someone holding back tears. It is a familiar sight; amongst roses in full bloom and untouched by East End smog, Ruth presents a mirror image of herself from twelve years ago, thrust into unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar faces and a voice needling, you don’t belong. 

Maybe the difference between the two is that Zoya had been more prepared, August intent on scrubbing out that girl from Whitechapel with every lesson on how to speak and how to act. But no amount of practice prepared her for the actual moment where she had to convince herself she’d always worn silk like a second skin, that its softness was not foreign to her until August had gifted her a lavender gown. Nor did it rid her of the insecurity that she tamped behind a sweet smile and her new, posh accent.

So Zoya doesn’t ask why Ruth is upset or if she’s alright, because she knows the answers to both. 

And while Zoya Martirosyan understands, Zoya Fox isn’t supposed to—what does a rich woman know about feeling out of place surrounded by such luxury when this is supposed to be all she’s ever known? What words of comfort could someone like that offer that won’t sound patronizing? Even if she did ask, perhaps Ruth won’t want to talk about it at all ( Zoya knows she wouldn’t have ).

Instead, she draws her attention elsewhere. “That’s a lovely tune. Is it your own?” she says, offering a soft smile as she takes a seat next to Ruth on the bench. If it is an original melody, then Ruth’s talent has shined once again. If it isn’t, that doesn’t change its lilting, gentle cadence, and she was still right in introducing Ruth to Anthony. “Or a favorite song?”

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Titania sleeping in the moonlight protected by her fairies (detail) John Simmons

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29.8.21 nightmares

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like all terrible truths, something here did not survive.

William Brewer, from I Know Your Kind: Poems

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governcr​:

closed to: @mvsquerade​ outside the ballroom

When they bump into each other, it seems that Zoya is on her way to the ballroom while Jacob tries to desperately escape it. The music is lovely but there’s too many people—people he doesn’t even know or recognize —and it makes him feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed. Besides, a ballroom’s for dancing, something Jacob doesn’t really do. But seeing Zoya makes him stop in his tracks because finally, there’s someone he knows. 

“Oh, hello,” he greets Zoya and gives her a polite smile, something to cover up his uneasiness about being in this place. Jacob wonders if she’s surprised to see him here. He would be—this isn’t the sort of thing that people like him get invited to. The thought keeps coming back to haunt him every now and again, he can’t quite let it go. Either way, he’s here, possibly to everyone’s surprise, including his own. It’s like he made the decision to attend unconsciously and only realized it once he’d arrived. “Enjoying yourself?”

❖

Mr. Ashton’s invite list has cast a curiously wide net across London, some guests as surprising as they are familiar—Jacob is one such face. “Why, Jacob, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you outside of the Britannia. I almost thought you’d never leave it,” she comments, speaking her thoughts aloud, a light sort of teasing imbued in her tone. She means to put him at ease; someone like him can’t be too comfortable in a place like this, and as much as he tries to cover it up, there is still that split second of vulnerability in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “All dressed up, too. Who are you supposed to be?” She notes the winged helmet and cape of chainmail, head cocked in thought. “Some sort of warrior, maybe?”

Then his question has her pause. The ball is certainly grander than any party she’s been to this year, but if she’s truly enjoying herself, she can’t say. She cannot drink as freely as she’d like, she doesn’t know as many faces as she’d like. No one will tell her their names, their identities shrouded in secrecy, when usually those of Ashton’s caliber are known and want to be known. Magdalena’s remarks about secrets being kept and messages supposed to be sent flit to the forefront of her mind, and no matter how much she wants to, she cannot truly relax. 

Still, she smiles as if the answer was always going to be: “Yes, I am.” Her gaze flicks to the ballroom entrance before settling back on Jacob. “And you? Do you like it? You can be honest, I won’t tell our host.”

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misterzafiro​:

Closed Starter for: @mvsquerade​ Location: The Dancefloor

“How divine you look tonight, my dear,” Zafiro takes their entwined hands, and holds them high so that Zoya may twirl and he may admire her outfit more completely. “Helen of Troy. Yes. How very fitting that is for you. An inspired choice.” He draws her to him right as the music picks up tempo, and he proceeds to swing her around the dancefloor energetically. 

“Whoever did you get your jewellery from?” A devilish smirk appears upon his face. He is being facetious, but Zoya knows him well enough to take no offense to it. They have known each other for many long years, and theirs is a bond not easily broken. 

“It is just a shame for you,” he continues, with a dramatic sigh. “That you cannot claim the coveted prize of most beautiful dress at the party. I am afraid that honour belongs only to me.” 

❖

Zoya laughs as they spin around the ballroom, and it is the first time she has truly been at ease this entire night. It makes her remember that she actually likes dancing, and it is not always the chore she must undertake at events like these, the steps of a waltz just another part of a social choreography she’s had to memorize to make it in the world of London’s richest.

“Thank you.” She smiles, pleased by the compliments. “The jewelry really does complete the look, I think—it's a shame the person who I got it from won't tell me how he did it." She's long known not to question his sources, but can't help but needle him, anyway. “Perhaps it was won in a game of cards? Or did it belong to an eccentric collector so unwilling to part with it until he was given the right price?”

When he speaks again, another laugh bubbles out of her. “I have to admit, that’s true. No one can wear cream as well as you.”

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profcss​:

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The little detours Gilly has taken around the manor are enough to satiate his curiosity, though his age betrays him far more quickly than he’d like. His muscles strain at the weight of his persistence, and when his legs fully buckle while crouching to pick up his glasses, Gilly takes it as a cue to rest, even for a while. 

After some consideration, he settles for a secluded spot by the courtyard: dimly-lit, but enough to still take in the surroundings, a unique sort of limbo. He puts down the silver platter filled with wineglasses, which he’d nicked off a footman a few corners prior, before taking a seat himself. He’s barely settled in when he feels a figure hover over him, pleased to find it to be someone familiar—and even, perhaps, one he could finally consider a friend. 

The smile that forms in his lips is markedly different from when they’d talked with each other last, and his gaze is light when he acknowledges her. “Zoya,” he nods, “I suppose it is pretty, yes.” The contrast is almost unsettling. Where there had been grief and death in the graveyard then, this place was teeming with life. He is quick to steer the conversation away from those horrors; reality is unimportant, not when there are distractions all around him, from food and drink to the very nature of the ball itself, as one clouded in mystery. 

And, on the subject of prettier sights, he asks, “Who do I have the pleasure of sitting with tonight?” He makes a sweeping motion to her costume, his smile coy, playful. “There isn’t a shortage of beautiful women across history and literature, so I’m afraid you’ll have to narrow that down for me.” 

Leaning backward slightly, he gestures to the silver platter at the opposite side of him. “Wine?” 

❖

“Grandiose, too,” she muses, gaze drifting to their surroundings. Even the grounds have been spared no expense, stone pillars polished and gleaming and the fountain bubbling over with clear water. It is a world away from the dreariness of London and the ghosts hanging over them both; grief does not follow them like a shadow here. In this corner of the courtyard with someone she calls a friend and laughter in the distance, all is well.  

His compliment pleases her, because who doesn’t like to be called beautiful? If Gilly means to charm her, then he’s succeeded, and she matches his smile with an arch one of her own. Lifting her arm to show him the gold bracelet adorning her wrist, she angles it so the red stones catch in the moonlight, drawing focus to the intricate design at its center. “It’s from Ancient Greece—and not a replica, according to Zafiro. I’ve no idea how he found it, and he won’t tell me.” She sighs as if put out, but her tone is affectionate. “Does that help narrow it down for you?”

Then he offers her wine, and her eyes drift not to a bottle, not a glass, but a whole platter just lying in wait. “Which footman did you relieve of his job?” asks Zoya, amused. “But I shouldn’t,” she adds with a sliver of reluctance. “I’ve already had some, and I do like to keep a clear head.” Before he can ply her with Mr. Ashton’s excellent wine selection once more ( the second attempt of more to come, she can imagine ), she moves on, casting her gaze over Gilly’s costume.

“And who might you be? A Renaissance man, I’m guessing.” She pretends to mull over her guess, head canted in feigned pensiveness. “Not Dante, surely. That seems too obvious.”

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thecrook​:

open to everyone. where: inside ravensmoor manor. when: evening.

Exploring came easy to him. Salvador was a natural weasel, so to speak, weaving in and through corridors and rooms with ease. The manor was certainly grand, exceeding many of Salvador’s inner expectations. In truth, he almost didn’t come. He mostly had his proclivity for partying to blame for his sudden attendance. What you need to know about Salvador Ruiz was that he didn’t like to be alone. A man with many vices, loneliness very easily took the top spot. And it’s not a kind of loneliness that so often come with the craving for another. No, he did not think of love or romance, nor did he wonder about companionship within any capacity. He just doesn’t enjoy the quiet. The creaking walls of his empty home, bringing to light the voices that vigorously cling to that same quiet. 

It’s why he whistles in this moment, alone in an office on the second floor of the manor. He picks up a paperweight and tosses it in the air, catching it as it falls back down. “It’s all a bit overkill, no?” Salvador muses aloud, looking to the person who appears in the doorway. “The whole thing. The masks, the manor, these strangers.” He swats his hand through the air as if that might further his point. “I reckon something conspicuous is afoot, my friend.” But when did he not? Perhaps this was an empty sentiment coming from Salvador, as he was always strategic and questioning. 

As she comes upon an office, its lone occupant poses a question. The voice is familiar, and if she’s surprised by the sight of Salvador, she does not show it, her expression stubbornly serene. “I didn’t know we were friends,” she says as she steps inside. Is it a challenge or a plea or something in between? It’s hard to tell, her tone airy and silken. She is no longer seventeen with her heart on her sleeve, quick to laugh and quick to cry, and just as swift to snap; she’s learned how to keep all her cards close to her chest no matter the circumstances. 

Will he be proud or will he hate her? She doesn’t know. 

Her fingers run lightly over a mahogany shelf before she comes to a stop at a bejeweled egg, diamonds embedded in its gleaming, blue surface. Picking it up, she clicks it open to reveal a miniature, golden clock, its hands stuck permanently at midnight. Here, time has stopped, but when she flicks her gaze up to Salvador, she can see the passage of time etched clearly in his face. ( And if he is to look at her, that same flow is reflected. ) It is not a matter of if time has been cruel or kind, but that their paths have diverged over the course of over a decade. They are not strangers, but not family, not friends; not as they once were. 

For a moment, she thinks to apologize. To sum up ten years in one sentence. But the words stay lodged in her throat; where would she even begin? I’m sorry I left the way I did, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But you understand, don’t you? If someone reached out with a golden hand, wouldn’t you take it? We are all so desperate to have more than what we were born with. 

“The eccentricities of the rich know no bounds,” she quips instead, as if she is one of them yet, at the same time, on the outside looking in. Because here is a man who knows where she comes from, who knows that the blue blood running through her veins is all a lovely lie. She’s part of this opulent world but she isn’t; she once called him something like a brother but now she’s not sure she can. Paradox upon paradox. “Perhaps if this were a fairytale—like Cinderella—it would all vanish by midnight.” She glances back down at the egg, its clock glinting beneath the glow of lamplight. “The gold turning to rusted copper, roses turning to weeds.” But it isn’t. “Any guess then, on what exactly is afoot?”

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lifeinpoetry​:

Have you looked yourself in the mirror and found the blessed halo of a ring light in each iris? Have you been content enough being this content?

— Solmaz Sharif, from “Self-Care,” Customs: Poems

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Lessons on Expulsion, Erika L. Sanchez

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The feeling that she had never really lived in this world caught her by surprise. It was a fact. She had never lived. Even as a child, as far back as she could remember, she had done nothing but endure.

The Vegetarian, Han Kang (via optimistsdaughter)

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I am the flicker of a cigarette, the last ember, my mother’s rage, whatever you call a living thing that burns. I live like an open flame that is ready to ignite at anytime. We all forget that open flames are the start of all wild fires but not me, I know all about the catastrophric effect of wild fires, I am my mother’s daughter after all.

— Hannah Green, from “Would You Burn For Me?”

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Don't ask for the true story; why do you need it?

Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986

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She would be gowned in moonlight-color,

—Renée Vivien, A Woman Appeared To Me