Numbering the Bones (Emilie)

[KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH]

KADEN IS WEARING SOME CLOTHES

To its credit, the word “glamorous” probably wasn’t the least appropriate word to describe Kaden Allingham-Hemsworth. But Kaden was confident that were such a list to exist, the adjective would be quite near the bottom. He climbed the marble steps feeling akin to some sort of taint, a stain on a white shirt, perhaps, or the ring of a dissonant tone in an otherwise resplendently harmonic chord. Kaden was conscious of his every movement’s impression upon the area they were entering: the indent of his shoe in the carpet, mowing the strands slowly over like blades of grass in the breeze, the subtle trail of oils his hand left behind on the metal railing as he clasped it between his fingers, the echo of his words off of the walls of the vast chamber before them and the pillars aligning it as he spoke. ”I’m grateful for your agreeing to attend this event with me, Miss Simone.”

Even the words came stiffly, his sentences more viscous than he’d ever experienced them before. Every instinct in his mind and body was poking and prodding him, shoving him backwards, back through the door through which they’d passed. Kaden did not belong here, in this sparkling chamber of high society. He felt like some sort of stalagmite protruding from the smooth ground.

But ideally, he thought to himself, Emilie Simone would not notice. Or perhaps she’d take pleasure in the air of nonconformity. It was still striking to Kaden that, even in his stunning proximity to her, the way his arm linked carefully through hers like thread on a weaving loom, the smell of her breath meandering through his nostrils like spearmint leaves on a brisk spring morning, he still felt as far away from her as from his mother in Utah, or the mother of that abominable specimen to which he referred as a “sister” across the Atlantic Ocean. With all the powers of deduction he knew were in his possession, he still felt as if he knew next to nothing about Emilie Simone. Which intrigued him.

Emilie was a puzzle. And if there was one thing to which Kaden Allingham-Hemsworth was irrevocably drawn, it was puzzles. And oh, he could crack her, of that he was certain. He would whittle her down to a cipher and then…and then, he would find the key.

But this was just an evening, a night of joviality and polite discourse. A means to an end, but a means all the same. Focusing on the here and the now, Kaden’s eyes roamed the room before them. ”A schoolteacher,” he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone, though there was no doubting that Emilie could hear his every word. His eyes focused on a blonde man in a black mask standing near the refreshment table, back pocket bulging with the vestige of a calculator. ”TI Inspire,” he added, glimpsing the imprint of the antennae on its encasing fabric. ”A private tutor, perhaps? What do you think?” She didn’t need to answer: he just needed to pose the question.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

OUTFIT

It ought to have been Christian’s arm she was holding. To think so wasn’t an act of adolescent pettiness in the slightest; it was merely a fact. Of all the galas, charity dinners, and various other high-profile events she’d attended while a part of the Reichenbach household, the blonde haired boy had been a constant companion. Not chosen, perhaps, but familiar, and there was certainly something to be said for familiarity, as much as Emilie occasionally enjoyed surprises.

Still, she liked Kaden. He was different. Both from the imbecilic fools in her classes and the calculated brilliance (she couldn’t deny him that) brilliance that was Christian, Kaden was somehow separated. He was smart, yes, and kind, but with a hidden sort of hashness that managed to keep one from being overly suspicious. And yet she found herself hiding from him, as she hid from everyone. There was no use in it—putting oneself out in the open—if only because people never seemed capable of living up to expectations, let alone wishes. And Emilie Simone had always been one for practical thinking.

Perhaps it had to do with the stiffness about him. The almost awkward way in which he moved his limbs and spoke as though each word had taken a vast amount of not-so-difficult forethought had admittedly grown on her, almost to the point where she found them endearing. But no, that wasn’t the word. Intriguing. Yes, she found him intriguing. Much in the same way as a cat might a mouse, though one she couldn’t quite bring herself to kill so much as watch and wonder how it had managed to survive for so long. And he did seem ever so out of place here, where she knew the steps and the lines and the entire score of the evening from start to finish without having done so much as set foot in the room. It was a curious thing, familiarity.

His words, stiff with formalities and necessity, brought a small smile to her lips, though it was as close-lipped and contained as any she ever gave. She offered him a small nod as she spoke, words cooled with the sort of ice that sprinkled sidewalks in late October: almost soft, with not the slightest hint of treachery. “There’s no need for that, I promise you. I find gratitude a cumbersome thing, more often than not, and I’m sure they’ll be enough of it to go around inside, anyway. It is a charity event, after all.”

She was patient with him as they climbed the stairs to the main room, and offered not the slightest hint that she was observing his every reaction, each twitch of his fingers noted by the pale blue eyes behind her mask. Too, she saw other things. The woman at the far end of the bar across the hall, clearly eyeing the waiter at least half her age with the sort of desperation that could only imply a recent divorce. A small, cruel smile made its way across Emilie’s lips, and it slipped only when Kaden spoke again, tugging her gaze somewhere else with his string of words. Ah, so he saw things too. The gift of observation was far too often overlooked. Eyes raking gently over the man’s person, Emilie tilted her head up slightly so as to speak privately, though her lips did not brush his skin. “No, certainly a teacher, probably from a public school, judging by the way his pant leg is frayed. You see? He had to walk here. Private tutors make enough to afford a cab, at least, and they certainly don’t come to charity events immediately after work. My guess is he’s here for the food, no suggested donation given…” She smiled as she pulled away from him, the coy tug at the corners of her lips seeming entirely unintentional. Still, she watched closely him as she inclined her head towards the bar where the divorcee had two seconds ago been seated. “Would you care for a small drink? I’m parched. And besides, there’s a much better view from the bar, if people watching is truly what you’re so interested in…”

[KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH]

Kaden was at a bit of a loss for words. While he certainly wasn’t finding this event entertaining—he’d never been one to find appeal in meaningless banter among snobbish crowds encased in frivolous and lavish common spaces—he did find himself drawn to it as he might be drawn to, say, a Rubik’s cube, or a Sudoku puzzle.

And Emilie Simone? Well, she seemed to know the system as well as a chess master might know his board. She walked the room carefully, surveying its occupants like prey, moving and sidestepping expertly as if this were some sort of dance routine she’d practiced thousands and thousands of times. Through all of the associations he’d had with her presumed class of society (which were, admittedly, few in number), Kaden could hardly think of a more appropriate tour guide in this new and foreign universe.

“There’s no need for that, I promise you. I find gratitude a cumbersome thing, more often than not, and I’m sure they’ll be enough of it to go around inside, anyway. It is a charity event, after all.”

Gratitude a cumbersome thing. Funnily enough, Kaden understood the sentiment precisely. The relevance of empathy was, after all, a topic on which he’d questioned himself more often than he had on many others. The concept of expressing one’s inner emotions and affinities for others, of expending one’s energy on something so inane as the ephemeral and petty gratification of others. Kaden had always been rather perplexed by the concept of a ‘thank you’, (as he was by many social customs, come to think of it), but had assumed that it, as was the case with other related pleasantries, required by arbitrary social custom. Conveniently, however, Emilie seemed to harbor the same disregard. ”Quite understandable,” he replied, conscious of how little his usual monotone reflected how pleased he was with her response.

“No, certainly a teacher, probably from a public school, judging by the way his pant leg is frayed. You see? He had to walk here. Private tutors make enough to afford a cab, at least, and they certainly don’t come to charity events immediately after work. My guess is he’s here for the food, no suggested donation given…”

Impressive conclusions. Kaden nodded his head slowly, intrigued by her nimble jumps to conclusions. He’d never quite pegged her as the deductive type during their card game, though admittedly the conversation had never progressed to that point. ”The frayed pant leg is an interesting clue to note. I wonder though…if perhaps the walking is simply a function of convenience? After all, this operation is located in midtown Manhattan, one of the wealthiest areas in the city. An esteemed professor, perhaps, or a tutor employed by one of the families in this area, might certainly see more logic in walking than taking a taxi a single-digit number of blocks, particularly if said educator is of above-average intelligence. I fail to see the logic in walking a distance which one might normally drive, tens of blocks I’m sure, for the sake of food alone, when I’m sure one could gain much easier access to a grocery store with food equal to or less than the price of a mask.” His lips alluded to the barest hint of a smile. “But one can never know, can he?” Simply another theory to be tossed upon the pile.

“Would you care for a small drink? I’m parched. And besides, there’s a much better view from the bar, if people watching is truly what you’re so interested in…”

Keenly observant, as always. Kaden allowed himself the barest nod and began to walk towards the bar, scanning the menu and selecting the fanciest-looking name. ”Two of the Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, please,” he said to the bartender, flashing his drivers’ license and flicking a hundred-dollar-bill across the counter as he would have a playing card. ”Keep the change.” The new internship, combined with extended hours at Starbucks now that school was over, had left him a fair bit of financial wiggle room these days. And what was this caliber of society, if not a game of monetary illusion?

He handed one of the glasses to Emily, aware of both the fact that the woman was much too young to drink and the fact that he certainly wasn’t going to be able to stop her if she desired it. Emilie Simone simply exuded that aura, an aura of power, of someone who always got her way. And anyways, Kaden had always found arbitrary regulations on behavior such as drinking quite distasteful.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Emilie listened to him coolly, her painted lips moving a fraction of a hint upwards as his deductions progressed. There was something attractive about the way he spoke, she had to admit. Despite never having been a fan of the English (it was a fact she was certain Christian would be bound to bring up one of these days, were by some chance her outings with Kaden to continue), this man—or boy, perhaps, though he certainly spoke like the adult his age claimed he was—intrigued her in a way she was never willing to admit anyone had before. And there was a softness to him, too, despite the sharply hesitant way with which she could watch him view the room. He was new to this place. It was a game she’d played since she was a child, filled with so many steps and dips and bows and curtseys that, eventually, it had becomes more of a dance than anything else. And certainly, Emilie had always been fond of dancing.

She nodded, offering him the slight smile of approval for only a moment longer before it fell, back behind the curtain of her gold mask and lightened blue eyes. “No, I suppose not…”

Arm still wrapped in his, she glided easily to the bar, the steps as familiar to her as even despite never having set foot on this particular floor before. She watched him, lips slightly pursed in that familiarly impassive way of hers as he paid for their drinks, taking slight pleasure in the way he flicked the crisp American bill across the counter. Her brows raised slightly behind the mask. There was a lightness in her eyes when as she took the wine with a nod and polite, impeccably-spoken “Merci beaucoup,” spoken with a coyness in her eyes so faint it might have been unintentional. Sipping it delicately, she looked away from him for a moment, savoring the taste of both the wine and his obvious inexperience at these sorts of events. There was no mention of her age either by Kaden or the bartender, though obviously the former knew she was far too young to drink from this glass legally. She carried herself with her head held high, however, and the technically illegal act brought her no adrenaline rush whatsoever. It wasn’t as though it was something new, after all. She’d never understood the other students her age—the drinking, the partying, the drugs. In all honesty, it sickened her. But then, so did all sloppiness.

With another delicate sip of the wine, Emilie’s gaze glided its way easily back to Kaden, taking in once more the entirety of the room as she did so. There was a look she gave him, then, over the top of her wine glass. Slight and slow, her eyes slid their way over him like silk, in a manner decidedly less sensual than observant, though the same flicker of something more lingered in her eyes as she lowered the wine from her lips. Rubbing them lightly together so as to savor the last droplets of liquid, she spoke with cool conviction though her voice was soft, considering the steadily-increasing volume of the room around them. “You don’t dance, do you, Mr. Allingham?”

[KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH]

For a while he sat, watching her sip delicately. He wouldn’t have acquainted her manner with that of a doll, per se, but more of a…porcelain doll. A porcelain doll crafted from the rarest of minerals, with skin sleek and smooth, hands dainty, but exuding an aura of...value all the same.

Kaden emulated her, trying not to make a face. He drank quite a bit of alcohol in his everyday life—the stresses of his work, however minimal, still tended to necessitate mental decompression at the end of the day—but he still found it rather vile. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly about the drink dissatisfied him. It wasn’t the taste; the bitterness and carbonation had a bit of a ring to them, he thought, like names that rolled nicely off the tongue. The drink smelled and tasted of mediocrity, a trait that Kaden had held in high esteem for most of his life. He didn’t even mind the loss of control; to relinquish dominion over his body and mind was almost a welcome break.

Still, something about his mouth and throat despised alcoholic beverages. Perhaps it didn’t agree with his condition, or the veganism. Ah, well. Life was for the living, as he always liked to say. No point in delaying the inevitable.

“You don’t dance, do you, Mr. Allingham?”

Dance?

Oh heavens, no.

Kaden took a few long seconds to ponder his next move. This was feeling more and more like a game of cards with every sentence spoken, and Kaden did so enjoy a good card game, with a crafty opponent. As it appeared, the downsides of declining Ms. Simone’s thinly veiled offer were great in number. She’d see him as a coward, for sure, see him for the unattractively lazy bum that he was, see how truly out-of-place he was at these types of events, with this class of society. She’d see the timidness, the awkwardness he’d spent his life burying beneath a concrete mask of eloquent apathy, and he wasn’t sure whether she’d like what she saw.

And he did so want her to like him.

On the other hand, accepting meant that he would have to dance. And if there was one thing that Kaden Allingham-Hemsworth did not do, it was dance.

Still, after weighing and calculating the options in his head, the “yes” vote ultimately won him over. ”I do indeed, Ms. Simone,” he replied courteously, bowing his head and tipping his mask the way a gentleman would his hat. ”Shall we?” he inquired, extending a polite hand.

Dear God, this was going to be interesting.