My Queen || Marguerite

[ADAM CARMINE]

outfit of a lost little stray

Once, many years ago in a land not so much different form this one, there lived a Man who played at calling himself God. He lived in a castle on a hill and told the World he ruled it because of His name, and for a long time, the World believed Him. She was a fragile thing, the World, and He was a strong, cruel man with soft eyes and a powerful voice. She listened to him because She thought He held her together. She let Him wrap Her in chains.

He could not love a thing unless he could break it. And break Her he did. They were in bed, the night God broke the World. She told her She loved Him and He said he could give her anything she wished, if only she kept for him one secret and one secret alone. She wished for freedom, and God, being just but not kind, cut open her chains knowing exactly what lay ahead.

She moved her lips because she could, and in the end, God’s secret was revealed and He stuck her down in spite, dragged Her body back to his castle and chained it there above the door as a warning, so that all might know what a prayer truly meant for those who intended to sin.

Free will, in the end, was what killed Her.

Adam had always found the obsession with freedom curious. The word carried with itself a lightened connotation, far off from its darker, deadlier twin called Consequence. He’d never been particularly fond of either. Action and Reaction, now, those were clever things.

For instance, if he wanted to take the action of asking that young woman, the one just over to the left, in the maroon and gold mask, for a dance, there were two probable reactions she could have. One, she might say yes, being desperate and dull and therefore a waste of the next twenty measures it would take for him to come up with a polite enough excuse that allowed him to leave without crushing the poor dear further into the ground. He wasn’t a fan of getting the soles of his shoes dirty. The second possible reaction would be a polite, contrite “No thank you,” and either way, he’d be left with nothing but disappointment in the imagination of the human race. Truthfully, he didn’t know why he’d come here.

The answer, had he thought about it a bit harder, would have been simple; people were only ever interesting when one allowed them to wear masks. They were like keys, he supposed they thought, unlocking the ability to suddenly be the something-they-weren’t that really was just the something-they-were dressed up with gaudy gold fixtures. You could tell a lot about a person by what they chose to hide behind.

No one yet had chosen to hide anything interesting, however, and so he was stuck. Drifting somewhere in the not-quite-corner with a swirling glass of scotch in his hand, he watched them, the little ants at play, and couldn’t help but wonder which one, if any, were worth the effort it might take to approach them.

[MAGGIE SINCLAIRE]

outfit

If there was one thing Maggie Sinclaire could do, it was make an entrance.

Despite being one of the contributors of this Masquerade Ball, Maggie was at least thirty minutes late. Not late enough to be completely rude, but certainly enough to catch a few eyes. Had she come on time though, eyes would have been caught, that much she was sure of. The big, red, ball gown she wore was stunning- folds of fabric caught the light perfectly, and the rose petal and sheer gossamer bodice showed just enough skin to be tantalizing. Her vivid red hair, a great asset in her own opinion, was loose and wild under her heart crown, framing the elegant mask that was on her face. Every hair was in place, every piece of jewelry sparkled just enough. As always, Maggie Sinclaire made herself look like perfection.

She should be at home, she supposed. She was in mourning after all... Ryan's untimely death so soon after their wedding was just tragic. But it would have been rude if she hadn't made an appearance. If it proved to be too boring she'd go home. And if she saw Amy, who had been such a comfort in her time of need, she'd merely say she couldn't bare to be alone. Hit her right in the guilt spot. Lord knows it was a sensitive area for her dearest friend.

Few people actually knew about Maggie's week long marriage. And, to be honest, she had little interest in advertizing it. It looks suspect. That was why she was momentarily investigated when she was in Las Vegas. But, like she did with the police, she would know the right thing to say. A women in the public light should never think to keep anything private. That was just logic. And she would never allow a scandal to affect her business.

Gliding across the floor, she had to admire the event that came together so nicely. Beautiful... It was really beautiful. The decorations, the costumes swaying, the music. The people were having a good time and eating the dainty finger food. No one was dressed as batman, not even those atrocious high school students who appear to of invaded. Though, to be fair, most children in boarding school are quite well off. Better to get them interested in the duties of socialite society early. All and all, it was a classy affair.

Though one of the downsides of a masque is you never quite knew who you were talking to. What would happen if she spoke to someone boring? Or someone she hated? Oh, what an odious prospect that would be. Looking around, she assessed. Amy would certainly be in something blue and cheap. She had the fashion sense of a fourteen year old girl. Maggie could only be exasperated. Who knows what Mary Anne would be dressed as... Perhaps the Virgin Mary. It may just be a good system to not talk to women...

Going to the punch bowl, Maggie got herself a cup, throwing out the bait for suitors.

She was bored, after all.

[ADAM CARMINE]

Adam had never been fond of public events. There was something filthy about them. It was in the way they all silently competed against one another, he supposed. In their wormish, whorish ways they all moaned and writhed for attention and the masses came and paid their money and pleasured themselves on them and left, either because they were no longer entertained or they realized that the whole thing was a rather large waste of time anyway. And they were wasteful—the expense, the food, the wasted words no one really wanted to hear. It was, if nothing else, pathetic. And yet they were endearing.

He’d come anyway, after all.

He came because as much as they disgusted him, they amused him. Most things Adam intereacted with were like that. And they intrigued him, not on their own or in their structure or their outfitting or design, but in their masked purpose. Things were never what they seemed and yet, they always were just exactly that. He’d call it perplexing but that would be uncouth. Adam prided himself on his ability to use words in public. Privately, there were other things.

Too, he took great care in his picking of companions. Or his lovers. Or his friends. This was neither a public nor private pride, simply a fact. Respect wasn’t something he craved, but it was something he needed—he had to respect a person before he could speak to them. Look at them properly, even. Love them, certainly. Respect was the sort of thing that turned heads. Admiration and jealousy too, he supposed, though they were more foreign and felt hard, heavy and hot on his tongue. He took a sip of his drink to cool his lips and found it did nothing, though the dull ache of boredom lessened somewhat in his stomach. That was why they were, here. Dull. He had yet to have a conversation and still he knew it, all from watching them wear their little masks, keeping tabs behind his. He didn’t know anyone’s story—didn’t want to, as chances were it was boring and droll and clichéd—but he knew the faces they cared to wear and he knew their clothes and he knew he hated them, each and every one of them, and it wasn’t the sort of hate that could turn into love or even desire. He simply wanted them to leave.

All, he supposed, but one.

She could stay. He’d been watching her, now, and it would have been impossible not to. She’d wanted the entrance. He’d seen it, in the way she held her head and the particular movement of her grandiose dress, she drank up the stares like wine and oh, God, he could tell it tasted good. Gladly, he thought, he’d have poured her some more, and he didn’t even know her name. He didn’t need to. She was royalty. It was in the way she moved and how her hair caught the light and tossed it back as fire, not good enough to grace her rose-studded skin. He was not a man in love. Rather, curiosity had taken him. And perhaps a bit of respect.

He approached her carefully, much like a cat might another, larger, far more frightening member of its kind. Still, he smiled at her beneath his mask as he took another sup of his drink, positioning himself just a bit behind her and to the left. Her dress left quite a bit of room between them. “You don’t think the Queen of Hearts is a bit childish for this sort of thing?”

[MAGGIE SINCLAIRE]

outfit

Maggie was debating whether or not she could politely make an exit from this drab thing, when she heard a voice behind her. Looking over her left shoulder, she certainly had a rather regal weariness, as if she were forced to indulge in boring conversation with a mere commoner. Which, well, lets be honest, in the mind of Maggie all mere men were commoners unless they proved themselves to be otherwise. This one wasn't doing a fantastic job, criticizing her outfit. Especially since all he had seemed to think to do was wear a suit and a large mask. Still, the suit was at least of some value, so she wouldn't ignore him outright. He might be a useful investor someday. Looking forward, Maggie did let it be known that she really didn't need to be bothered with looking at him while she spoke to him.

"It's a costume party, Darling. If you're taking yourself too seriously, you're doing it wrong." Her voice was light and fluttery as a bird, but it still had a strange gravity to it. Maggie had never spoken in her age group, at least not in accordance with this century. She loathed slang vernaculars, wanting to be seen not for her age, but for intelligence. And beauty, if one is honest. Therefore, her age always seemed to take people aback. Perhaps that was precisely why she was beginning her own business. Bleeding Hearts wasn't hers, though she ran it with a cold and calculating hand required of a business owner. She loved to take people aback, and a thriving business that has not touched her Dear Daddy's hand would certainly do the trick.

All while she thought on this little dallies and thoughts, she sipped her wine delicately. Musn't allow her bold- and probably fleeting- companion to think himself important. At least not too important. A mistress of timing, she gave him a curled and flirtatious smile, angling her chin attractively to him. "Besides, do I wear this immaturely?" Maggie was a pretty thing, but there were certainly women who were curvier than she. Perhaps even a few with a fairer face- though she'd rather not talk about those. But few had an air to match Maggie's. The sweet, little, kiss of a dimple below the corner of her lip. The way her eyes could both be coy and strong; the way her hands held such poise and weightless poses. As if natural. She could play on how people were feeling, pick up on little cues. Maggie was a clever, little, queen.

Turning to face him, Maggie gave a proper appraisal. He was taller than her- expected for a man, but still. His shoulders were narrowed, and what she could see of his face was nothing to really write home about. Though, she'd be lying if she were to say that was a totally bad thing. Most striking was the fineness of suit and accessories. Oh yes, this one had money on him. And maybe enough time had passed from her dearly departed Ryan that she should, as they say, get back out there. Sipping her wine, she kept her coy grin in place. "You know, most men don't open up with an almost insult. In fact, they usually try hello..."