smile. They were hard; even in the dark, I noted the ice shivering on the surface of the blue. Not blue, really. An almost lavender, if that could in fact be a true color for eyes. The violet irises were iridescent, translucent almost, and polished like the ribbon of his top hat, like the crystals that hung over Mother’s bed frame, dancing in the light.
In comparison, the sleeves of my dress felt crumpled and tight. My skirts so thick they felt foreign.
Whereas this boy, with his broad nose and full lips, seemed so comfortable in the fitted black tuxedo, he wore with the precision of a fine painting in a custom frame. A puffy silver tie was pulled tight around his collar. I believed it to be an ascot, but didn’t want to shame myself by asking. Yet there he sat with an air of casual grace that was something akin to boredom; I guessed there were few things left in the world that held excitement or novelty for him.
The boy leaned forward and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, cupping his palm over the end to light it. He leaned back and inhaled slowly, studying me with those strange eyes. When he exhaled, I watched the smoke circles expand and diffuse into darkness until a gauzy haze settled in the air between us.
“These carriages are abominably cold, especially in the dead of winter,” he said. His tongue ran over his lower lip as if it was mopping up a spot of ash.
Had he noticed me shivering in my dress? I did my best not to show it. If only I wasn’t so willow-thin, I wouldn’t chill so easily. That’s what mother was always saying, as she spread more butter, poured more milk, and piled more bread. “Eat, Rose, eat.”
“You don’t care for the cold?” I asked, my voice wavering. They were the first words I’d spoken since the initial greeting, and what a witty choice they were, I groaned. He glanced out the window, where frost crawled across the glass like spider webs.
But he answered sincerely. “I prefer the heat of the summer months.”
I nodded. I did, too, which was odd. Mother always preferred the cold. Most of our family did. But I froze in the winter. Couldn’t wait for the first buds of spring to cut through the frozen dirt and gift me their perfumed wisps of summer hope.
The boy gestured for me to sit across from him. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my jeweled pocket book clutch that mother had borrowed, so I hung onto it on my lap as I made the awkward jump from the seat to his left to the one across.
But instead of asking me the same question, which would have been the polite thing to do, the boy looked down at his shoes, and I didn’t get to say the line about the spring and the flowers as I’d hoped. I didn’t know what to do next, so I looked at his shoes, too. Like everything, his were polished to perfection, and shone brightly in the moonlight streaming through the window.
Again, the fierce agony of inadequacy coursed through what little vanity I managed to possess.
I felt entirely out of my element.
Yet I did not want to get out of that carriage. I’d always longed to go to a magical ball. They were out of the question for a poor, human girl like me, so when an invitation appeared on my pillow, with golden cursive and my name, Miss Rose Garrett, I ran downstairs to show mother. How thrilled I was! I riddled mother with questions about my escort. But she knew nothing more than I. We just knew he’d be of a magic sort as they were the only ones with permission to go to the ball.
She seemed both excited and nervous and…frightened by the prospect, but in the end, she let me go. She didn’t have another choice; when you were invited, you went.
But now, I thought how odd it was to be so entranced by someone who’d rather look at his own shoe buckles than look into his evening companion’s eyes.
We sat there in chilly silence for what seemed like hours, but could only have been minutes, when, abruptly, the driver, a scruffy looking fellow with strange buggy eyes,
In comparison, the sleeves of my dress felt crumpled and tight. My skirts so thick they felt foreign.
Whereas this boy, with his broad nose and full lips, seemed so comfortable in the fitted black tuxedo, he wore with the precision of a fine painting in a custom frame. A puffy silver tie was pulled tight around his collar. I believed it to be an ascot, but didn’t want to shame myself by asking. Yet there he sat with an air of casual grace that was something akin to boredom; I guessed there were few things left in the world that held excitement or novelty for him.
The boy leaned forward and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, cupping his palm over the end to light it. He leaned back and inhaled slowly, studying me with those strange eyes. When he exhaled, I watched the smoke circles expand and diffuse into darkness until a gauzy haze settled in the air between us.
“These carriages are abominably cold, especially in the dead of winter,” he said. His tongue ran over his lower lip as if it was mopping up a spot of ash.
Had he noticed me shivering in my dress? I did my best not to show it. If only I wasn’t so willow-thin, I wouldn’t chill so easily. That’s what mother was always saying, as she spread more butter, poured more milk, and piled more bread. “Eat, Rose, eat.”
“You don’t care for the cold?” I asked, my voice wavering. They were the first words I’d spoken since the initial greeting, and what a witty choice they were, I groaned. He glanced out the window, where frost crawled across the glass like spider webs.
But he answered sincerely. “I prefer the heat of the summer months.”
I nodded. I did, too, which was odd. Mother always preferred the cold. Most of our family did. But I froze in the winter. Couldn’t wait for the first buds of spring to cut through the frozen dirt and gift me their perfumed wisps of summer hope.
The boy gestured for me to sit across from him. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my jeweled pocket book clutch that mother had borrowed, so I hung onto it on my lap as I made the awkward jump from the seat to his left to the one across.
But instead of asking me the same question, which would have been the polite thing to do, the boy looked down at his shoes, and I didn’t get to say the line about the spring and the flowers as I’d hoped. I didn’t know what to do next, so I looked at his shoes, too. Like everything, his were polished to perfection, and shone brightly in the moonlight streaming through the window.
Again, the fierce agony of inadequacy coursed through what little vanity I managed to possess.
I felt entirely out of my element.
Yet I did not want to get out of that carriage. I’d always longed to go to a magical ball. They were out of the question for a poor, human girl like me, so when an invitation appeared on my pillow, with golden cursive and my name, Miss Rose Garrett, I ran downstairs to show mother. How thrilled I was! I riddled mother with questions about my escort. But she knew nothing more than I. We just knew he’d be of a magic sort as they were the only ones with permission to go to the ball.
She seemed both excited and nervous and…frightened by the prospect, but in the end, she let me go. She didn’t have another choice; when you were invited, you went.
But now, I thought how odd it was to be so entranced by someone who’d rather look at his own shoe buckles than look into his evening companion’s eyes.
We sat there in chilly silence for what seemed like hours, but could only have been minutes, when, abruptly, the driver, a scruffy looking fellow with strange buggy eyes,
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