XX
It took a while for madam to organize a gathering. Madam announced the party to a few select nobles in her circle, and few people with long memories. They had access to histories and the means to survive. They could help me find my way home. We would devise a plan to get me back to my body which would be wearing out soon. A few would likely provide sanctuary on my journey.
Louise's hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who's spent her life in service, but she works with the brisk confidence of a woman who has dressed a hundred souls for a hundred eras. She pulls the corset's laces tight with the practiced precision that lifts your posture and shapes the silhouette into something regal, something meant to be seen.
The gown she chose for me was something out of an autumn dream.
Deep russet panels catch the light like burnished leaves. Gold embroidery curls along the bodice in delicate filigree, reminiscent of vines touched by the last warmth of the season. The train sweeps behind in a long, elegant arc. It revisits the gilded age in its grandeur, but softened by the natural, earthy palette. When you move, the fabric whispers like a forest shifting in a gentle wind.
Louise smooths the skirt, steps back, and nods with quiet satisfaction.
Then she slides the saffron‑colored silk gloves up my arms. They reach my elbows in a perfect line, the color glowing warmly against your skin, a sunset captured in fabric. The gloves complete the transformation, turning me from a visitor into a guest of honor, someone meant to walk among Madam's glittering companions without looking out of place.
Louise meets my eyes in the mirror, her expression softening. "Beautiful."
Louise guided the awkward me through the manor's inner corridors, her steps brisk but her posture formal, as though escorting someone of great importance. The autumn‑colored gown in rich russets, burnished golds, and deep wine hues rustles softly with each movement, catching the candlelight like falling leaves trapped in silk.
Ahead, the double doors to the ballroom stand open.
Warmth spills out first. Then light. Then the unmistakable hum of voices. They seemed refined, melodic, full of life in a way nothing in this world ever is. There were no shades of gray in those voices, or in that ballroom. It was obvious to me that these beings did not see themselves like the specters outside, the ones in the town and the graveyard. They were posh, above it all, not like the ghosts of former selves.
Louise leans in slightly. "Madam's guests have been waiting."
Inside, the room is a jewel box of eras.
Madam stands at the center, radiant in a gown that seems stitched from midnight and starlight. But it's her guests who steal the breath from my lungs.
They are nearly complete and nearly solid. Not the flickering, translucent specters I've grown used to seeing in this world. These beings have weight, and regal presence. Their skin glows with the flush of health. Everyone is blushed with rosy cheeks, many eyes bright, the unmistakable vitality of the living… or something very close to it.
They were dressed as though each one stepped out of their own century and into a dream.
A Victorian lady in a gown dripping with jet beads and black diamonds walked hand in hand with a Renaissance nobleman in embroidered velvet, rings glittering on every finger.
A 1920s socialite with a pearl collar that cascades like a waterfall sways her hips to orchestral music. A starlet in a cream satin dress that catches the light like liquid silver, wine glass in hand. A warrior‑queen from some forgotten age, her armor polished to a mirror shine, her roman consort in arm.
Every era, every style, and all elevated, jeweled, perfected. Their costumes are not replicas; they are impossibly fine, as though crafted from memory and magic rather than fabric. And every one of them turns to look at the protagonist. Their eyes gleam with curiosity… and something deeper. Something hungry, but polite about it.
Madam steps forward, her smile warm and sharp all at once.
"My friends," she announces, her voice carrying effortlessly through the glittering hall, "allow me to present our newest guest. A soul bright enough to be seen even through the fog."
The guests incline their heads, graceful and regal.
Louise stands just behind the protagonist, hands folded neatly, whispering:
"Don't be afraid. They won't bite tonight. Not unless invited."
A gust of fog laden wind blows the parlor doors wide open making an unwelcome banging noise. Someone quickly closes them and bolts them shut.
"We will make more intimate introductions to our new friend soon," the madam smiled as she held up her glass, "but first and foremost this is a party. We must have a dance."
The orchestra starts into a waltz. An uninvited visitor enters the ballroom. I could recognize the hat man as he stands beneath the flickering ballroom chandeliers, transformed yet unmistakable. His costume gleams with old-world elegance—a tailored coat of deep charcoal velvet, silver embroidery curling like smoke along the lapels. The top hat remains, tilted just so, but tonight it's adorned with a single pale feather that trembles as he moves. He places his hat and cane in the hands of one of madam's servants. He moves quickly finding a partner, a confection of a woman in a creamy ball gown and begins to dance.
At first, it's a gentleman's choice waltz. Every move is precise, graceful, almost courtly. His boots glide across the marble, tapping in rhythm with the music that seems to come from nowhere. But as the tempo shifts, so does he. The movement grows sharper, more fluid, his body bending with impossible grace as he dips his partner's lithe figure. The waxy yellow of his eyes catches the light, glowing like molten gold beneath a fringe of dark wavy hair.
He spins, coat flaring, grin widening, predatory yet charming. The guests part instinctively, unsure whether they're watching a man or something wearing the memory of one. His dance is hypnotic, a performance of hunger disguised as elegance.
His partner curtsies as the song ends and the music changes. The party surprisingly didn't have name cards, so the men just found an acceptable partner and started dancing.
I sat near the Madam and appreciated not being the center of attention. The hat man slips his way over towards me, bows, and extends a gloved hand.
"It would be rude to refuse," the Madam whispers to me.
I hesitated only a moment before taking it. The autumn gown flares as he pulls me into motion. His steps swift, precise, almost too smooth as he led me into the dance. I managed not to step on his feet as he guided every twirl. His movements are elegant, but there's a predatory rhythm beneath the grace, a pulse that doesn't belong to the music. Every turn of the waltz feels like a hunt disguised as courtship.
He spins me, the saffron silk of my gloves catching the candlelight. When I draw close again, he takes a deep breath pulling in scent. His nostrils flare slightly, as though tasting the air around me, searching for something invisible. The light behind his eyes flares through his mask of humanity. She could see the layer of makeup that disguised his pallor and the dark rims of his eyes. Then he smiles wider, the grin too sharp, acknowledging her recognition.
They move faster. His boots strike the marble with a dancer's precision. She imagined his cane tapping in time like a metronome for the damned music. The guests watch, entranced, unsure whether they're witnessing beauty or danger. Her train sweeps across the floor like autumn leaves caught in a storm.
He leans close, voice low and velvet-smooth.
"You still smell alive," he murmurs, almost tenderly. "Your body still has a tether. How rare."
I pull away from him startled, tripping suddenly, he puts his hands at my back for support, pulling me in, his face touching my shoulder as his arms support my body. His sharp toothed mouth opens just enough for a slip of a tongue to take a short, wet, lick.
"Delicious."