Vincent had debated whether he would attend the Dempsey Midsummer’s Night Ball for a long time. Longer, perhaps, than he was willing to admit having dallied over a social engagement, surely. At first when Sabine had sent him a note about it, he’d thought nothing of her and everything of Cassian. (How ironic it would be that they both attend such a ridiculous farce under the pretense of what, friendship? A farce that meant both everything and nothing to them both, especially as of late.) He didn’t have any character he wished to embody, his most obvious namesake an absolute chip on an otherwise healing shoulder, and all in all, it seemed a tremendous waste of mental energy. On the other hand though, it was a strictly upper class event that he had an easy door to glide right through…

The tipping point in the end had come when Sabine at last insisted he attend, rather begging under the excuse that her brother would not pay nearly as much attention to her as was required to fend off horrendous suitors. (She mentioned some embarrassing debacle with Maxime to which Vince only huffed his own amusement. “It’s not funny, Vincent!” “Except that it is so entirely.” Her red face had warned him off any further teasing, but out of duty to his friend’s baby sister, and the closest thing he had to his own, he ultimately conceded.)

It was in this manner then that Vince rumbled alongside Sabine Valenduris in a carriage, tugging at his overly-tight cravat. She had decided it would be infinitely amusing to dress up as Emilia, a statement that she hoped might also keep suitors at bay, while he had chosen to go as some bizarre combination of Lear and admittedly Hamlet. The madness of both certainly suited how he felt day in and day out, like a lost soul slowly succumbing to a great darkness— but there was also that bit with Horatio, and, well, he was feeling a bit resentful and rebellious.

The garden at the Dempsey estate was beautifully decorated, as most in his experience with these sorts of upper class affaires. Vincent would never cease to admire the absolute attention to detail that the staff and hostess must have put into such work. This alone was reason enough he supposed he’d need a wife. Someone to manage these types of things for him, to continue to make a statement but not have it fall on his shoulders…

Sabine made a bee-line for the food, tugging him along, and Vince let her. He knew his role was to stand as close by as she might desire, to prevent any more debacles like that thing with Maxine or that other thing with Twiglett, or better yet, that third thing last February with Mr. Dempsey…? He was here as a body-guard, at least until she found something else to amuse herself with. If he’d also scribbled his name across her dance card in vanishing ink in every slot so that she might tap it once for the name to appear, that was his own business. (“You owe me for this one, Valenduris.” “Thank you, my absolute darling. I promise not to abuse it enough such that rumors abound.”)

In the end, it was just after the last waltz that Vince found himself ambling along the perimeter of the dance-floor, hedging towards the exterior of the garden looking for a respite. He’d been stepped on by a rather clumsy debutant and needed a good drink to shake it off. He paused in a small bower of roses off to the side, taking a drink off a passing tray.

The masque firmly affixed to his face had a surreal kind of enchantment to it, one he’d layered overtop of the base. Sabine had insisted he be recognizable enough to ensure she had a handy scapegoat, but Vince had his own motives in mind this evening. So long as he was away from her, he would be mired in mystery. Perhaps here he might be able to ensnare some unsuspecting bride, once and for all; one of good fortune and handy social standing, preferably.

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