23 November, 1895 — Frost Spirit Hunt

Immediately on arriving someone had asked Don Juan if he intended to compete in the hunt, which was an excellent question. He was perpetually involved in these sorts of low-stakes shenanigans, despite not being particularly athletic, so it seemed fitting. On the other hand, usually he was some degree of drunk or high when he was doing stupid things, and that was no longer an option since his charm-curse had gotten more particular. The last time he'd volunteered for something like this he'd ended up leaving the hippogriff races in disgrace before even getting on the damn thing. Presumably the enchanted sleds and brooms here would not be quite as particular, but he still wasn't especially eager to make a fool of himself in front of spectators. Not when he had nothing to dull the edge of being laughed at, anyway. And the sport itself wasn't especially interesting to him; the most exciting prospect was not that he might win but that he might go astray in the snow, freeze to death, and be considered a very romantic and tragic figure and perhaps ruin the lives of the host and hostess for a good long while.

Life was so much better with alcohol in it.

He told those asking he would only be watching, and regretted it a minute later. At least out on a broomstick there would be no expectation that he would have a glass in hand. Now he was going to have to engage in the song-and-dance of picking up wine he couldn't taste and finding the right time and place to innocuously 'lose' the drink. He still hadn't talked to anyone other than Dean Hudson about his magically-enforced sobriety, and wasn't keen for anyone to go asking questions, particularly. Which meant he needed to be distracting, and ideally distracted. Was there anyone left worth being distracted by? Presumably society hadn't changed in the past few months, but his interest in it had. He was finding himself more often than not listless and pretending not to be. Maybe that was the alcohol, too; maybe people had simply never been very exciting. What a bleak thought that was, if this was the natural state of things and therefore what he was doomed to experience the rest of his life. How did anyone manage it?

"No, I think it's just a charm," he was saying to someone who had asked about the nature of the Frost Spirits. "Nothing involving real spirits." Obviously, you insipid moron, he did not add, but perhaps his face did. He had a glass of mulled cider in hand and was focusing more of his attention on the drink than the person, trying to determine whether or not it was alcoholic from the scent of the steam wafting up from it and failing. A third person put in that spirits couldn't move things, anyway, so there couldn't possibly have been any spirits involved in the hunt. Poltergeists can, someone else put in. A party full of boring rich people being set out to poltergeists sounded much more interesting than the night they were really in for. Don Juan couldn't smell anything except cinnamon from the drink, but that didn't mean it was safe.

"Do you think it's too late to sign up?" he asked abruptly, probably interrupting someone in the little conversational circle; he hadn't been entirely paying attention. "I've never ridden an enchanted sled."

---