Chapter 34

Lady Rowan

"Max. Excuse me. Good evening."

Max turned from his discussion with Rebecca to see who had greeted him.

"Roil?"

"Indeed. Milady, sorry for the interruption." A nod of the white masked head toward Rebecca.

"Not at all," she responded sweetly.

"Nice of you to join us Julian," said Max. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Thank you, no. My Mistress requests an audience with you."

"Oh."

"Please follow." Julian turned away and began moving toward the curving staircase.

Max shrugged at Rebecca.

"His Mistress?!" she mouthed at him.

"The Lady Rowan," he whispered back.

"Really!?" said gasped in surprise. "Oh you are something! I'll wait right here."

"And I'll be back. But you'll be snapped up as soon as my back is turned."

"Stop that!" she said, meaning anything but.

Max turned and followed Julian Roil though the crowd. At the foot of the stone stairs his guide unclipped a red velvet rope and ushered Max though. Once past he reattached the silver hook and they ascended the steps side by side.

The stairs rose to the mezzanine with a gentle curve so that Max was able to look out and over the revellers below. But likewise he was on display for all who cared to look. For the first time since he and Wiremu had entered the Ball Room he felt very conspicuous. Not many young men at Victoria University had a black pony tail. Furthermore, as he had learnt from Rebecca, the secret of who was behind each mask wasn't kept long and once known spread quickly to others.

With a birds-eye ease he saw a good number of faces upturned, watching his climb, questions obvious though hidden behind each mask; Rebecca over by the bar; Wiremu pausing his conversation with some fellows on the far side; Jasmine leaning in to talk with Wang but looking his way; Harriet dancing with and looking over the shoulder of someone short, maybe Tick; almost all the Goths his quickly searching eye spotted; Gilbert laughing loudly with gentlemen at the edge of the dance floor, but falling silent to watch; wait-staff moving about the room on various errands; orchestra members at rest within the current piece; all giving a wondering look in his direction.

Finally mounting the last step, then reaching the top and passing from their view felt like a dog breaking free from its leash, like a dam bursting, the water racing away from its restrictions. One glance at Julian confirmed that his friend was similarly unaffected. As Roil gestured down the length of the gallery the proverbial itch in the small of Max's back passed and was replaced by other questions.

Why am I here? I've just been swept along and now I'm having an audience with the Lady Rowan, so called Queen of the Goths. To what end?

The Goths had intrigued Max from the moment he saw them in the stands at that first robot race, but they had remained a mystery and right now Max didn't have a clue. Still, he straightened his armour, in every sense, and looked questioningly at Julian. Again his guide gestured with his hand and Max looked off down the stone balustrade.

There were no gas lights up in the gallery, only the chandeliers directly out above the dance floor. In the near gloom, a good ways off, stood a lone figure wreathed completely in black. Roil gripped Max's elbow.

"I shall return presently to the dance. She is content, but there is no need to keep her waiting."

Max nodded his understanding and Julian left.

What no reassuring words? She doesn't bite, you'll be back by breakfast, shout if you need anything.

Below a dance finished and the partakers applauded loudly. Max set off.

The mezzanine was vast, stretching the entire left-hand side of the ball room, and from what he could see it was sparsely furnished and little used. The figure toward whom he had been directed stood half way along, motionless at the balustrade, possibly watching the party below. A black cloak covered her from shoulder to foot, the cowl of which hid her head.

The orchestra stuck up a new waltz as Max drew near.

It could be anyone.

Max trusted Roil, so this must be the woman who had appeared after his fight with Ginger. At that time she had wiped blood from his lip and shown herself a dark beauty. But it also must be the same woman who had left the Salle after her fencing practice, walking right past him and failing to acknowledge him at all.

"Milady?" said Max, coming to a halt a few feet from the spectre. There was a long pause, then, in its own time, the cloak and hood turned to regard him. Max swallowed involuntary. A high collar held the cowl away from the head of its wearer, but the face within was veiled in a black mesh.

"Max," said a soft voice from within the veil. "How do you enjoy our little ball?"

"It is a fine party," he answered glancing out over the ball room, though they were too high and too far away from the edge to see anyone below.

"Thank you for coming."

Max was unsure if she was referring to his presence at the Ball or with her now.

"Thank you for your invitation."

She inclined her head in acceptance of his thanks.

"May we speak together?"

Always a strange turn of phrase. Up there in irony with Can I ask a question?

"Certainly. I am at your service."

At his affirmation she reached up a black gloved hand and drew aside the veil that obscured her face. Then gripping the hood, pushed it back to uncover her head. Max's heart, over taxed from an evening of beautiful women, leapt in his chest as her features came into view. Again, she stood before him as after the fight outside the Architecture Department; large dark eyes full of sorrow or mercy, skin flawless as it was pale, jet black hair back in a French braid, her ears hung with chandeliers, the painted red of her lips the only colour. A string of black pearls descended her chest disappearing between... Max did not let his eyes follow. For a moment he imagined her reaching her hand to touch his lips again.

Instead she touched a hand to her own face and asked;

"Would you mind?"

He was lost for a long moment.

"Oh yes. I'm sorry. Not at all."

She lowered her eyes demurely as Max quickly removed his mask and laid it to rest on the top of the stone balustrade. When he looked back a faint smile touched her lips and she moved to the rail next to him.

"You must have questions, yes?"

"Some, indeed." She must be thirty five, forty if only just. "But first may I make your acquaintance?"

Her eyes sparkled at his question. She removed a glove and held out her right hand to him. Max took the offered hand in his right, pressing his left fist into the small of his back, bowed at the waist and brushed his lips against her cool skin.

"Lady Rowan," he said.

"Max Skilton, well met."

They were silent then and for a moment watched the dancers below, before Max turned back to her, the obvious question on his lips.

"Why have you asked me here?"

She remained looking out over the crowd.

"Let me answer that in time. But first I must build the answering by laying out a few other details." She turned to him then. "You might ask; What does it mean to be Gothic? Indeed, what is a Goth? And the answer could be simple, but if true, then subtle and nuanced. May I beg a little of your time to explore these shadows and shades of meaning with you?"

Max nodded.

"Indeed. I have long wondered."

"Many do. And maybe that wondering is part of the point, part of our message. A Goth, in the first, is a romantic, a mystic, even in our own way both an omen and a prophet. We are caught up in what we call the scared poetic."

As strange as her words sounded Max felt, right then, a little as if he was also caught up in a song or a poem. He watched as the tendons in her neck moved and her lips formed the next words, he was sure she was telling him something important.

"Gothic Architecture is… transcendent design... its spiritual, mystic architecture." She paused, deep in thought. "Take a spire, it points to the sky. The Divine does not live in the sky, but the spire draws one’s eye up to things above, physically in the first, metaphorically in the second. In this way it is a romantic and spiritual work. It makes one ponder the unknown and the mystical. Thus, it's function is to point to God. It is something concrete in the external that points the viewer within to the spiritual."

"I understand," said Max. It was a brave statement.

"Therefore Churches and Universities, both places of growth and learning..."

You haven't been to the little Anglican church my parents go to.

"...of pushing from the known into the unknown, should be built, to reflect this, in the Gothic style. This isn't about the dominance of our style. It is about congruence, about design mirroring belief… or dare I say reality… and the two working together to communicate deep truths and deeper mysteries."

"But isn't the Baptist Tabernacle on Gibraltar Street build in the Classic style?"

"Exactly! This reinforces my point about design reflecting belief. For isn't it peopled by fundamentalists, rigid with their rules, with God fully understood and reduced to fit, as such, under their simple four cornered ceiling?"

"I imagine it is like you say," agreed Max.

"But think for a moment what it is like inside a Gothic Cathedral, say Saint Cuthbert's. You look up and you cannot see it all, your eyes are lost in the height, in the light and shadow, in the colours of the glass and the beauty of it. There are recesses up there that no one, but those who built it, have ever seen into. Sure, you can see the foundations of pillars, buttresses, the ground level, the roots of the tree and the bottom branches, the area that is rightfully ours to inhabit. But you cannot see and cannot know all. Is that not how it is with God?"

Max guessed that it was. Thankfully he was not asked to voice his understanding.

"The purpose of our architecture is to lift the Divine up, to if you like; protect its mystery, its Otherness, even you could say His Godness." Again a thoughtful pause. "The Classics on the other hand, when they think of the Divine Unknown, they wish only to bring it down, to understand what cannot be fully understood, to reduce and rationalise, and in the end to kill Him off!"

Max thought the last bit sounded rather strong. But he was following her points. "There is much more to speak of, but it serves no purpose at this stage. Just to say that God does not live in the tops of Cathedrals, Churches are built in this way to inspire the imagination, to lift one beyond oneself. The Classics have no interest in imagination, and no room for mystery, for romance, for the knowing that comes from the not knowing that we call faith. They do not seek beauty, nor for song and dance and a poem."

"I see," said Max, wondering if he really did. Wasn’t she just describing the Enlightenments effect on the Middle Ages? The current dance had finished below and there was a pause in the music. "But I'm left confused about what this has to do with me?"

"The original question. Yes. Maybe at this stage very little, but..." Her words were suddenly interrupted by clapping and cheering from below. They both looked over the edge and Max saw that five or six couples had formed up in front of all the others for some specific dance. The applause was as each new couple presented themselves to the gathering, walking onto the dance floor hand in hand.

"There they are," said Rowan in a whisper as the next couple entered the floor to the acclaim of their peers. Max saw almost at once that the pairing was Harriet Leith and Gilbert Lavisham.

"Who?" he asked.

"Miss Harriet Leith and her.... beast."

That caught Max off guard. He turned back to his host.

"You have no love for Gilbert Lavisham?"

At his words she also moved away again and looked full in Max's face. He saw a new tightness around her eyes, and she seemed to be wrestling with some weighty matter. Max was sure she was about to say something in explanation but changed her mind and simply said;

"No I do not have love for Gilbert Lavisham." And she looked into his eyes for a long moment, seeming to will Max to understand something that would remain unsaid. Max cast around for something to say himself and finally added;

"I too find him rather distasteful."

She nodded once and said;

"Miss Leith on the other hand, she impresses me. She is the peoples favourite also, wining the Haast race and surviving last evenings combat. I hope the applause just then was more for her than him."

"I concur completely," said Max, as the music started again.

"I shan’t detain for you much longer," said Rowan, apparently forgetting about the couples below, now the dance had commenced. "Let me pick up the threads. For a long time these differences have been the material for the rivalry between the two schools of Architecture. At its root we wish society, those who dwell in the buildings we design, to retain a sense of the mystic and to champion both beauty and function. The Classics on the other hand wish to rationalise, box and understand everything. They champion the limited, so-called insights of Plato and other such Hellenistic thinkers. To what end? With the desire to understand comes so often the need to control. Therefore, we see that the Parliament Buildings and the Banks are all built in the Classical Style." It was a pattern Max had observed before. "As you will know from Church History, such people, those who desire to control others, more often than not even end up taking positions of power within the very buildings that we have designed for mystery." She shook her head sadly at this. "Now here is the crux dear Max," she said lowering her voice. "Right from the time of Constantine's Edict of Milan..."

Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus Augustus - Edict of Milan AD 313, she sure has a long memory.

"...there has always been hidden within the School of Classical Architecture a... a thought, an idea... something that at times is so weak that it can only just maintain its own existence and nothing more. But at other times this seed sprouts and takes root and grows into something real, a secret order maybe, a conclave of like minds, a dark force. Always when it has shown itself in history it has garnered to itself hints of Qabalah, Gnosticism, Hermeticism, various other esoteric cults, and the usual conspiracies about the Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Salomonici."

It took a moment for Max to translate the Latin.

"The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. The Knights Templar," he said out loud. Rowan nodded.

"Although it is none of these things, them being only shadows and follies, they all lend a part to it, as unrelated as they may seem. It uses the symbols and motifs of these old heresies to beguile and control. For example, our dear friends the Stone Masons, those who do the actual work of building our designs, are, it seems, very receptive to such deceptions about knights and gatherings in secret. There are others, each with a certain lie that they like to have whispered to them. At times past when the force of which I speak has been strong, a shadow has always fallen over the joy of beauty and the love of creation, and good people, people of peace, have lost their lives."

At this talk of death a shiver ran up Max's spine and Rowan, turning away, looked over the crowd again, as if it was some of those below whose life's were in sudden and mortal danger. Then turning back she said;

"It appears Max that such a time approaches us again."

Max had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Hadn't Dickie said something similar just last night? Something about how the Goths and Classics had always been at each other, but that there was a hint now of a new presence, something that promised to upset the old score.

"This dark seed... force... is growing again?" he asked.

Lady Rowan was silent for a long moment.

"It appears so," she said at last. "The Classics may not even be aware of it themselves yet. But it is coming."

The Bal Masquerade, happening only a few feet below them, was lost to Max now. He had been transplanted to a different world altogether while in the majestic presence of the Gothic Queen.

"Are you in danger my Lady?" he asked without preamble. She smiled sadly.

"Your concern is touching Max. And yes I am always in danger, and I have taken precautions, and long learnt to live with it."

Of course. Feeling silly. Were you about to offer yourself as her Paladin?

"This all sounds strange to my ears," confessed Max.

"I understand. It must. But let yourself not be concerned. Go about your life, journey to the Northern Isle tomorrow, come back, study well, and pass your examinations."

"Why have you told me?"

She carefully removed the black grove from her left hand as she thought her answer through.

"Because Max, if it comes to war, I would like to know that I can call on your skills."

War!

"My skills? My Lady Rowan you overestimate my use to you."

"My Lord Max, it is you who undersell yourself."

That is the second time I have heard that tonight.

"I will be of what service I can," he promised, not imagining what it could mean.

"I thank you now, in case I cannot later. Remember too that it may be years away, if at all."

Max nodded his understanding, limited though it was.

"Will I know?"

"We will contact you, most likely through Julian. But I have taken enough of your time. The rest of the ball also awaits your skills. Thank you for... your time, and your promise."

Max bowed from the waist in acceptance of her thanks and almost had his mask back in place when she added;

"Max, not yet."

He lowered the iron face, and she retched forward, her cool hand resting against his right cheek. She looked at him a moment. A mirror of the first time he had seen her in the Archaeology Quad. Then in a single step her warm lips were against his left cheek. It was quick, almost formal, but had tenderness about it that stayed with him a long time.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Be careful," she whispered while still close.

* * *

Max stood at the top of the curving stone staircase that led back down into the throng. The noise of music and happy revellers sounded somehow distant and hollow in his ears. The colours of gowns and masks seemed strangely bright. He felt as if he was waking from a dream, struggling to discern what was fantasy from what should be real. Right then it was Rowan, dark and complex, who seemed more vivid than all the students below. During the long march back along the gallery to the stair he had looked back only twice. The first time, when he was about half way along; she had already returned the veil to her face and the hood to her head. The second, just now when he had reached the top of the stairs; she had gone.

Beginning his descent Max wondered how long he had been away. Maybe four dances. It felt to him like much longer, like an episode from a children's book, like something the Scotsman George McDonald would write, in which the character would journey to another world and only be there for scant minutes, while years flitted past in his own land.

For a moment the sensation was completed by the idea that while he had been away everybody previously present had been replaced by new masked characters. But then he saw Lavisham on the dance floor, then Jasmine laughing at something Wang had just said to her over by the bar, Wiremu making his way quietly toward the foot of the stair, and things started to come back into familiar focus. The music regained its tunefulness and the weirdness passed.

He could see that Rebecca was no longer where he had left her.

There she is… dancing with some boffin.

That hurt a little, even though he couldn't blame her. A Lady must give reason for any refusal of an offer to dance, and she would have had at least six such requests while he was away.

It must have gotten hard coming up with inventive answers. It wasn't like they were betrothed.

Furthermore, he could still feel, beneath his mask, the cool burn of Rowan's red lips.

People were looking at him now. He saw Wang's head turn along with many others in the room. Max spotted Harriet and Roil and realised that both had been following his progress from the moment he had reappeared at the top of the stairs. Then he was down and out of view among the crowd.

"Right?" asked Wiremu, coming to his side and pressing a glass of porters into his hand.

"Indeed," confirmed Max, before taking a sip of the cool brew. "Thank you."

"And?"

"Too much to tell now."

Then Wang's tiger faced mask appeared from the crowd and joined them.

"What was that about? Can I ask?"

"Good evening to you!" said Max, mixing incredulity with a friendly tone.

"Ah, what are you doing here!?" asked Wiremu, suddenly recognising Wang for the first time.

"Flirting with the enemy!" supplied Max.

"You can't talk!" bit back Wang.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you, all laughs and drinks with one Rebecca Salasor. The, how shall we say? Knower of dangerous secrets!" hissed Wang.

"She's harmless," said Max going on the defensive, though not being totally sure. "Well!?"

"You did tell us you weren't coming Wang," interrupt Wiremu. "And for some reason I don't think you have fallen in love."

"Indeed I haven't," agreed Wang, losing some of his prickliness. "Let me just say that I'm working. I'll tell you all tomorrow."

"We are in Wanganui on the Northern Isle tomorrow," remarked Max.

"When you get back then. I guess I too will have to wait to hear what got you up and down those cordoned off stairs."

"Sorry," said Max. "I do wish you were coming with us."

Wang shrugged. "It's for the best. I need to stay and work the claim."

"And the woman, apparently," added Wiremu, his eyes twinkling within his wooden mask.

"Here's to us," said Max raising his glass in mock salute. "And our dangerous women! Now all you need to do Wiremu is hop over and ask old Mahuika for a swing on the dance floor."

"I have."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have. Thought it was only civil."

"And!?" chorused Wang and Max.

"She refused."

"Naturally."

"Naturally," agreed Wiremu. "Told me never to talk to her again."

"Lovely."

"Doesn't matter. I thought those five might have loosened up a bit. It was a good test. Besides, when it comes to Mahuika, I don't think the branches go right to the top of the tree."

"Pardon?" asked Wang, looking confused.

"You know," said Max. "The gas lamps on but nobody is home."

Wang was still puzzled.

"Not the sharpest knife in the drawer," added Wiremu helpfully.

"The river doesn't run all the way to the sea."

"All foam no beer."

Wang was lost.

"Not all the soldiers are marching in line."

"Ok. I think I get it," said Wang at last. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?"

"Hmmm, I don't think that's it," said Max, squinting at Wiremu for help. "A few noodles short of a chow mein."

"Oh!" cried Wang. "Couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel."

"You got it!" exclaimed Max. "I think."

"I need to go," announced Wang a couple of moments later. "Can't leave my prize waiting. Have a good trip north. I'll see you both when you get back. Stay safe." Wiremu and Max exchanged similar farewells with him and Wang returned through the crowd to Jasmine, passing an approaching Rebecca on the way.

"I'm at a loss as to what he is up to," said Max quietly to Wiremu.

"Likewise. He has played this very close to his chest. I must admit that the apparent sudden change is a little worrying."

"You think he might be finally involving himself in the intrigues of Chinatown?"

"Exactly," confirmed Wiremu. "I'm concerned that his need for money might be leading him to take risks. We'll give him the squeeze when we get back."

"Wang is a smart fellow... oh here we go!" After being with Rowan, Max suddenly didn't feel like seeing Rebecca quite so soon.

"Good evening gentlemen," she purred joining them. It wasn't that she wasn't stimulating, but more that Max felt emotionally and mentally drained. Rowan had given him more than enough to think about and he was having trouble holding onto all the strings. And although he doubted that she still watched from her shadowy gallery, part of him felt a need to remain somehow faithful to her. Rebecca would block everything else out.

"Rebecca," answered Max.

"Miss Salasor," said Wiremu.

"I was hoping to catch all three of you at once. Where did Master Wang disappear to?"

"Why is that?" asked Wiremu, before Max got the chance. Rebecca's mouth twisted mischievously.

"My hope was for an interview with the Gibbstown Three."

Max clenched his jaw shut.

Had she just said that?! He wanted to scream at her. I believed you! Damn I believed in you! Now you have betrayed my faith, my words spoken moments ago in your very defence!

Wang had accused her of being a 'knower of dangerous secrets' but Max had pushed it aside.

More fool me!

He was glad of the iron mask and the range of emotions it now hid.

"I need a drink," he said, and strode away.

Rebecca made to follow, but Wiremu gripped her by the arm.

"I beg your pardon Miss Salasor," he said evenly. "But I do not believe he means for you to follow."

Wiremu could see the fire building in her eyes and prayed that he had not just made them an enemy.

"Unhand me, sir," she spat. And he knew that he had.

"Certainly," he said releasing her arm. "Again I beg your pardon. But I mean what I said."

"You shall not command me!" And her hands were on her hips.

"E kore te patiki e hoki ki tona puehu!" responded Wiremu.

"Meaning?" she hissed.

"The fish you call flounder does not return to his dust. Do not make the same mistake twice."

"Or what!?" she demanded lifting her chin in defiance.

"Or," responded Wiremu, stabbing his finger at Max's departing back. "You will wake the Taniwha!"

* * *

Max fought to control his anger. The refilled Porters went down a little too quick for polite company. Which was something he currently was not. He would thank Wiremu later for detaining Rebecca. Right then he didn't trust himself to be civil to her, and he knew that there was a fair chance that he would punish her for both her own crimes and those done him by Harriet.

Women! Even Rowan has an agenda for me! Rowan most of all has an agenda for me.

What it was Max wasn't completely sure.

My sword arm? She has Roil for that. Rebecca was just using me to get a story! And Harriet, Harriet was... Harriet… she just acts like she is available when she isn't.

Max spent the next few minutes trying to figure out which of them was worse. In the end he decided that it was too early to make any conclusion about Rowan. And Harriet... Harriet was.. he just couldn't shake Harriet.

Maybe, maybe even if she ends up married to Gilbert Lavisham, maybe even if that was always going to be, I still wouldn't change a thing that had happened between us.

Max placed the empty glass on one of the side bars and studied his hand, it wasn't shaking any more. Then pushing off, he made his way to the edge of the dance floor. A dance that Max recognised as a 'Redowa' finished as he arrived. The couples bowed and clapped one another and then the orchestra. Max had just selected a possible partner to ask for the next dance, a blond with sparking blue eyes that matched the colour of her three hooped dress, when the Dance Master announced that the next dance would be a 'Grand Cotillion'.

Excellent. Won't be stuck with any one girl for over long.

Max knew as well as anyone that cotillions were 'flirters dances'. The formal structure of the dance allowed the party goer to quickly introduce him or herself to a larger number of partners in a short period of time. If a partner is interesting and appealing, they can be remembered for the following dance. But if the partner turns out to be clumsy or a bore, the cotillion quickly moves them away, no harm done.

The girl in the blue dress smiled broadly and bowed her head in assent to Max's question. He was relieved a minute later, when the music started, and she hadn't mentioned black kerchiefed outlaws, or for that matter any other rumour from around the university.

When they had completed their set of patterns, waltzes, turns, slide steps and spins together, she went to her next partner. Although she did look back and favour Max with a final quick smile. Although the fleeting action showed her as a flirt and did slightly dishonour her new partner, it made Max feel a whole lot better.

The next girl chattered away about this and that. The one after her was preoccupied and fairly much ignored Max, seeming to watch instead someone else over his shoulder. He was glad to see her go. The next was the black-haired girl in the red dress with whom he had begun the evening. She was happy to see him again and danced the round enthusiastically.

After her was a Goth whom Max found vaguely familiar, but with mask in place, couldn't place.

"You are Richard's friend, aren't you?" she suddenly said as they came back together for the second waltz hold.

Richard? Oh Dickie!

"Indeed I am ," he begun hesitantly. "Max."

"That's right. Max Skilton," she confirmed.

"And you are.." and then he showed his pedigree. "Alice, Alice Stone from the Revolution Industrial."

"Indeed I am!" She laughed. Clearly much impressed. "Well done sir!"

"I never forget a pretty face!"

"Oh stop that!" she said encouragingly. And Max felt alive again. Better and back in control.

Alice spun away and returned.

In control? Strange to conclude such from a few superficial remarks made by passing ladies unknown. Evidence more like of being out of control. Not in control, but controlled, controlled by the ever-changeable favours of pretty women. Don't beat yourself up, it's only natural. Natural and dangerous. Wiremu and Wang were now in real danger because of my failure to head Rebecca Salasor off!

"Well then, Max Skilton..." said Alice, as they came to the end of their set together. "You need to get ready." And her hand slipped away.

Get ready? What does that mean?

He turned, and Harriet came into his arms!

Alice knew? Alice knew! That Dickie must have told her everything!

But he had no more time for those thoughts. He spun Harriet and saw a small smile on her lips.

"You are good at this," she said quietly. And Max released her for the first solo part, coming back together a long moment later. "I'm glad you are here."

"Glad I'm here!" he repeated in exasperation. "I haven't been anywhere. I've been waiting around for you, for months!"

They broke and spun, back to back, for two turns, before coming back together.

"I know, it's..." but she broke off as Gilbert and his partner guided past.

"Does he know it's me?"

"I don't think so. He can only see himself."

"I should tell him. See what he thinks."

"No Max! Please don't be cruel!"

He was never going to. But threatening it felt good, and evil. He was in control. Harriet looked back with pleading eyes; Max wanted to laugh. With her attention broken the young man receiving her fumbled and Harriet stumbled a step before regaining the rhythm of the dance. Suddenly Max wanted to break his nose and take Harriet back.

You are one mixed up piece of work, get a grip!

Two more girls and they were all back where they started. The 'Cotillion' they danced took its name from the French word cotillon, meaning 'petticoat', because of the flash of the hems of the ladies’ undergarments as the changing partners turn. In the second round, as couples became more familiar, there was always more cotillon in the Cotillion. Max sensed that the orchestra may have even increased the tempo a little.

The girl in the blue dress was all big eyes and concentration. The chatty was still chatty but starting to puff a little. Not very fetching. The ignorer paid him a little bit more attention, lest she break an ankle. The red dress smiled at him a lot and Max wondered if she may have had a little too much of a certain similar coloured claret. Then Alice was back.

"Dickie, Richard has told you, hasn't he!"

"No, no!" she laughed. "Nothing I couldn't work out myself from what he didn't say."

Max harrumphed.

"Dear Max, we women are very perceptive."

"I can think of other words!" he said curtly. But favoured her with a wink.

"You are safe with Richard. He cares for you well."

Max nodded. Unprepared for yet more intensity.

Alas poor lady, you too are safe with Dickie. You may have to set him on fire to get his attention!

"Don't be cruel!" Max repeated to Harriet when she was back in his arms. She wasn't smiling any more. "Do you know how ironic that sounds coming from you!?"

She spun away and returned.

"I understand..." she began.

"Do you?! How can you? I understand... and I... I would never do to a living person what you have done to me!"

"Max you have every..."

"I have watched you from afar all year, dreamed of no one but you. I tried to place myself in your path, prayed for you from the outside, stood on train platforms and sat in stadiums to watch your triumphs. Cheered with the rest..."

Back to back, two turns.

"...and you didn't have to let me in. But you did. You gave me one night, you showed me the real you, and I loved you!" Gilbert spun past again, this time his head was up and he was watching Harriet. "You gave me the magic of that night. And then, then you slammed the door shut."

Max heard her take in a lung fill of air and it sounded a little like a sob. A handkerchief came to her cheek in the spilt second before her next partner tried to redeem his previous effort.

"Sir, you are hurting me!"

"Oh I am sorry," growled Max, releasing the hand of his new partner, which he had been apparently holding in a vice grip. Then more gently; "I am very sorry. Would you have me escort you to your seat?"

"No that is quite alright. The dance is almost done. Just don't stand on my feet."

Little pig!

"I'm very sorry milady."

Back to back, two turns.

"Yes, yes that's enough!"

Good riddance.

Max was in a black mood. After months Harriet was finally getting to hear how it had been for him, getting some perspective, some accountability.

Blue dress, yellow, dark green, dark red, Alice.

"Be careful Max," warned the Goth.

"It's getting fast isn't it." But for some reason he knew that she wasn't talking about the dance.

"You could have written me!" he demanded when Harriet returned.

"I couldn't," she pleaded.

"You could!"

"Max I didn't mean to hurt you. I was caught up in being near..."

"You didn't mean to hurt me! There is nothing worse than letting someone taste what they will forever be denied!"

He spun her away and as her back turned, he stormed from the dance floor. When she came back and reached out for him he was gone. She was alone, the Cotillion continuing around her.

* * *

In the lobby Max gave over his paper reclamation slip and received back his over coat. Outside the City Chambers he tore off the iron mask before stalking into the night. Wiremu caught up with him at the cable car terminal.

"Yeap, I was ready to head home too. Big day tomorrow," he said, as they stepped into the waiting car and the porter closed the red painted doors.

As the great wheels and wires spun, and the cable car descended toward the water front, a dark shadow detached itself from a colonnade near the City Chambers and moved toward the terminal building. It would mount the following car down.