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It’s a late autumnal masquerade ball.
One of the litany of affairs that Sinclair throws to remind half of England who he is.
There’s the endless rotation of carriages crunching over wet gravel, expelling their patrons up the stairs and into the ballroom: heavily jewelled ladies behind their gaudy masque à plumes; gentlemen adorned with harlequin masks and every colour of waistcoat and velvet cape, most of them already half-inebriated on wine. Or opium, if they’ve come from the opera.
James ponders it all.
The waft of Cuban cigars and floral perfume. String music flowing from the back corner. Strauss, perhaps, or Schubert. He should probably know such things by now.
They are standing—himself and Phillip—just inside the entrance of the ballroom, directing guests as they stream in from the foyer. Nearby too, Sinclair is flirting with some new arrival, a woman in frilled blue silk and silver lace that wraps around her eyes and does very little to conceal her identity. Yet another honey-tongued sycophant, no doubt.
Everyone wants to know the Earl who discovered the riches in Italy.
James smiles as ladies walk by with bouncing feathers through their hair, and when they curtsy, he occasionally bows back. He's in gold and white for the evening: a shimmering golden cape that brushes the floor, pearls and gold over each of his fingers and winding through the braids in his hair, a gold-plated loup en dentelle across his eyes.
He considers how painfully he looks the part of the Earl’s adopted son, as if bred for it. Considers too, the life he might have if magic were no longer.
There’s a prickle on the back of his neck; a command. He turns to see Sinclair looking directly at him, a glass of cut crystal in his hand, beckoning James closer. For a moment, James plays sardonically with the idea of disobeying, but then relents; resisting these orders exhausts him psychologically, leaves him vulnerable, and James likes to believe his self-destructive days are long behind him.
He’s beside Sinclair in an instant, all smiles and patience, standing in his customary position on the right as he’s introduced to a merchant and his wife, both in garish displays of red clashing with copper.
The woman speaks with a heavy French accent as she addresses James. ‘We heard of your necklace,’ she says, her eyes drifting down to his neck pointedly, to the naked rubies that lay exposed.
‘Collar, ma’am,’ James clarifies, keeping his voice pleasant. ‘But of course these are just rumours. I much prefer to think of it as a decorative item as well.’
The woman fans herself conspiratorially. ‘Collar indeed. Tell me monsieur St Clair, the rubies—are they quite real?’
James smiles. ‘But how could they be anything else, ma’am?’
'Because,' she leans forward as if to not be heard through the growing clamour, 'they say they were forged by magic.’
James blinks.
There’s a biting remark on the tip of his tongue where he wonders if she’s aware that the garnets of her earrings are the broken shards of a herald shield, also magically forged. But Sinclair is standing right next to him, and he’s been instructed not to encourage the rumours, so he only smiles serenely. ‘And if that were true, would it make them any less real?’
The woman pauses her fanning, brows coming together for a moment. Then without warning she reaches out, boldly and suddenly, ungloved fingers stretching towards the collar, too fast. James jerks away, an instinct, stepping backward brusquely to avoid the touch, the woman squeaking in indignation as he does.
He hears Sinclair’s low chuckle from beside him.
‘Ever since I gave it to him, my Jamie’s been rather protective,’ Sinclair says, placing a hand on James’ shoulder firmly, and not for the first time that evening James contemplates how it might feel to wrap his magic around that thick throat, have him choke on the scotch he so adores, ‘And you can see why, can you not?’
The woman laughs nervously.
‘Perhaps you should have given it to Philip,’ James says, perhaps a little too sharply, but Sinclair promptly ignores him, dolling out a string of flattery to bid the couple onwards, then dismisses James with an unimpressed look.
James walks away obediently. He knows he hasn't heard the end of this, but at least in public Sinclair keeps his language saccharine, and his hands off of James.
Later, Sinclair will take him home, swaying and inebriated, and James will kneel patiently as he bathes, until Sinclair reaches a hand to the collar and at once James will be taken with a desire that will have him lose himself until the next morning, where he’ll wake with salt on his cheeks and helplessness renewed.
And so.
The roundabout goes on, the night turns.
James wanders, aimless and wistful, through the decadence and frivolity: petty gossip behind masks, banquet tables decorated with ice statues of lions, a freshly polished dance floor lit overhead by two hundred chandeliers like a city of floating glass.
Of course, he is not allowed much beyond direct line of sight from Sinclair—one of his enduring orders—but the farther the better, and James finds himself grateful for the small liberties of becoming lost in a crowd.
He samples the fondue, blinis topped with caviar, spiced meats from Morocco. The opulence is sickening, but also nostalgic, and he tries not to reminisce on how he’d once glide through any number of soirées in the arm of a dark haired lover who never once failed to remark on the undue extravagance.
At some point, among the clink of glasses and hushed laughter, James sees Visander huddled among a group of ladies, doing a terrible job at hiding his boredom. When their eyes catch, James likes to imagine a they share a moment of hopelessness, before Visander looks away. And he knows better than to approach him for the rest of the evening.
So he floats, he lingers, he paces.
The dances begin. Quadrille, or some other one with the group circles. Philip would know.
Maybe another hour passes before Sinclair takes to the billiard tables in the corner, and James finds himself with still more freedom, taking wider circles around the ballroom to dampen his boredom. This is how all of these events go: once Sinclair begins playing he’ll be there for at least seven rounds, before he’s sufficiently drunk enough to make some kind of self-indulgent speech and thank the musicians he’s hired from some small European country.
It’s been five, nearly six years of this.
He’s twenty-two now, fully grown, taller and broader than most, despite the androgyneity of his teen years—as if the general of armies would be anything but. Yet this is his place in the world: a glorified bodyguard and a golden ornament.
Six years. Far too long since he begged a seventeen-year-old boy with dark hair and tears in his eyes, not to leave.
A man approaches him. A waiter, judging by his plain suit and lack of mask, offering coupes of bubbling pink on a tray of silver. He's pretty, younger than James perhaps, freckled and clear-eyed in a way that James might appreciate in another life. James considers him. ‘Do you not ever wish to be seen?’
The waiter hesitates, clearly not expecting the address. ‘Sir?’
‘To be seen as you truly are. More than useful noise.’ James says, taking two coupes from the tray and downing them in quick succession. He’ll stay sober of course, but this might give him a tingle. Once, on a particular self-loathing evening, he’d consumed two bottles of Sinclair’s most prized scotch, leaving him tipsy for barely fifteen minutes. Just long enough of course for the butler to drag him to Sinclair, and hadn’t that been a fun punishment.
The waiter, not yet dismissed, eyes him warily, and James doesn't miss how they briefly dip below his chin to the rubies snug around his neck. James rolls his eyes. ‘And there’s no need for ‘sir,’' he continues, 'I asked a simple question. Do you desire an employer who thinks he isn’t so far above—’
‘Ah! My masochistic little brother,’ a voice says from over his shoulder, and James turns to see Philip reaching around him to take a fresh glass. ‘Please excuse him. He gets like this—would you kindly fetch me some Irish whisky?’
The waiter bows and makes a swift exist.
‘Where have you been?’ James asks, almost petulantly. He can smell whisky already on Philip, and some sort of tobacco, and he’s swaying. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘I'm not.'
'You drink like your father.'
'I do not, thank you very much. I’ve just been concentrating on dice, but I'm fine. Besides which, I think I need it.' Philip takes a sip of the wine, grimaces, and places it back on a nearby table. 'Visander is pregnant again.’
Oh?
'Since when?’
Philip shrugs. ‘No clue. He told me about ten minutes ago, then walked away. You know how it is with him.’
They call him Visander to each other, but to everyone else, he’s Katherine. And Visander has already birthed two daughters from his body, as yet no male heir to the Earl’s only son.
James watches Philip carefully. His mask of navy and white covers half of his face, but in the other half James thinks he sees some sort of forlornness. Or perhaps a resoluteness. ‘Well. I’m thrilled for both of you.’
Philip gives him a withering look. ‘Please don’t start.’
‘I simply expressed my congratulations.’
‘Of course you did.’ The waiter comes back with a single crystal glass, and Philips takes it, and James can't help notice how he swirls it just as his father might. ‘I know you don’t get along with Visander, but I...’ Philip pauses, his eyes distant for a moment, then, quietly, ‘I hope I have seven daughters.’
James shivers. Thinks of seven young women all with the magic of the Lady, and Sarcean’s legacy from Philip. Had this been the Lady’s plan? James almost laughs.
James says, ‘I think Visander will murder you if you get him pregnant seven times.’
Philips chuckles. ‘Surprised he hasn’t already.’
And then, because it’s so achingly familiar and he’s so close, James leans forward to fix the stray dark locks caught in his mask. Philip looks stunning in his navy waistcoat and silver cape. If he’d only grow his hair, and five inches taller. And smirk with something more than defeated nonchalance. And learn to use the magic he is blessed with but has no interest in. Then Philip could free him from Sinclair and take him across the world—to the Americas, anywhere.
James wouldn’t mind that, he imagines, a quiet life with Philip. If only Philip were less the coward.
‘I might dance,’ Philips says after a while. Or perhaps seeing the way James is looking at him. ‘Tennis, tomorrow?” Then he disappears into the sea of colourful silks.
James watches him go. Glances over to Sinclair, who's chalking a cue tip, engrossed in conversation with someone in a particularly bright jester's mask.
Safe. Content. Not needing of James.
Wonderful.
The music picks up tempo again, despite the multiple hours the orchestra has already been playing without break. But the ball goers have yet to show signs of slowing. In a small alcove behind the cello players, James sees a young couple whisper and giggle against each others lips, and tries not to yearn.
Instead, he turns his eyes to the ceiling for the second time of the evening. The floating glow of chandeliers, the muted colours of the hand-painted artwork. Always a safe place to look, enough to lose himself—not dissimilar to the home of his mother.
Not his steward mother.
His real mother, who also wore rubies gifted from her own lover. The mother who’s funeral Anharion had silently wept from within the shelter of Sarcean’s arms, until they were both shaking from cold.
There’s a tug at his sleeve, James looks down.
‘Got your favourite.’
A brunette young woman with a silver loup en dentelle stands in front of him, a slice of fudge offered on a napkin.
James raises an eyebrow with feigned caution. ‘Is this one mould flavoured as well?’
She gives him a look. ‘Hilarious, James.’
But the fudge is a caramel sweetness on the tip of his tongue.
She’s Claudia, the daughter, and only child, of Sloane. And, being the new head of a favoured family loyal to the Earl, she knows about the collar—the truth, which is all a bit frustrating—not that James had any say in the matter. But she’s good on horseback and behind a chessboard, and James fancies that he rather likes her. At least when she refrains from staring at him like he’s a tamed dog.
And like all their usual mid-party conversations, she’s here to complain about the lack of engaging conversation among the youth of the ball, the libertines and their ribald humour. James listens, absently, nods, and when she pauses he tells her how beautiful she looks, ‘a lonely princess on her birthday gala,’ and she rolls her eyes, her smile drawing in her dimples. He would kiss her, if only to forget where he is, but instead bows over her gloved hand asks her to dance.
They twirl together. A slow waltz, some Russian composer with lots of harp. It’s later in the evening, so they take care to navigate around the adjacent dancers who’ve over consumed wine. But she’s warm under his hands, and an easy partner. He imagines they must look a piece: him decked in gold, and her in a mirroring splendour of silver and white. Though, he knows that somewhere hidden under the layers of her gown she bears Sarcean’s symbol, a gift insisted upon by Sinclair when she was still in the throes of grief over her father.
It had been cruel. But James is selfishly grateful she remains ignorant to the truth of her father's demise.
A pause in the music. He bows again over her hand, his lips to her glove. Looks again to the edge of the ballroom to check on Sinclair. He's there, in a miasma of cigars—the latest batch from Cuba, waving his hands in front of some enraptured gaggle of round-bellied men.
Vermin.
Claudia must see the line of his gaze, makes an impatient sound through her nose, and tells him how strange he is, the mould-eating-lordling who is obsessed with his father. He looks back in mock annoyance, and she giggles as he flicks a finger to her nose, pinches her cheek.
Which is when he hears the laugh.
From behind him.
—A sound that sends an arrow straight through his heart, has his body turning without permission.
And he freezes.
There.
Across the room. In a booth. A handful of young men and woman are absorbed around a table of cards and dice, and James can hardly breathe.
Because one of them is a tall man with black velvet draped over a shoulder and a play of cards held loosely in pale slender fingers. There’s a columbina mask across his eyes—jewelled onyx and amethyst, and deep black waves of hair falling past his shoulders. Then he’s saying something to the youth around him, and they are laughing, and then he is laughing, and James can feel his own heart flutter in his throat because—
He knows that laugh, lifetimes over.
Claudia behind him, tugs again at his sleeve, saying something, but James is spellbound as the man leans and whispers something to the woman beside him, his hand dipping low on her back as she all but shudders beside him, and James feels a wave of heat hit his own face, the way her bare cleavage heaves, how his lips hover intimately close, how he flicks his eyes past her, out across the ballroom—
then at once he is looking at James—
—eyes locking from across the room, and his world tilts violently.
James stumbles backwards, bumps into a something, someone, perhaps Claudia, a dancing couple who push back at him—but he can’t focus, as the music, the cacophony and chatter—blur into nothing and there’s only the pound of is heart, a grip in his throat, the flush across his neck—
Then a calm voice that pierces through it all.
Come to me.
And his legs are moving before he can think. And fast. James finds himself nearly running into a waiter, the rattle of empty glasses on a tray, a new song has begun, quick paced, and suddenly it’s more difficult to navigate around a hundred dancers skipping in large circles—and he has to get all the way across the room—and it’s so far, but he moves anyhow—
Then stops.
Because Will is in front of him, dark eyes wicked behind his mask, taking James’ hand and turning, pulling him away and off the dance floor.
‘I—’ James begins, but the protest dies on his lips.
Because it’s the most thrilling feeling—and it feels so unreal, yet his body knows—that in an instant, he is liberated entirely from Sinclair. For the one who has him truly mastered—the one who forged the rubies about his neck and instilled them with an immense power—is gripping his hand and dragging him the opposite direction.
James laughs in stunned joy, stumbles behind Will, vaguely aware he’s left Claudia in the middle of the dance floor, vaguely expecting someone to tell him to go back, to stop, that this isn’t real, that it’s in his head.
But no one does; he’s just another ball-goer being dragged behind a partner, a lover, a friend, in a fit of drunken giddiness.
They get to the edge of the dance floor when Will spins him around, pulls him forward impatiently, ‘Let me see you.’ And James is speechless, breathless as he feels the tap of Sarcean reaching into his own magic and uses it to untie James’ mask—the control as flawless as the precision—until it falls to the ground with a thud, and Will gazes at him.
It’s you.
And James can barely think, his lips part helplessly, the weight of Will's attention piercing, heavy, and it's all he can do to suppress a shudder. ‘You’re here,’ James gasps.
‘I’m here.’
‘Sarc—’
‘Oh my darling.’ There’s a finger pressing to his lips then, a reassuring smile and a tender voice, and a hand curling at the nape of his neck, tilting his face upwards and closer. ‘Best not speak my name in such company. It's Will.’
My name. James swallows, his head spins. ‘You are him, then?’
But there are lips upon on his own, stealing any questions he might have, and James melts, his mouth pliant, and kisses back. And it's enthralling, anyone, everyone could see them kiss, here, with his mask at their feet. James, the prized adopted son of the Earl—the disagreeable golden enigma who drifts in high society and snobs anyone who approaches—arching his body wantonly into a nameless and faceless young man at a masquerade ball, and he finds himself caring so little that he moans into Will's mouth. A hand tightens in his hair.
Then they are moving again, out of the main ballroom and into a hallway topped with crystal pink chandeliers and a series of emerald velvet drapery. It's quieter here, dimmer; a lovers’ rendezvous. A series of private areas—high hung curtains arranged to delineate small alcoves of cushioned day beds and soft carpets—but private only by implicit agreement that none shall be disturbed: such is the etiquette of masquerade, the pretend anonymity of mask and costume.
James is giddy, his heart fluttering in his throat. He can feel Will’s intention, his lust, filtering thickly through their connection, and he sends his own straight back.
They find an empty space with cushions strewn over the floor around a divan, a pair of white gloves lie forgotten, empty flute glasses on a low table. Will pulls him in, into the darkness behind the curtain, and their arms are around each other in an instant, impatient, hands slipping under fabric, breath hot over lips.
James has to blink to form a coherent thought, and he thinks there are tears in his eyes as he pushes Will back for a brief moment, looking at his masked face, the pale of his skin, the curve of his lips, the thickness of black waves. He finds his hands wrapping to grip Will’s collar, a grip of desperation more than anything else. ‘How may I pleasure you?’ James breathes.
A pleased moan. ‘Your mouth.’
Yes.
James pushes Will down onto the divan, and drops to his knees before him. The light is dim, pink-reds over dark Persian carpets as he slips the laces through buttons at Will’s crotch. Remembers a time when a teenage Sarcean had requested his mouth as their first time too, in a thin-walled dormitory with an unlocked door. James shivers, his hands tremble. Is this real, he thinks, or perhaps speaks aloud because there’s laughter above him, gentle and adoring, soft words of reassurance, and then he’s taking Will’s cock into his mouth.
It won’t be the first time their intimacy is dreadfully indiscreet, nor the second. But from every direction through the velvet drapes come the faint sounds of stifled lust; a gentle accompaniment to the waltz filtering from the ballroom. Here they are just another pair of tipsy lovers, impatient in their pleasure, dauntless in their seeming exhibitionism.
Will relaxes beautifully under his hands, in his mouth, a stream of lavishing approval spilling from his lips, barely a breath, and its lewd, raw: so painfully Sarcean that James shudders.
He drags his lips across the underside, his tongue lightly across the tip, and takes it all again, the feel of it all too familiar, as he feels Will tense, a low moan, a grip in his hair. James’ own cock is hot in his hand as he strokes in a rhythm that he can’t maintain, eager and restless.
There’s no warning when a hand drops from his hair to brush the collar. It’s only for a brief moment but that's all it takes: James’ world distorts, he loses all inhibition, relaxes his tongue and takes all of Will in until his throat contorts, his eyes water, and he hears a single word, 'Hold', uttered above him between heavy breaths, and suddenly finds he cannot move, his body perfectly still as the choking warmth of Will’s cum hits his throat and he swallows, helplessly, lungs burning, an iron grip through his braids. And still he does not move. His vision blackens. Thinks how he would happily die like this, blissfully, on his knees, mouth occupied, pale fingers buried in his hair.
Then at once Will is pulling him up, into his lap, their bodies flush, and James is gasping wildly for air, tears mixed saliva streaming past his chin, under his collar. Will wraps a warm hand around James, pumping firmly, heated whispers in his ear, a string of desire and power, words raw with pleasure, and James could have wept. But instead he shivers wildly, his breath still uneven and gasping, and from Will’s lips then fall the sweetest kind of order, ‘Let me see you come now, my darling,’ and James arches as pleasure blanks his vision, Will kissing him through the peak of his orgasm so sweetly.
When it is over they lie together, catching their breath, the languid softness of limbs loosened from pleasure, hands exploring one another in soothing strokes. Will presses kisses to all of his fingers, his eyelids, confesses his love over again, the secret smile on his face like the autumn sun.
Some time passes, minutes, an hour, James finds it difficult to tell. They hear the hum of pleasure continue to drift around them, a groan, a giggle, a gasp, and James wonders if perhaps they had been too loud themselves, yet no one has stopped to look in, no one cares where he is. No one knows the Dark King lounges, pleasure spent, in the very masquerade ball made possible by his own conniving progeny, and James is struck by a freedom and anonymity like he’s never had, lying in the arms of the one who has supposedly taken it.
Will loosens his braids, combing his fingers through golden waves, unhurried, adoring, tells James how handsome he looks with pearls through his hair, and James smiles faintly, whispers finally a question he’s wanted to ask for nearly six years.
‘Why.’
Behind his mask Will’s eyes glaze thickly with something that James can never place, and he speaks softly, a wistful smile, a hand cupping James’ cheek. ‘For them. Always.’
And James remembers then a young black haired mage who lied to the world for the safety of the very people who condemned him for it. Remembers the day when Sarcean choose between his passion for Anharion and his drive for twisted justice, and he hadn’t chosen Anharion. And finds that all of his anger, amassed from years of hopeless patience under Sinclair’s thumb, frustration and despondency, dissipates at once.
Will picks up the discarded gloves on the low table and wipes James clean, his neck, his face, softened cock. Always still the attentive lover.
‘Later though, you will bring Sinclair before me. On his knees,’ Will says, tossing the soiled gloves to the floor, and James, struck with a swell of devotion, laughs, teases Will on how indulgent he is in his post-orgasm promises, but tells him never to stop. Will kisses him hotly again until they are both breathless.
‘Can’t I fetch him for you now?’ James asks.
An amused sound. ‘Not tonight, darling. I’m tired from travelling.’
James smiles. ‘And if I were to remove your mask?’
‘You will not.’
James shivers at the grip of three consecutive orders, how they firmly wrap his psyche before he has a chance to think. Sinclair’s pull on the collar had been an echo of what it was designed for. A flame under the blaze of a sun. James had been able to resist Sinclair, to a point. But any semblance of resistance is annihilated as soon as words fall from Will’s lips, and it’s glorious.
There’s a flurry of footsteps then, a voice echoing at the end of the hall, and James hears his name.
‘It’s Philip,’ James says, standing, straightening his waistcoat and fixing his cape. But Will makes no show of moving, instead reclining his head further back onto the divan, gazing at James through hooded eyes, his mouth beginning to curve into a mischievous smile.
James knows that look.
James steps out from behind the emerald drape so that Philip may see him, waves at him lazily, but makingJa no move to go toward him.
‘Wha—’ Philip struts towards him, lowering his voice, as if everyone tucked in the small alcoves can’t hear them anyway, ‘where have you been?’
‘Right here,’ James shrugs.
‘And where’s your mask?' Philip makes an impatient click of his tongue, his arms folding over his chest. ‘I was in the middle of game, and he’s looking for you.’
‘He already found me.’
‘What?’ Philip frowns. James knows Philip has never enjoyed playing messenger for his father. ‘James, please. He’s asking for you, and I don’t want to deal with it when you disobey.’
James scoffs. ‘You are hardly the son he beats when he’s having a tantrum.’
It sounds vulgar to say, and he forgets how sensitive Philip is, because Philip winces visibly at the words. But he’s said it so that Will may hear—the truth of his existence in the last few years—and James is happy when there’s a shift of fabric from behind him.
‘Why don't you order me away from him?’ James says.
Philip flings his hands out in a show of exasperation. ‘This, again?’
'Just try it.’
He’s being unfair, James knows that, because none of this is relevant now that his master is sitting ten feet away, but it’s been so long since he’s been able to have fun and he can't resist. Beside which, it’s important for Will to see that Philip is harmless to both of them.
‘Please, just...’ Philip sighs, rubs two fingers to his temple, knocking his mask slightly askew. ‘You know it will be worse if you resist, for both of us. Go see to him. I have Visander to deal with and I’m not looking for another—' He stops suddenly, gaze shifting to the shadows behind James, as if noticing for the first time that James might not be alone. ‘James,’ Philips voice is tense as he looks at James, ‘why is your hair unbraided?’
James smiles, imagines how it must look to Philip. In the early days, James had once walked away from Sinclair and into the arms of another, a tall woman with long black hair, and Sinclair had made a point to demonstrate how long James could stay conscious without access to water, until James had begged, tearlessly, for forgiveness.
But none of this is relevant.
Will is here.
‘Apparently I’m in trouble,’ James drawls. His eyes are fixing on Philip, but it’s obvious by the tilt of his head that he’s speaking to someone else, ‘What do you think?’
Philip stares at James in horror. Behind him there’s the shift of fabric again, the clip of a cape onto a buckle. From the ballroom James hears a round of applause, the clinking of glasses and chatter, perhaps Sinclair is ready to finally give his speech, the ball finally at a close.
Then Will walks out.
And keeps walking, straight past both of them and down the hall, his cape billowing behind him brilliantly in a fashion that James can only classify as Sarcean-drama, and he laughs.
‘Oh hush, you,’ Will turns to tells him, and suddenly James is silent. But Will is grinning back at him, his hand extended in invitation, and there’s something wicked in his eyes, wicked and fun, and James heart catches in his throat.
‘I think,’ Will says slowly, ‘Sinclair is the one who’s in trouble, don’t you?’
And James grins back, already catching up to Will. Doesn’t even look back at Philip, couldn’t look anywhere else if he tried, because Will is right here in front of him, taking his hand and feeding an image through their connection.
—Sinclair on his knees—outside the ballroom—freshly fallen leaves littering the damp ground—James and Will, hand-in-hand—rising twenty, forty feet into the air, higher and higher—out of sight beyond the overcast clouds until they bask alone in the moonlight—
‘Go,’ Will says.
And James does, Will’s laughter following him down the hall as he strides out into the ballroom, maskless and cheeks flushed with anticipation, the picture of wicked obedience, but for a new master.