This choice: "I'm sorry. I have other things to do." • Go Back...Chapter #17Occult Revelations by: Nostrum   I’d love to, you tell yourself, but I don’t want to raise your hopes when I don’t even know my feelings.
“I’d love to,” you tell him, echoing your own thoughts, “but maybe on another occasion. Like I said – I have to deal with a nasty wine stain.”
“Right!” he says as he chuckles. “You said you wanted a consult, so I thought--”
“I do! But I thought it could be on a more professional level – I mean, I’d pay you and everything.”
“Claudia, I won’t ask you for your money. You’re a friend, and that’s what friends do for friends. Plus, I’m intrigued by your proposal. You were never this ambitious before.”
Is that so? The answer comes as quickly as the question. Of course I wasn’t. I prefer the simpler things in life, after all.
“That doesn’t mean we should keep out of touch,” he says. “You still have my number, right?”
“Yes!” you exclaim as you draw your phone and shake it. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t call; I thought Monica would--!”
“Yeah, I figured. That’s a reason why we broke up. I couldn’t stand her jealousy. I hope we can communicate a lot more now, though.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“It’s been a blast to see you,” he says as he kisses you on the cheek. “Call me whenever you want that consult.”
“I will!” You store your phone and wave him away. “Bye!”
As he leaves, you focus on his rugged good looks. You rub your cheek, right where he kissed you, as you realize the possibilities. Roderick is available again. I can’t believe it. But... this will make things harder...
--
You’re adjusting the silicone girdle as you prepare for the big day. Today, Friday, is the reunion of the Society, and as usual, you arrange your house for it. Though the wine stain is gone, you still had to rearrange your furniture as it cleaned more than that.
You’re elated by the idea of wearing your new costume. After cleaning the rug, you spent the day working on it, and today – your other off-day – you gave it the finishing touches. The dress – and the wig – stand there, yearning to be worn.
And why not satisfy her? You can’t wait for that corset to squeeze your waist while being draped in layers and layers of sheer fabric. Like the frilly oversized silk panties you bought exclusively for your new hips, ones you tested in more ways than one. (You figure the perfume and the layers of clothing will disguise the scent.)
You wear the bodice first before baking your face in layers of makeup – the closest you could find to vintage – and pondering on the process. This feels like wearing a mask. Once I finish, I will become the lady Montresse, owner of this humble estate. And yet...
No. I am not wearing a mask. I am not wearing a skin. I am comfortable in my own skin, like I never had before. I have a perfect life. And soon, I’ll have the perfect husband.
You flash a grin as you finish embalming your lips with rich rouge. But why not a perfect wife? Who says I have to live in a traditional way?
As you finish your makeup and tighten your hair with the wig cap, you wear the rest of the pieces. The ankle boots with stiletto heels that you’ve spent ages to master. The tight underbust corset, which you adjust until almost breathless. The petticoat, the gloves, the overcoat, your late great-aunt's jewels...
Finally, the wig. You grab it with great reverence, careful not to unstyle it. You look at yourself, no longer a peasant but a queen, and slip the headpiece on, adjusting it with slim bobby pins. It’s there where you no longer see yourself, but one of the three women belonging to the noble Occult Society of Gentlebodies of Tyneside, a respected social club of occult aficionados who love telling themselves horror stories and speak of their latest discoveries.
You make a curtsy before the mirror as you greet yourself – for the first time and as always. “Good evening. I am Claudia Nicolette de Eireann, the lady Montresse. ‘Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
You draw closer, rubbing a finger on your new image, hungry with desire for her. “I hope I can be of pleasure to you.”
--
You finish the drinks for the night when you hear the knocker on your door. The first guests have arrived.
“Good evening, lady Montresse.” As always, Richard Goldman – lord Stratton – has arrived punctually, taking off his hat. A banker by profession, Richard had always liked , but not embraced, the trappings of the Victorian era. He stores his monocle as he kisses your arm. “Strange to see you attending the door.”
“I sent my servants away,” you lie, playing your part. “Please, take a seat. I was just finishing the refreshments.”
“I heard from a missive that the count of Durmas has a magnificent tchotchke to show us.” (That would be Luke Strickler, though he prefers to be called “Luccio Strigliotti” when in character.) “Says it will astonish us greatly.”
“Always the artificer, is he not?”
“If it is as the last one...” he says with disdain. An amateur stage magician – his true “vocation”, he claims – Luke fancies himself a peddler of occult artifacts. You’re still wary of the time he almost burned your house with one – had Gary not stopped it – but you like his tamer ones.
And as in cue, Gary Palmer – Dr. Milsom being his character – arrives next, bowing gently at you. “My eyes feast on your beauty, lady Montresse.”
“Always a pleasure to feast your eyes, dear doctor.” You say this without issue, as while not a physician, Dr. Palmer is a tenured professor and investigator in MTSU’s Department of Chemistry, from which he adopted his charming, studied alchemist persona. “I was telling lord Stratton I was working on the refreshments as I sent the servants away--”
“Dear, you always send your servants away on nights like these!” The same cannot be said of Estelle Dennings – lady Stella de Mountbatten, duchess of Baton Tor – who you only know from the group and can’t quite make sure if she’s playing a character or being her real self.
“Lady Montresse!” she says as she greets you, her tone dripping scorn as soon as she sees your dazzling attire. “I see you have worn your best tonight.”
“I always do,” you say, cutting off her stealth insult.
“And here I am, wearing my usual attire.” Estelle is one of the reasons why you wanted to show off tonight. You’re not even sure why she’s in the group – apparently she forced herself in, which led to your invitation. You say this because she makes no effort to work on her costumes – hers are bought off the Internet, her manners lack the nuances of the Victorian era, and she’s the least that contributes.
You don't understand her envy, though. You are the one who envies her, with her full figure, squeezed to the barest hourglass shape, giving her the hips you long for. Yet, she feels like she must one-up you in every way. “Did you make that libation you brought us last time?” She’s also a heavy drinker, and for some reason loves your cocktails.
“I tried something different – but I’m sure you’ll love it, my lady Mountbatten.”
“I surely hope – I am parched!” She steps outside, screaming. “Errol! Darling! What are you waiting for!?”
You cringe as you see poor Errol Dennings – the Duke of Mountbatten – forcefully apologize. Compared to Estelle, this man is a poor good soul, trapped in the orbit of a domineering woman out of love. “Sorry for my lateness. Good evening, lady Montresse.”
“Good evening, your highness. I hope my humble abode is of your liking.”
“It is certainly to me,” Errol responds. Unlike Estelle, Errol does like these activities. You feel that, from his frequent questioning, if not for Estelle being so attached to modern life, he’d be a bohemian like you.
And as the next guest, which illuminates the rest of the evening each time he arrives. Alan Masters – the Lord Chamberlain of Tyne – is a college acquaintance and curator to the Tyneside Historical Museum. You often collaborate to protect the legacies of Tyneside from an evermore greedy City Hall. He also formed the Society - a Gentleman’s Society – and readily accepted you once Estelle made her way in, though you feel he would have made the exception anyways.
He’s also one of your dream suitors, and probably the closest to your heart, sharing all of your interests and pushing you to embrace this lifestyle as he does. His dashing looks help a lot; very black short hair on pale skin, with a stylish mustache and goatee, a confident smile and an impeccable manner. “Always a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady Montresse.”
“The pleasure is always mine,” you reply with the last fleeting remnants of your breath, giving it an airy, whistling tone.
His presence overwhelms you, and you tend the others in a fugue state, though naturally in character. He, you feel, is the reason you enjoy these reunions so much, and his departure always pains you so.
Thus, you resolve to enjoy this night as much as you can – while it lasts.
--
Yet, something brings you back to reality before the night ends. You are all sitting around your living room, ready to learn about Luke’s new “tchotchke”, as Richard mentioned. Not even his new acquaintance – someone outside the Society – shocks you as what he presents.
"Gentlemen, ladies?” he says in a forced, fake Italian accent, much to the displeasure of his companion. “Allow me to dazzle you with this marvelous discovery. For, believe it or not, I have proof that Magick exists.”
Though his theatrics bore everyone, it is when he draws the artifact that your blood freezes. To everyone else, it may be an elegant pen, perhaps one for good calligraphy. But you know what it is.
It is the same black pen Merry and Leslie have. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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