This begins our fanfic series of our roleplaying characters preparing for the Masque. Read the story of our Masque here and submit your fanfic story.
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“What are you afraid of?”
“What am I not afraid of?”
“Odilia.”
Odilia nó Dahlia turned from her vanity, turning from her reflection to look at the Dowayne standing behind her, “Jocaste, everything has changed. How am I supposed to do this? This wasn’t what I expected.”
“Odilia nó Dahlia,” Jocaste said, her silver and black hair gleaming in the lamplight, “You have done so well. You have brought pride and honour to this House. You have supplanted the Cereus as the rulers of the Night Court and you did it because of what you are. What are you, Odilia?”
“A Dahlia.”
“And our words?”
“Upright and Unbending.”
“You will do this. It’s just one more impossible thing and I have watched you eat the impossible for breakfast. There is a reason I chose you for my Second and it is because no matter your parentage, you were born to be here.” The Dowayne drew herself up to her full height and said, “You will enter that Masquerade at my side with your head held high because that is where you belong. And you will continue to do us proud. You charmed a prince, you can charm a ballroom just as easily. Now, set your hair, paint your face, and dress in your costume. It is the Longest Night Midwinter Masque and Dahlia will represent.”
The Dowayne closed the door to the Second’s apartments firmly behind her, already speaking to Aurelie waiting in the hall. Odilia exhaled and turned back in her chair to face herself in her mirror. Who was she fooling? She was as common as they come. Born to a jeweller off Rue Courcel, from a mother who was a painter. An artisan family. Dahlia had found her and raised her up to be a queen of her own little court, proud and fearless, confident in her power. But no matter all of that, her peasant heart still beat with common blood. And somehow she was supposed to be fit for a prince? The Crown Prince, no less.
She covered her face with her hands and dared to wish that he hadn’t come to her. She had been happy as the Second, content to lead the House and ready herself to move up to the Dowayne position when it was time. She was happy to give back to the House and the family that had educated her and trained her and shaped her to be part of a grand legacy of courtesans in Terre d’Ange. And then he had come. And he had chosen her. And he had been young and still learning himself and she had listened and given advice and he had followed it and he kept coming back and she had teased him; people will say we’re in love, and he had turned red and she had seen it in his eyes. And he had set the fashion, more nobles and courtiers were coming to Dahlia, coming to see what courtesan could have turned the prince’s head from mourning his older brother, coming to look at her and gossip about her.
She had heard the whispers. Heard the speculation. She knew there were bets on whether he would ask her to be his Official Consort, whether she would survive court, whether she would crack under the pressure. And then he had asked her to represent him, asked her to attend the Masque with his voice, in his place, and she had felt fear. What was she afraid of? She was at the edge of a precipice, staring into the unknown, terrified to take that step because what if she fell?
Then again, what if she flew? And those gossip-mongers, those blue-blooded nobles, those who were waiting for her to fall and fail, they didn’t know her. They didn’t know that the best way to get Odilia nó Dahlia to do something was to tell her she couldn’t.
She took a deep breath and picked up her dahlia necklace. How better to remind everyone at the Masque who she was than by wearing her flower with pride? She was Odilia, Second of Dahlia House, favoured by the Crown Prince Gustav de la Courcel. And her Dowayne, Jocaste nó Dahlia was right. She ate impossible for breakfast. She held her head high and clipped the necklace around her throat.
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