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“I thought it gave a particular Halloween flare.”
“Oh, right,” he said, his shoulders relaxing. “For a second there I thought I’d been insensitive. That you were partially blind or something.”
“That would’ve been a good excuse for tripping me up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I suppose that could have been the case. I once had a riding accident when I was younger. Fell off a horse that’d slipped on some ice, and that was that. A thorn scratched me up. I don’t torture myself with the specifics. But I do have a scar to prove it, see?” He lifted the eye patch to reveal the tiniest of scars, silver, shaped like a moon, at the crinkle of his eye.
“I see,” he said, thinking not of Mr. Darcy, but of Mr. Rochester, who, though blind at the end of the novel, regains his sight two years later. It’s meant to symbolize something, of course, but he wasn’t sure what. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“I know.”
Darcy looked down at his feet and clenched his fists, released them and looked up again. “You know, I must say I have never seen Ada behave as well as she has the past couple of weeks, or smile as much, for that matter. She is usually quite unhappy for such an accomplished little thing, and always playing tricks.”
“Oh? What kind of tricks?”
“The usual childish things—claims of seeing ghosts, only to haunt the halls herself at night. I believe she planted a doll beneath the bed of our last hire and put a frog in one of her pockets. Truly beguiling childhood farce, but she’s managed to scare off a fair few. But not you.” Bron suddenly wished he had more wine, and pushed the empty glass to his mouth for dregs. Darcy sipped alongside him. “You are a good thing by her side. I dare say she’s lucky to have you. I would’ve whisked her off to boarding school at the earliest moment if I’d had my way, but Father has other ideas.” Darcy scratched at his nose.
“Lucky to have me?” he said. “I thought you disapproved of someone like me?”
“Someone like you?” Taking a step forward, he dipped lower to speak into his ear. “And who exactly is someone like you?”
A number of replies filled his mind. Someone whose existence was up for debate, someone reduced to a point of discussion. Someone like him, in certain circles, would even suggest a menace, an online troll hampering the progression of women’s rights. But he knew who he was, as someone scared, courageous, authentic. Someone whose existence was, in fact, at the mercy of people in power. People like Darcy.
“In reality I am something so unnatural as to cause havoc unto the world,” he said. “At least that’s what I read in the press. Bathrooms are my haunt.”
“Bathrooms?” Darcy questioned, and then blinked, realizing what he’d missed.
“Yes, particularly the ladies’. I cannot get enough of them.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, forcing a polite laugh and looking down at his glass. Darcy swirled the remains of his drink. “Well, I suppose we all have our stomping grounds.”
“And where is your domain?”
Darcy’s face suggested a deep consideration of the question. “I think I would have to say my bedroom, with the curtains fully shut and my head under the pillow. My own cocoon, where no one can bother me.”
“I appreciate that. I would say that is all we want from our bathrooms too. To sit and pee in peace.”
“You pee sitting down?”
He coughed away the question and made an “um” noise. Darcy, blushing too, made some sideward steps to place his glass on the console table, offering to take away Bron’s glass too.
“Thank you,” Bron said, handing it over, and Darcy placed it aside and rushed back.
“Now I think it’s only fair I get a good look at you, after all the effort you’ve made. Away with that shawl at once! Always making its appearance.”
Darcy inspected him, a sweep across his skin as he pulled the shawl away from his shoulders. Bron sucked in his stomach, righted his bad posture; held his neck higher and pulled his shoulders back.
“Spin,” he demanded, and Bron spun a slow turn. “Hmm, I suppose a congratulations is in order. With the rest of the party you have managed well.”
“Butyousee through my disguise?”
Darcy gave him no answer, held his gaze until he faltered. At this, Darcy took him by the wrist and brought him down the stairs. Bron didn’t appreciate the tightness of the grip, and protested at the yank. But his voice came out silent, tinny.
“I believe we had something of a rough start,” Darcy said, leading the way into the center of the crowd, where legs and arms swayed gracefully to the waltz. Darcy placed his hands on the small of his back, and he shivered away.
