“OLLIE…! Ollie? Ollie-ver are you listening to a word I say?” Oliver stared past his sister, a soft breath of smoke curling out into the still air in a twisting coil. It created delicate shapes before disappearing as quickly as it came, as though it had never existed. Sighing, he turned his azure eyes to his younger sister, eying Rosaline with disdain. “I was trying not to,” he replied dryly.

“Oh, you’re such a wit!” she giggled, happily swishing her skirts around her legs as she posed before him. “I cannot imagine why you’ve not had any success courting any of the young ladies here!”

Taking a calming drag of his cigarette, Oliver rolled his eyes before turning away from her again. “Perhaps I’ve had more success than you wish to acknowledge, my dear sister. You could learn many skills from the young ladies I’ve made acquaintances’ with. I daresay it might actually make you interesting.”

“Do you really think me dull?” Rosaline sighed, petulant. She flopped unceremoniously onto the nearby chaise, still draped with dresses that she had decided against for the evening’s impending festivities. “You are my sister, that should be enough,” he replied. Disdain dripped from his words, darkening the lighthearted mood. Try as he might Oliver was unable to escape the truth – he was imprisoned in London because of his sister, and he would remain here until she was married. He had no hopes that anyone would be fool enough to court her. “Oh, Ollie, you are such the spoil sport. You’ve said nothing of my costume for the evening. How do I look? I do hope to catch the eye of Mr. Fairchild.”

“Charming, I’m sure. I suppose I must also prepare myself for this asinine evening?”

“You didn’t even look!” Rosaline pouted and Oliver could envision her lower lip jutting out as she sulked. He may be a ‘spoil sport’ but she was utterly spoiled. Flicking his cigarette into the rose bushes below he raked his annoyed gaze over his sister’s plump figure. Her hazel eyes sparkled with hope at his assessment. The dress was a gaudy plum violet with an obscene amount of beading and pleats. Fashion had never been her forte and he couldn’t imagine what she was possibly attempting to be for the masque. “I’m going as a kitten,” she announced, standing so that he might appreciate her dress fully. She raised her mask to her face and grinned. “Ah, yes. That was my first guess – a kitten who has fallen into a vat of wine.”

Disappointment colored Rosaline’s face, her mask falling limply to her side. “And what are you going as?” she demanded. Her fingers fluttered toward his frame, clad entirely in black. A smirk tucked itself into the soft camber of his lips as he straightened his lapel. “An assassin. I kill pretentious kittens. Do consider yourself warned.”

“You are utterly impossible!’ she declared before storming from her room, much to Oliver’s pleasure.

- - - - -

Much to Oliver’s relief, the carriage ride to the masquerade had been in silence thanks to his earlier altercations with his sister. Any reason to escape her shrill voice and nonsensical observations. He could hardly recall a time where he could stand her presence – a task made more tedious with their imprisonment in London. She would make a horrible wife for any man of good standing. She talked far too often and about subjects to which she held no valid opinion. He had walked from dinner the night before when she complained that the queen persisted on wearing black for it was such a drab color. His sister was truly a fool.

Instead he had spent most of the ride staring at the passing streets, bathing in the murky glow of the gaslamps and wishing he were anywhere else. The familiar burn of ale pressed against his memory; the warm embrace of a girl perched upon his knee at the tavern as he whispered lies to her about America. At least the lower classes had personalities and he welcomed the distraction they brought to his perpetual purgatory. “Oh, Ollie, isn’t it glorious?” Rosaline breathed, peering out at the intricate paper lanterns bordering the winding driveway. Swarthy fabric in every imaginable color floated like butterfly wings as they twirled up the stairs. Beading and sequins glinted in the warm glow of candles; the dull murmur of laughter and conversation rising above the orchestra.

They had arrived.

A despondent sigh escaped as he hopped from the carriage and dutifully helped his sister to the ground. “Do not ruin this evening for me, Oliver,” she warned, her eyes glinting with intent. “And keep you from ruining it for yourself? Never.” His eyes were no longer on Rosaline, drifting to the welcoming sea of hidden identities and intent.

Perhaps the evening would prove to be a pleasant surprise.