by Lisa Tuttle
‘Hacker stuff,’ said Farren. ‘Computer jargon. From what I could gather. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout computers, but I would say from the evidence that those two are definitely licensed, card-carrying citizens of cyberspace.’
‘So they knew each other already? From the Net?’
‘Sounded like it.’
There was no reason Roberto shouldn’t have other Net-friends, friends Orson didn’t know about, but it felt like a betrayal. The worst part was the way he’d been so deliberately excluded. Roberto hadn’t tried to defend him, or argue with Malcolm, let alone include him in the conversation. Malcolm might not know what interested Orson, but Roberto certainly did.
Simon wasn’t at all like the Roberto Orson had come to know and care for. He was a stranger. So it was true, what Orson had heard and yet never believed, that it was a mistake for Net-friends to meet in real life. Real life couldn’t compete with the fantasy. It was a downer.
Feeling dazed and shaken and much, much older than he had only an hour before, Orson wandered, lost, through his own house. Several people, one of them Rose, attempted to engage him in conversation, but he couldn’t seem to focus until Valerie grabbed his arm. ‘Hey. Where’s that Malcolm Watts?’
‘He’s a popular guy,’ said Orson dully. ‘What do you want with him? You may have to get in line.’
‘I want to wring his scrawny neck, that’s what I want. Do you know what he did to Jenny? He dumped her. He said he can’t go to the Midwinter Ball after all, so sorry. Gave her the invitation back; told her some story about illness in the family and having to leave town—’
‘Maybe it’s true.’
‘My foot. The only illness that should stop a person going to the Midwinter Ball after he’s agreed to escort a lady to it, is his own death.’
‘Is that part of the tradition? I don’t think Malcolm’s that much of a loss.’
‘It was supposed to be her first grownup dance. The hours we spent making her dress! All for nothing. Oh, I could kill him, I really could.’
‘That would be helpful. Then she could go to the ball with his corpse. If you could figure out a way of re-animating it. Hey, isn’t old Mrs Wilson supposed to know about zombies and all that?’
Valerie pinched his arm, hard. ‘Would you at least try to help?’
‘Ow! I’m sorry, Val, but what can I do? Even if Malcolm Watts was a friend – which he’s not – I don’t know what I could say to get him to forget his family obligations.’
‘Oh, who cares about Malcolm. All Jenny needs is some halfway decent, respectable male who’ll rent a tux and take her to the ball. It’s a pity you’re not available. But don’t you know anybody who is? She’s got her invitation back; all she needs now is somebody to give it to.’
‘Hang on a sec,’ said Orson thoughtfully. His heart began to pound, and he realized that he hadn’t actually given up on Roberto. ‘Just leave it to me, OK?’
He made a beeline across the room and touched Simon’s shoulder. ‘Simon, could I talk to you for a minute?’
‘Of course!’ Simon looked startled and not really welcoming, despite his words. ‘I’d been hoping we’d have a chance. As long as you’re not too busy! I really haven’t been avoiding you, you know. Sorry about what happened just now – I don’t know why that chap was being so prickly; it wasn’t exactly a state secret he had to impart, and, after all, you were just as likely as me to be interested, so I don’t know why—’
‘Yes, yes, that doesn’t matter. I need to ask you a favour. It’s for my sister, Jennifer, really. See, she was supposed to be going to the Midwinter Ball with Malcolm, but he’s just told her he can’t go. Well, she’s miserable. Not about losing him, I gather, but about not being able to go. He gave her the invitation back.’ Orson paused and gave him an encouraging look, but Simon didn’t seem to get it. So much for the telepathy he’d imagined.
‘So, why are you telling me? If you’re trying to suggest that this Malcolm may not be such a trustworthy fellow …’
Impatiently, Orson said, ‘I mean, could you take her? It could be a double date: you and Jennifer and me and Rose.’
Simon shook his head, surprised. ‘Sorry, old man. I can’t help you out there. I’ve already got a date. I thought you knew. I’m taking Olivia.’
15 In the Bleak Midwinter
On the eve of the Midwinter Ball Rose was a nervous wreck. She had hardly slept the night before, imagining all the disasters that might befall her to keep her from attending the ball. When, sometime just before dawn, she realized that her fearful imaginings of everything from food poisoning to bubonic plague were at least halfway to being wishes (what a relief it would be not to be able to go, to have the choice taken away from her by illness or accident) she decided that if she really didn’t want to go, she didn’t have to. Orson wasn’t going to argue. He would probably be relieved.
Her stomach twisted as she recalled the look on his face when he learned that Simon was taking Olivia to the Ball. Of course he still loved Olivia. What an idiot she had been to imagine otherwise. It would be sheer, stupid self-torture to go to the ball with Orson, no longer able to kid herself that a few dances would make him love her.
But maybe Orson wouldn’t be grateful if she cancelled their date. Maybe he had his own irresistible, self-torturing urge to be near Olivia whatever the pain. She decided finally that she couldn’t let him down. She would be there at his side all evening, his partner in suffering. ‘It is a far, far better thing I do,’ she muttered into her pillow, turned over and, finally, fell asleep.
Rose’s especially commissioned ball-gown had been patterned after one in a book of Civil War paper-dolls which Rose had received as a Christmas present years ago. The only difference was the colour. The paper dress was pink, and Gran had argued enthusiastically that it was the perfect colour and suited Rose’s hair and complexion, but Rose had put her foot down in a way she seldom bothered to do when it came to clothes. She wouldn’t wear pink. Pink was babyish, sissy, a girly colour.
‘But this is a girly dress,’ Gran had said, puzzled. ‘What’s wrong with looking like a girl once in a while? This swatch Lily’s brought is perfect – it’s like a rose petal.’
‘If I’m going to be a rose, I’ll be a red one,’ Rose had said firmly, and she had gone shopping for the material with Olivia along to provide moral support and make sure that her grandmother didn’t try to pull a fast one with a pinky-red or a reddy-pink.
She’d already tried on the finished dress and had been pleased with it, but now, with her hair done up, in make-up, and with her grandmother’s pearls around her neck, she could hardly bear to look at herself in the mirror. She was trembling.
‘Are you cold, darling?’ asked her mother, concerned. ‘I hope that coat of mine is going to be warm enough for you tonight. Maybe you should wear your down jacket after all.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Gran, firmly. ‘It would spoil the whole effect.’ She sighed. ‘Never mind, we’ll be warm enough in the car, and we’re not going to be standing around outside after we get there.’
There was a knock on the door and Simon’s voice called out, ‘Are you decent?’
‘Come in,’ called Alice and Gran together. Rose didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She stared miserably at her made-up, dressed-up self in the mirror remembering a day long ago when she’d been all dressed up in a frilly pink dress – a hand-me-down present from an older girl – and, feeling utterly pleased with herself, had run to Simon for his approval. Instead of giving it, the eight or nine-year-old Simon had wrinkled his nose and said, in tones of utmost disapproval, ‘What a yucky, girly dress. Pink! Poor you. Do you have to wear it?’
Simon came in now, a handsome stranger in a rented tuxedo. His eyes widened and he stopped short, staring. ‘Wow,’ he said quietly. ‘You look … you’re all grownup, Rosy. You’re absolutely gorgeous.’
The blood began to flow in her veins again. She felt her hands and feet tingle, and her cheeks warme
d. She smiled and ducked her head, ridiculously pleased, finally able to relax. ‘You look pretty decent yourself, big brother.’
He looked shy. ‘I hope Olivia thinks so.’
The Midwinter Ball was held at an old plantation house called Twin Oaks, about ten miles from Duckett Green. Gran was going to drive Simon and Rose there; it was quite usual, Olivia had explained, for partners to arrive separately and find each other on the dance floor. It was, presumably, something to do with the Ladies’ Choice tradition, and it was just as well, Rose thought, as by the end of the evening Orson might be relieved that he didn’t have to see her home.
‘I wish you and Chris were coming,’ Rose said to her mother to distract herself from gloomy thoughts. ‘You’d have fun.’
‘Oh, no,’ Alice said. ‘The Midwinter Ball isn’t for old married couples. It’s for the young – and the young at heart.’
‘Nicely saved,’ said Gran dryly. ‘I know my place, never fear. The young people do the dancing, while we old ladies, past our prime, form a decorative border of grey and black lining the walls.’
‘And very decorative you look, too, Granny,’ said Simon.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t patronize me, young man, or I’ll make you dance with me.’
‘You do look nice,’ Rose said. ‘Very elegant. But isn’t that dress a little modern for the Midwinter Ball? I don’t think the little black dress was invented until this century.’
‘Oh, tradition,’ said Gran with a rueful shrug. ‘Well, I won’t be the only anachronism you’ll see at the ball. Long full skirts are wonderful for dancing, not so good if you have to sit on them the whole time. Come on, now, my chicks, are you ready?’
Simon paused as he was putting on his overcoat. ‘Yikes – my invitation! Hang about.’ He rushed out of the room.
Rose and her grandmother checked that their own invitations were safe, put on their coats, and waited. And waited.
‘I’ll go see what’s keeping him,’ said Rose. She found Simon standing stock still in the centre of his room, holding a brightly-coloured piece of card in one hand and staring with burning eyes at his tweed jacket, hanging innocently over the back of a chair.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s gone.’
‘Oh, Simon – you can’t have lost it. Think. When did you last see it?’
‘I had it in the inside pocket of my jacket. I had it there when we went to the party at the Banks’. I know, because I took it out to show it to Malcolm. And then I put it back, and I knew it was still there when we got home, because I could still feel it. I didn’t bother to take it out. I haven’t worn the jacket since then, but when I took it out, this is what I found.’
Rose looked at what he’d thrust into her hands: a square about the size and shape of the invitation, cut out of a Rice Krispies packet. She tried to make sense of it. ‘Malcolm Watts asked to see your invitation? Why?’
Simon shrugged irritably. ‘I can’t remember. We were talking about this new printer he wanted to buy, and he wanted to see the typeface or something.’ He shook his head. ‘It was an excuse, obviously. He must have made the switch by some sleight-of-hand … If I’d bothered to look at it later I’d’ve seen, not that it would have made any difference. I don’t know why, he seemed perfectly friendly – why should he do this to me?’ His shoulders sagged; he looked miserable. ‘Give my apologies to Olivia, would you?’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you can go! I know that the tradition is—’
‘Admission by invitation only,’ Simon said flatly. ‘Olivia told me on no account was I to lose it. She told me about this bloke who lost his one time, and they wouldn’t let him in. It didn’t matter what his date said, without the ticket—’
‘Didn’t Olivia tell you the rest of the story? The bit that brings it up to date? She’s made a database for the guest list. If your name is on there – and I can’t believe Olivia would forget to list you, of all people – they’ll let you in. Now come on – you don’t want to keep the CyberQueen waiting!’
*
Glowing lanterns lined the long, curving drive of Twin Oaks, giving it a magical air. In her old-fashioned, rustling dress it was easy to imagine herself back in time; Rose closed her eyes, imagining the clop of horses’ hooves instead of the quiet purr of Gran’s car, until Simon roused her, asking for about the fortieth time, ‘Are you sure it’ll be all right?’
‘No, it won’t be all right. Olivia will take one look at your sad monkey face and deny she ever invited you. Tough luck.’ She stared out the window at the lighted front of the mansion.
Strangely, Rose’s words seemed to give Simon confidence as her reassurances had not done. ‘Yeah,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re right. Nothing to worry about.’
But she felt the tension in him as they left the car and walked up to the front door, where two men in formal, old-fashioned scarlet livery waited to take their tickets.
‘I seem to have misplaced mine,’ said Simon, frowning and defensive.
One of the men let out a low whistle. ‘Oooh, I don’t know …’
‘It’s OK,’ said the other man. ‘Well, it might be, if your lady remembered to put your name on the list. If she hasn’t, you’re in for a bad night! I can’t let you in through the front door without an invitation, but if you go around to the side entrance, there’s a lady there with a computer who might be able to help you.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Rose. ‘Gran, if you see Olivia inside could you tell her where we are?’
As Rose turned to go with Simon she felt her heart kick against her ribs. There was Orson, looking amazingly handsome in a formal dark suit, with a red silk waistcoat over his starched white shirt. He saw her, did a double-take, and his eyes swept over her from head to hem and back again as a wide smile gradually bloomed across his face. Beneath the concealment of her long, full skirt her legs were trembling.
‘Wow. Rose, you look wonderful. Fabulous.’ He shook his head slightly in admiration. ‘That dress … it’s the same colour as Serenthia’s, isn’t it?’
She laughed with pleasure that he had remembered. ‘Yes – I guess we have the same taste in some things.’
‘I can go by myself,’ said Simon.
‘Oh, no, wait – Orson, Simon’s lost his invitation, so we’ve got to go around to the side door, to see if they’ll let him in. I said I’d go with him—’
‘You don’t have to; there won’t be any problem,’ said Simon uncomfortably.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Orson said immediately. He glanced over his shoulder, and Rose saw that Jenny was there, accompanied by Farren Wiles. Orson said to them, ‘I’ll see y’all later, OK?’
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Farren.
‘Simon’s lost his invitation—’
‘I didn’t lose it,’ Simon snapped. ‘Someone took it – oh, never mind. Let’s not make a big issue out of it, okay? Does everybody have to know?’
‘Sorry,’ said Orson mildly as he and Rose hurried after Simon.
The side door was answered by another scarlet-liveried man who bowed them inside and directed them down a short hallway into a sitting room with half-a-dozen people in it. One of them was Olivia, splendid in a low-cut, tight-waisted gown of peachy silk and creamy lace, her long hair piled high on her head. She was explaining something to a nervous-looking, grey-haired woman seated at a desk with a laptop computer.
‘It’s very simple,’ Olivia said. ‘But probably you won’t even have to use the program. It’s unlikely that anyone will lose their invitation—’
‘And even more unlikely, I’m sure, that someone could have his stolen,’ said Simon, stepping forward.
Olivia looked up as he spoke. They looked at each other for a long minute, each comparing the other, perhaps, to some mental portrait, and finding the match to their liking. Rose would have crept away, but she couldn’t catch Orson’s eye. He was obviously as transfixed by the sight of Olivia in all her splendour as was Simon.
Rose’s happiness began to shrink.
‘You’re saying somebody stole your invitation?’ Olivia looked as if she was just managing not to laugh. ‘You’re obviously determined to make history, Mr Durcan. You are Mr Durcan, aren’t you?’
He ducked his head. ‘I have that honour.’
‘Well, let’s just find your name on the database here. Do you mind, Ms Wallace? I can probably do it more quickly … Thus doth modern computer science confound thievery … although, honestly, I can’t imagine why anyone should steal an invitation to the Midwinter Ball … Now, that’s odd. I know I entered your name, and I actually installed the program, so I should be able to work it … could be there’s some kind of a glitch in the system … I’ll try my name, and that should throw up the name of my partner as well. Aha! There it is, and …’ She scowled. ‘Now, that’s just – I can’t believe this – somebody must be …’ She looked up at Simon. ‘Any idea who might have stolen your invitation?’
‘Malcolm Watts. He—’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ said Olivia, pressing her lips together tightly. ‘Because, according to this, Malcolm Watts is my partner.’
‘Is something wrong, dear?’ asked the grey-haired lady apprehensively. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand this system.’
‘Don’t worry about it, ma’am. It’s not your problem. It’s mine.’
‘What’s this about Malcolm?’ demanded a voice behind Rose. Turning, she saw that Jenny and Farren had followed them in.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Rose. ‘If he wanted to come to the ball he didn’t have to steal Simon’s invitation and mess with the database – he already had an invitation.’
‘He said his grandmother was very ill and he had to go to Savannah to help look after her,’ Jenny said. ‘He gave me the invitation back.’
‘Which is the only thing Malcolm Watts has ever done to make me happy,’ said Farren.
Orson, Olivia and Rose all looked at each other, struck by the same thought. Orson spoke first. ‘It’s the least he could do for you, after stealing your ID card.’