danse macabre, part i - K

The invitation came as any other, arriving at my door a fortnight prior to the engagement. The envelope was addressed very plainly and was inconspicuous enough, and I assumed upon receiving it that it was for one of the myriad winter balls at which my presence was often requested. Mr. and Mrs. Albert Maynard generally hosted a very popular Christmas ball, and Mrs. Florence Gott was forever demanding I drop in to her dinners. I admit I let the invitation sit longer than was polite, and I was doubtless the last to respond (it is not in my manner, I assure you, but I was a bit overwhelmed at the time); but when I did open it, I was entirely unsure as to the meaning of its contents.

The invitation was printed very neatly on sturdy card, and the design was tasteful. A simple border decked with flowering belladonna while, though a strange choice (the season tended to encourage mistletoe and holly), was not unappealing. It was the print that provoked my confusion. The black lettering read as follows:

SOLSTICE BALL
The company of Mr. James Piper and Lady is respectfully solicited at the Chrysanthemum Hotel, on Sunday Evening, December 21st, 1834, at 5 o'clock.

Dancing to commence at 6 o'clock.

It appeared perfectly ordinary. My name had been penned in by a careful hand, and at the bottom was printed the date on which I had received the invitation. However, where a list of managers would normally have been included, there was only one name: Death.

I assumed it a joke, naturally, and in very poor taste, considering the season. Such a jest would be distasteful at the best of times, but so close to Christmas, it seemed almost blasphemous. Reading it over again, my eyes lingered on the graceful, looping slant of my name, and I grew angry. Death, indeed! But there was something sinister about the pure, clean blackness of the ink, and I could not bring myself to toss the invitation into the fireplace as I wanted.

Frustrated, I called for a drink, and when my valet arrived, I waved the card beside my head.

"Dawes," I said as he poured the brandy, "this invitation. Do you remember who left it? What he looked like, if he said anything peculiar?"

"No, sir," he answered. I took the snifter from him and pursed my lips unhappily. "Can't say as I do, sir." Not that it would have helped matters to obtain the description of a man-servant, but in my discomfort, any information seemed better than none.

I elected to dine at the club that night in the hope that some of the other gentlemen had also received invitations. Dinner was unusually subdued, and I found myself reluctant to broach the subject. I had considered throughout the meal that it was a joke played upon me by one of the very men with whom I was dining. Were that the case, introducing the matter into the conversation would succeed only in making me look very foolish.

After dinner, we retired to another room for gin and cigars. The conversation remained rather trivial, but spirited, centering primarily around the weekend's horse races and what an astonishing amount of money Lawrence Kirby had lost. Kirby, though the tight smile on his face suggested it pained him greatly, suffered the jibes with extraordinarily good humour. He even went so far as to make several jests at his own expense, but the light-hearted air of the men felt unnatural and forced. The drifting smoke had a weight as it gathered, and the party soon fell quiet.

I, ruminating in an armchair for quite some time, finally decided whatever risk to my reputation the invitation posed was worth it to get the thing out of my head. The conversation lulled, and I cleared my throat to speak.

"I received a queer invitation last week. For a ball to be held at the Chrysanthemum Hotel." I did not think it possible, but the hush in the room grew more severe. Glasses were stalled halfway to mouths, and all eyes turned to me. Samuel Hadley's cigar fell from his lips, and he fumbled to catch it, sprinkling his waistcoat with ash. Kirby exahaled as though struck in the stomach.

"Who, ah," Hadley ventured, careful to keep his eyes down as he brushed at the ashes, "who is giving this ball, then?"

I knew in an instant he had gotten the same card. In fact, I was willing to bet Kirby's losses they all had. I could see the interest in the eyes of the other men, and the uncertainty. There was fear. There was a need for assurance that it was a very vulgar bit of mischief.

I was hesitant, but it was clear now I would not be mocked for my answer. I rested my glass on the nearest table.

"Death," I said, and I felt a snagging in my throat. "The ball is being given by Death."