Stardust and Symmetry (Part One) It was far too dark in the room to see anything clearly. Candles illuminated a face here, a hand there, a blush, a bit of lacework or lush red fabric. Everything about the room spoke of hushed secrets and giggles, looping from the mirrors along the back wall to the crystal-topped table. In front of the mirrors stood a thin-nosed, smiling boy with black hair and sharp features. He was both painter and poet, a favorite with young women and young men too. He was dressed better than his peers, as always. He spent his precious moments among the wealthy, the filthy poor and the stoned artists. Fashion was as important to him as it was to any female and he left a careless trail of feathers and glitter and paint and fur behind him wherever he went, even in the gutters. He surveyed the room with glistening, watchful eyes, listening more than speaking, playing with the flame of a candle so that it slipped through his slender fingers and danced in and out of existence. Matilda August chose a seat for herself at the middle of the crystal table, and immediately she was surrounded by admirers. They pushed and fawned, threw around familiar nicknames and offers like candy. You weren’t an artist if you didn’t want the help, admiration, stardust and peculiar musedom of the great Lady Matilda. “Are you really a princess?” one girl asked, pillow lips parting and her eyes widening as she leant forward, perched at Matilda’s right hand. “Did you read my story?” said another. “I sent it to you, Lady, sent it a week ago… did you read it? My name is Jonathan Forp.” “Lady, I’m an artist.” “I paint landscapes and dogs!” “I brought the Lady a gift!” Listen to me, listen to me, listen to me they all screamed silently. The offers escalated and wine circulated from hand to hand, clumsily shared by lips and sweating palms. Could they back up their claims in the light of day or did the night make them that much braver? Matilda smiled at who she wanted to and heard the frustrated, agonized sighs of those she ignored. Writers, artists, musicians, actors crushed in around her and the woman turned her attention to each of them in turn, giving them a few seconds to prove themselves. “Lady, Lady,” said a girl, probably all of eighteen years old but crushed in a tiny-waisted dress and painted to cartoon proportions. “I brought you my poetry book…” “Did you now?” Matilda said and accepted the leather bound journal the girl offered her. Matilda flipped through it for a moment and the girl’s breath caught audibly in her throat. “Well, your handwriting is terrible.” “Oh. Lady, I… I…” “What’s this?” Matilda held the book up for the girl to see. “Did you write this?” “Y-yes, Lady! It’s my favorite!” “I see.” Matilda slapped the book closed. The girl blinked a few times. “Does the Lady… find it to her…?” “No, it’s quite terrible, darling. Go and live and learn something about the love you write so much about. Perhaps in thirty years you’ll have something of worth to say.” The girl faded away and someone leapt into her place, this one even more hopeless than the last. Matilda sighed and turned her head away, glanced about the room. Her eyes fell on the boy at last, who still stood at the heart of his gaggle of friends and confidantes with a candle in hand. Matilda flicked her tongue, locked eyes with him over humans and spilled wine, and she motioned him closer. The crowd parted for him, eyes followed his steps and only a few of the more courageous thought to reach out and brush him as he passed them by. He leaned down at Matilda’s side and he smelled of spices and the little songbird girl he’d carried on with in the alley before making his way here. “After the party,” she whispered in his ear, “You’ll show me your work.” His expression didn’t change. “But you’ve seen it before, Lady,” he said, a challenge that never rose above a raspy whisper. “How do you figure?” “You’ve followed me several times.” “And why, do you suppose?” “Many a huntress has been known to follow her prey.” He said this with a smile and she smiled back at him. “So I’ve been hunting you. And what does your little entourage think of that? I know you must have discussed it with them.” The boy glanced over his shoulder, smirked at his friends. “Louis thinks you’re a witch and Josephina says you’re an angel and Tom says you’re a devil.” “How charming! And what do you think I am?” “A muse, of course. Or a vampire. I’ve always wanted to meet a vampire.” “Well, you’ll have to make do with a muse for now, boy.” She turned her head away from him, as if bored. The girl at Matilda’s right hand lit up and thrust herself forward in her seat, searching Matilda’s face for information, inspiration, attention. Matilda patted her on the shoulder. “Get out of here,” she purred and the girl shuddered before getting up and walking away. Perhaps she wept, but certainly she lowered her head and pushed through the crowd, to disappear into the shadows. Leo’s velvet-clad boys laughed among themselves at the girl’s retreating back. In one smooth movement, the boy had placed himself in the empty chair. He accepted a communal glass of wine and raised it to his lips as if it were some kind of religious sacrament, brought to the pagans and unholy. He drank it only when he knew Matilda was watching and then licked his lips. “You’re younger than I thought,” she said. Under his kohl-lined eyes was fresh, unwrinkled skin, the kind only young mortals could have, and for such a short time. “Perhaps I’m a hundred years old,” he whispered and offered her his glass of wine. “Oh, but you’re not. You’re only a boy. No matter what you make the others believe about you.” His slender white fingers were decorated with several rings, each more elaborate than the last. Just behind him stood the members of his entourage, most of them male, waiting, listening, watching. “Tonight you’ll be alone.” She drank from the glass and his blue eyes never wavered from her. “And you will paint for me.” It was something to be said for him that he didn’t tremble. “As the muse wishes.” Matilda raised an eyebrow. “Are you always so accommodating?” “Hmm, depends on the circumstance and the mistress.” A rumbling snicker passed through his entourage. “I’m only bothering with you because my last pet has begun to bore me,” Matilda said, even though it was somewhat untrue. She’d watched this one for long enough now, studied him, had him followed to his cheap seats at street theaters, to his afternoon cafes. Clubs. “You have a taste for the streets. I could give you a taste of the high life. Theater! Royalty, real glamour. Your education is frightfully unfinished, especially for the son of an aristocrat.” He considered this with something like amusement. “I don’t bore you?” “I haven’t decided yet.” “If I interest you, what? You’ll help me create a thousand paintings and I’ll live forever?” Matilda smiled. “No, darling, you’ll not live forever. When you’re old and ugly, I’ll have no use for you. I can give you inspiration, but mortality you’ll have to face on your own.” She watched his face for the flicker of fear but saw only his curiosity mirrored back at her. “You’ll meet me at my studio?” he asked her. Matilda’s nod to him was casual, unconcerned. She gave a little attention to the blubbery poet nearest her. He nearly fainted with joy for her attention, his forehead slick with sweat and his mouth hanging open, so like a fish. She looked away from him and considered a red-haired woman but no one was of any interest. Certainly it was gratifying to be loved and adored, but sometimes it was just as gratifying to be argued with. When she turned back to look at the boy, he was gone from the seat, replaced by some bleak young woman with gray skin. Matilda glanced around before spotting the black-haired boy across the room. Several of his followers were speaking hastily amongst themselves, all hand gestures and raised eyebrows, lowered voices. But he paid them no attention. His eyes were on Matilda, and when she noticed this, he smiled at her from across the room. And then he looked away from her, as if she’d been forgotten. He listened and laughed with his entourage, flirted with a pair of twins, drank wine and excused himself early from the party. Much to the disappointment of the artists and writers at the table, Matilda followed him.