Throughout the evening, most of the guests had arrived to Mahtan’s estate in pairs or groups of three or more, and sometimes in crowds so large they needed to politely move about one another to manage through the door without separating their party. It was rare that groups were so large that the entrance could not accommodate them, for it was as wide as it was tall, and it was so tall that the overhang was only a hand width from the ceiling, which was itself three stories high. So large were the doors, in fact, that they were left open, for the closing and opening of them took three to five servants to do so.

It was not unheard of for someone to arrive on their own, without escort or without being an escort or without other fellows or family, but there were those who preferred it. Such was the case of the gentleman who now stood in the doorway, and no parties behind him dared hurry up the great staircase to go around. His cape swirled about him as he stopped, weighted in such a precise manner as to bring about that desired effect. The outside was a noble and discrete black trimmed in silver, while the inner cloth was dyed burgundy at the bottom, then red and copper in the middle, and finally orange near to the top, and patterned so as to resemble flames. The rest of his costume was black and silver, richly embroidered, sparkling with gemstones that no doubt were of his own creation.

Fake flames leaped across his mask and looked to be searing his face, but the porcelain was merely painted and encrusted with jewels to appear as he walked to move like fire. He finally did step into the room, now that those present had the chance to turn and look upon him, and gaze, and stare, and wonder in awe at the appearance of Finwe’s eldest son. Though simple, the elegance of his costume placed him high on the dance card lists of those ladies in search of a suitable husband, and his eligibility and breeding moved him to the top. It was doubtful that he would spend any time alone this evening, and certain that he would need not worry where the chairs might be for him to sit.

Chairs were infrequently used by the male population who attended such functions anyhow. They were set out for the convenience of the ladies who needed to rest after many turns in the arms of the bachelors in attendance, or for those few who might have attended who were currently with child. The latter was less frequent in happening, but there were those mothers who insisted upon coming who had made the decision to have a second child before seeing to it that their first was suitably wed. Mahtan wished to be as accommodating as possible.

It was odd, therefore, that his daughter sat upon one of these chairs, for she was neither tired from dancing, nor was she with child, being only just recently removed from childhood herself. She had chosen a costume more fanciful than most despite the warnings of her mother to pick something a little more demure and practical, and so wore not only a dress of green that reminded one of grass in the springtime with dancing slippers to match, but also a pair of wings. The frame was built by her father, sturdy yet light, and the fabric was made by her mother. It was a shimmery sort, and upon it Nerdanel had sewn intricate patterns and whimsical designs. She had delighted in seeing them when she first put them on, but now she sat against the wall pressed back against the unlit corner she was in.

Her mask resembled a butterfly or one of its related cousins, and she wanted to wish this away in exchange for a plain, sensible mask like most of the ladies wore. Something pale and white, something smooth and feminine. Perhaps one with a teardrop diamond embedded upon the cheek, or lips painted red and a flower or star drawn across the forehead. Certainly not something twice the size of her head, with antenna shooting up and bouncing every time she moved. There was no way she would dance tonight, and without a doubt she would not be favored a dance with the one she wished most to dance with.

“Your costume is lovely, m’lady.”

The voice startled Nerdanel, who looked up to see a very tall elf looming over her. He had bowed just slightly at the waist to avoid the need to call down to where she was. She was trained by her mother to act accordingly, and stood at once to curtsy and thank him for the compliment. Perhaps there was hope that she would not spend the night completely alone.

“Would you care to dance?” asked the tall fellow. He wore black – most of the ellon did so – though his clothing did not look so much costume as it did merely accessorized for the event. An older pair of boots, polished to shine despite their age, and an ornate sash tied about his waist to hide any frays on the edge of his shirt.

It was a sure sign of his status, as was the mask that appeared rented, for Nerdanel recognized it as one of her own. Sculpture and pottery were her delight, and the making of masks for the local costume shops was one such task. The mask the stranger had on was black with swirls of blue, painted dark to conceal a chip that was mended on the chin.

The decision was difficult – she could lie and state that her card was full for the evening, but turning down anyone was a good way to stay seated for the entire night. There was always the possibility that a dance with one who was undesirable might lead to a cut in, so she acquiesced and curtsied again, and waited for him to offer his elbow so that they might move to the center where the dancing had begun.

The ellon smiled – unseen to Nerdanel behind the mask he wore. “I have asked on behalf of my friend. He wishes a dance with you, but he believed you might have been occupied for the evening. He arrived only minutes ago; by the door.”

Nerdanel looked up, hope causing her to seek out the figure of the one to invade her daydreams. She disappointedly looked about, and saw only one person focused on her and the elf who was speaking to her. “Is that him over there, in the fiery cloak?”

“That is he,” replied the stranger softly. “Are you familiar with Naro?”

“He is my father’s apprentice,” she replied, attempting to conceal her new disappointment. Feanaro had a temper to match the might of the wind, and she had long ago found it to her disliking. Nonetheless, it was an improvement from her other option, and perhaps through Feanaro she might gain access to intended target, his younger half-brother, Nolofinwe. Just the thought of Nolofinwe made her tingle with delight, and recall those daydreams (and a few dreams in the darkness of slumber) of him. “Will he come over here to ask me properly, or are we to waltz his way?”

“Neither. He wishes you to go to him; he expects if he moves this way he shall be caught by too many ladies who are in the path. Go; he is not a patient one,” added the stranger hastily. He took up the seat that Nerdanel had vacated, giving the lady no other option.

Nerdanel moved across the room as quickly as etiquette allowed, still turning her head that was and this in hopes of seeing Nolofinwe in the crowd. She knew he had been invited; she had checked thrice to be sure. She knew he had responded; she had the reply to the invitation hidden under her pillow. She could not fathom him being late, but perhaps his horse had taken him off path or perhaps someone had caught him in the hallway and forced him into conversation. Whatever the reason, Nerdanel curtsied when she reached Feanaro, and waited what she deemed a proper amount of time before inquiring about his brother. “Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening,” replied Feanaro, bowing slightly.

“How is your father?”

Feanaro blinked. “He is well.”

“And your brother?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Did Eresse inform you of my desire to dance with you?”

Nerdanel gave a timid nod, and immediately Feanaro held out his arm. She found herself whisked away from the entrance and onto the dance floor. They were soon in the thick of the crowd, and every time someone attempted to cut in, Feanaro would ignore them. Nerdanel tried to give the astounded bachelors an apologetic look, but they were often too far away by the time she realized what was happening, and it would do little good concealed by a mask with bobbling antennae anyhow.

The behavior continued for many hours. Most attempts at conversation failed, for Feanaro had no intention of sharing pleasantries or getting to know the daughter of his employer. Finally, Nerdanel did manage to persuade Feanaro of a change of pace by suggesting a trip to the adjoining room where refreshments were being served. This idea appeased Feanaro, though he quite possessively placed his gloved hand over hers when she took his elbow, to be ensured of the fact that they would reach the same destination together.

It was only when they reached the parlor that he allowed her the freedom to let go, and only as he lifted the ladle from a bowl of punch that his mood darkened. Nerdanel had to look around him to see why; the mask had a terrible effect on her vision. For a moment, she was thrilled at what she saw: Nolofinwe stood at the very next bowl of punch, pouring the ruby colored liquid into a crystal cup. Then, Nerdanel paled, for the cup was handed to a lady just beside him. It was then that Nolofinwe took note of who was beside him, and he reached out and patted his brother’s shoulder. “Feanaro, so good to see you here tonight, and with such an... enchanting companion,” said Nolofinwe carefully, his eyes fixed upon the antennae bobbing about on Nerdanel’s mask.

Feanaro handed the cup he had just poured to Nerdanel, hastily poured one for himself, and then turned to face his brother. “Likewise.”

“I must say,” continued Nolofinwe despite the attempt Feanaro made to nudge Nerdanel toward the other side of the room, “this has been a delightful evening. We have enjoyed it immensely, have we not?” he asked of his female companion.

“Oh, we have. It has been splendid.”

Nerdanel thought for a moment to thank them on her father’s behalf, but then something caught her eye that might have made her reaction quite unladylike had the mask not covered it. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened when she saw that the lady with Nolofinwe had removed, or perhaps never had, her gloves. Nolofinwe had done the same, and the hands not holding their punch were entwined. What was more, Nerdanel noted a silver ring of betrothal upon the lady’s hand. She dared not search for one on Nolofinwe, heart already broken.

“Perhaps we should return to the festivities,” she said, setting her untouched cup aside on a collection tray. Feanaro did not disagree, nor did he offer any farewell as the one called out by his brother faded quickly.

They danced again in silence, but after a little while Feanaro said, “Two days.”

“Pardon?”

“The answer to the question you wish to ask, which is how long my brother has been engaged.”

Nerdanel felt her cheeks burn and was thankful for the mask. “How did you know that I was going to ask such a thing?”

“I have not missed the way that you have looked at my brother in the past,” Feanaro informed her. “You are close in age, and have similar interests. Because of that, I have said nothing to you of my desires. However, as circumstances have changed, I thought it the best time to approach the subject. I may dislike my brother,” he added, “but I am not so horrible that I would attempt courtship of a lady that he might hold an interest in. Knowing now that the favor is not returned, I assume you have no other prospects?”

The direct approach was a little refreshing, a little frightening, and completely and absolutely improper. All the same, it did save time, and Nerdanel felt herself drawn to Feanaro for the first time. “Only you,” she answered coyly.