The Party
The light was so bright that he had to blink very rapidly. The Underman was so used to darkness, to crawling shadows and crumbling earth. Here, everything was smooth. The floor--you could slide a limp body across easily. The walls--so white that a dark splash of blood would be painfully distracting from the rest of the room. The chandeliers--each probably costing more than he made in a year. The ladies, in their fancy necklaces--the diamonds sharp and deadly. Yet everyone here was alive, warm, and bright. It almost physically hurt.
. . .
He hated parties. Fortune (the idea) had nothing to do with parties. And Fortune (the person) wanted nothing more than to have nothing to do with parties. But here he was, entertaining guests. And for what? An extra ruck?
. . .
The Underman stood under a bright chandelier. He was wishing it would fall (for multiple reasons) when he saw a shadow in the shadows. He knew when something didn't belong. His eyes snuck around the room, and landed on a deep purple cloak. He wandered through people with a jovial smile on his face, and somehow ended up getting eaten by the shadows, like he always did.
. . .
Yolk didn't attend parties. Nobody in his family attended parties. Or formal events, or get-togethers, or meetings, or anything. Ever. Yet here he was, as close to a party as anyone in his family tree had been in a hundred years.
. . .
Vienna was positively done with the party. It was warm and boring and she was stuck with the same dressed-up peasants she was always with. So she smiled, because she was good at it, and spun around the party, dragging Damian with her.