New Years Eve

[Daphne Du Cadeau]

The door was steel-framed glass, too modern for the building it had been welded into. Daphne paused just outside, the soft snow drifting into her hair like forget-me-nots. Two women inside laughed over flutes of champagne, their dresses shimmering, their joy loose and careless. The sound of it pressed faintly against her temples.

She exhaled once, slowly, then stepped forward.

Inside, the gallery was warm and loud with music: elegant but just tasteful enough to disguise the excess. The smell of old stone fought with perfume and food wood. Paintings hung in staggered levels beneath high ceilings, some backlit with halos of gold, others hunched in various light-scapes.

A man in black approached, tablet in hand. His gaze flicked over her hair, her gloves, the earrings that had once belonged to her Volthström great-grandmother. He drew breath as if ready to deny her entrance.

“I’m not on the list,” she said, her French accent soft, vowels touched crystal and cool. “But I was told the artist is showing new work. I’m prepared to purchase. If any are for sale.”

She let the silence wait a few moments without being forceful. Just enough time for the man to think of a commission if one existed. He stepped aside.

“Welcome, ma'am.”

She inclined her head once and entered.

---

She moved like water through the crowd, her silvery-white gown caught the light in spectral flickers. It was neither sequined nor adorned, but perfectly tailored, as if the dress had been sculpted for her by stillness itself. The fabric clung with dignified reserve. She was well accustomed to such attire.

Her skin was pale as porcelain, untouched by the cold outside. Blue eyes peered with curious iciness, intelligent, and faint distance. Her long dark hair had been smoothed and drawn back on one side with a silver pin, leaving the other to fall like polished obsidian over her shoulder. She wore opera-length gloves, pearl white and unwrinkled. Around her throat, only a thin thread of silver chain dangled.

The emotions struck her immediately.

Laughter was like birdsong at the edge of a canyon. Pride billowed from a man boasting about his art collection. Desire, sticky and gold-edged, leaking from a corner where a woman leaned into a man not pretending he hadn’t noticed. And beneath it all: longing, sharp and sudden and foreign issued off of him in return.

She stilled herself. A gallery attendant offered her champagne. She declined with a motion of her hand, fingers straight. Her gloves were lined with silk, but they were like a shield. She did not wish to muddle her mind with alcohol.

She breathed, adjusted her posture, and pressed on.

---

She saw the painting halfway through the adjacent gallery.

It was not the largest, nor the loudest, but abstract in form and framed in a way that set it slightly apart. Perhaps it was intentional. A soft shape washed in pale grey and bloodred tones. The composition drew her study, but there was a simple nameplate on the display: Araminta Rosewood.

A voice to her right stole her attention.

“That's one of the artists' earliest works. She never sold it despite fabulous offers."

Daphne turned. A man stood beside her. He felt of curiosity, and something fuzzy that she assumed was the effects of the prosecco in his hand. He wore a fashionable blazer with a pin shaped like a magnolia leaf on his lapel. His smile was loose but not unkind.

She offered a polite smile, hoping it would draw out his curiosity.

“I would like to speak with the artist.”

He laughed softly. “Oh, Minty is around somewhere."

Daphne studied him a moment, her senses sweeping through the warmth of his mood. Minty? Her gaze connected the nickname with that on the display plate.

“Does Ms. Rosewood own the gallery too?"

That paused him. His brow furrowed faintly, then smoothed. “Of course. How do you not know that?" He chuckled and wandered away.

---

Her Wallet buzzed. She stepped aside and glanced at it.

MOTHER: Daphne. There is rumor of a border lockdown that begins at 4:00 a.m. your time. You cannot risk it. We will send a car.

She exhaled through her nose and typed quickly.

DAPHNE: Those rumors have been incorrigible. I'm sure nothing of the sort will happen.

Another message appeared instantly.

MOTHER: Do you want to sit in customs for hours? Have you the faintest idea how awful that will be?

She didn't need her sixth sense to imagine her mother's frustration. She silenced the phone, but not before doing a quick search for Araminta Rosewood.

---

The music swelled. From a corner near of the gallery a violinist had begun to play. A live quartet was now blending into the crowd’s crescendo. Laughter rose. Talking gained momentum. Excitement filled the room. The countdown was soon to begin.

[Eve]

New Year's Eve was a traditional night to prepare for new beginnings. Eve let the harmony of the gathering wash over her, watching her friends in their element and absorbing what were soon to become cherished memories of her life here. She hadn’t told Minty she was leaving yet. Her father’s insistence that she must be done “moving on” by now had only grown in frequency, so it would come as no real surprise, but she was keen to enjoy her last night without tarnish. The news would not be delivered somberly; it wasn’t like she wasn’t also happy to finally be going home – she was. The length of her time here wasn’t down to avoidance, nor healing. It was simply that she had found something to love. The bohemian community Araminta had built around herself was unlike anything Eve had ever experienced, and far from what she was accustomed to, but it had been like slipping into a warm bath: familiar and comforting.

Her dress tonight was a cut of simple elegance, understated despite the occasion: in a room full of creatives she had no desire to compete. Her hair curled into tousled gold waves around her chin. No jewellery either, just the faint smile on her lips and the kindness in her eye. She spoke with everyone she passed, easy but untethered. The laughter bubbled higher as the time to midnight drew near, and Eve flowed with it.

Until she saw a face entirely unexpected amidst the gathering; liquid dark hair, crystal ice gaze, expression poised in porcelain stillness. It was a face too distinctive to need a second look, but one she couldn't fathom to find here in Manhattan.

“Daphne?” The name escaped with unmistakable surprise. There was honest warmth before the inevitable tightness of something else, something that might have been an echo of pain or regret, but it was only fleeting – not tucked away, just a natural rise and fall of emotion. The surprise was clearly welcomed despite the circumstance. She came instinctively closer, smile deepening. For anyone else she would have reached out with a gentle touch of welcome, but though Daphne's hands were gloved, Eve had always let the other woman steer the negotiation of more tactile affections. That was just simple observation, the kind of perception Eve had always been good at.

[Daphne Du Cadeau]

The revelry pressed inward in waves, the gallery beginning to feel like a living thing with a hundred beating hearts, and none of them her own.

Daphne held her posture like a blade: still, elegant, just short of rigid. The fabric of her silvery-white dress shimmered faintly under gallery lights, its opalescent sheen catching every flicker of movement around her. She hadn’t touched her drink. She hadn’t needed to, the fuzz of intoxication was already starting to smother her. The heat of the crowd, the sharp joy of the hour, the emotional excess collected beneath her skin in fine, invisible tremors. How close to midnight were they? Would she make it that long?

But through the throng came a quiet presence, a familiar, specific shift that gave her pause. The sound of her name curved through the hum of the party like a thread of silk drawn against skin. She felt it in her spine before she processed it with her ears. Her heart gave a quiet, involuntary lurch.

A wave of sentiment washed through her. It was recognition colored in warmth, nostalgia, and something quieter… grief? No. Not quite. A farewell not yet spoken, but already known. The sensation prickled along the edge of her senses, not overwhelming, but familiar enough to fracture her composure for a breath. When she did turn her head, it was slow and careful. Her expression remained porcelain-smooth, but her eyes sharpened as they found the source.

Emotion curled around her like candlelight: welcoming, untethered, and utterly sincere. “Eve!”

Eve had not changed. But something inside her had became anchored. Daphne could feel it without trying. There was a soft grief beneath the surface was not regret. It was simply the quiet sadness of someone who had made peace with what would no longer be. So this is where Eve had been all this time? And that they found one another on this night of all nights!

She approached as if to share twin kisses on the cheek but was careful to make no contact nor smear one another’s makeup.

[Eve]

Eve fell naturally into the twin air kisses. Her eyes twinkled, smile deep and full. The surprise was as pleasant as the faint fizz of the champagne, warming from the inside, though now the question had time to truly settle – how and why was Daphne here? They had kept in touch after she’d left the Custody, in texts and private messages mostly, because Eve had deleted all her social media when she crossed the ocean. She didn’t want to know what Gui was up to any more than she already did. And Daphne had always been more free with herself through the medium of a screen. They’d come to know each other well that way.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said, and meant it honestly. Though she naturally paused to wonder for a moment if Emmeline and Timothée had finally armed their daughter with the task of convincing Eve back to charm their son, she realised almost in the same breath that it was impossible. Daphne had known she was in America but not where specifically, and in any case she had sounded as equally surprised at the good fortune of their reunion as Eve. Nor did she truly believe Daph would have done it anyway. She often seemed to know Eve’s true feelings without her having to speak them first, and Eve thought she might be the only person alive who even suspected Eve’s own feet had been growing cold before what had happened… happened.

Her curiosity abounded without any shadow of accusation, and she decided quickly that Daphne’s presence here had nothing to do with her at all.

Around them the gallery was quickly building in anticipation, the laughter louder, the popping of corks and fountains of liquid refills readying for the moment. Eve loved these people, knew it was her last celebration among them, but she also knew Daphne would freeze up the moment everyone was hugging and kissing at the stroke of midnight. “Will you come with me for some air?” It wasn’t said in pity or self-sacrifice, but because she wanted the space to talk – and chose it over the festivities, because Daphne was her friend. With anyone else she would have looped her arm in companionable familiarity, but with Daph she didn’t. Instead she leaned closer, and delicately pointed out the route of their escape.

The sounds were muffled once they were outside. The air had a freezing snap to it, though there was a tiny patio heater sending out a determined orange glow. A few abandoned flutes of champagne sat on the wall, and a bucket of ice with an empty bottle underneath. Lights were strung above like a little canopy of stars. No smokers huddled this close to midnight, though there was still the faint trace of it amidst the lingering trail of expensive perfume. Eve let the flame fill her, just enough to warm the air around them comfortably. She wanted something private and magical, not miserable and cold.

She smiled a little while she did it, just for the pleasure of the action. It wasn’t a secret she kept with any grandeur, though neither had she ever made a spectacle of it. Now they were alone, she wanted to ask about Gui. Or at least, she wanted Daphne to tell her he was doing okay without having to talk about him at all. Love had never been the problem, and she still felt it like a glowing constant when she thought about him. She imagined she always would, and didn’t feel sad about it. That, at least, had never been a doubt in her mind, even when she began to realise that neither was it enough.

Inside the counting had begun, and then the cheering. Eve laughed a little. A new year. A new beginning, but what she said when she turned to her friend, was “Happy birthday.”