The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen

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      Babette’s eyes bulged in horror at the suggestion of the noted banker.

      “He is nearly fifty!” she snapped.

      Father smiled and spread his hands, offering a more pleasing suggestion. “Then perhaps young Alfonse des Louveteaux…”

      Babette scowled and put her fists on her hips. They were difficult to find beneath the mass of frills that was her dress, but she managed without too comical an effect.

      “Father, Alfonse des Louveteaux has yet to pass two words with me this evening. Yet you offer him up as a man I ought to regard in a favorable manner. Baron von Fuchsburg asked me to dance! Alfonse has never done that.”

      Father cleared his throat and said, “Then let us return to the ball. You may be surprised at what you find.”

      He looked so pleased and hopeful that Babette knew he was up to something.

      He’s meddling! she thought. My God, if Alfonse asks me to dance now, I’ll scream!

      But independent of her private thoughts, Babette smiled pleasantly and cocked her head to one side.

      “I’m never surprised by anything, Father,” she said, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her back to the ball.

      After sixteen years as your daughter, how could I be?

      * * * *

      When she returned to the ballroom, Babette looked about carefully but intently, searching for Korbinian. He was tall enough to stand out in the crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Babette frowned and made her way toward the stairs leading up to the second floor balcony. Small as she was, the throng of guests made her view difficult. Perhaps he was simply on the other side of the room, too far away for her to see from her angle.

      Suddenly a queer sensation came over her. A familiar and displeasing scent assailed her nose, and she felt her hair stand on end. She spun about in time to see Alfonse loom over her as he reached out to grab her arm. Babette drew back and snapped her fan open, holding it out before her like a weapon.

      “Captain des Louveteaux,” she said, nodding politely. “What a pleasure to see you this evening. I trust you are well?”

      Alfonse bowed his head and smiled at her hungrily.

      “Very well, Mademoiselle Varanus,” he said. “And you?”

      “Well enough.”

      “Good,” Alfonse said. “Give me your hand. We dance now.”

      He reached out again, and again Babette withdrew.

      “We do, do we?” Babette asked, trying hard not to snarl for the sake of appearances. Dealing with Alfonse was always a trial. He little understood the concept of conversation. To him the word was synonymous with dictation.

      “We do,” Alfonse said, nodding. His expression was twisted with growing frustration at Babette’s refusal to follow his command. “So give me your hand and accompany me to the dance floor.”

      “I am not so inclined,” Babette replied, the hint of a scowl crossing her face.

      Alfonse was a bully, and if he thought he could simply order her about—her, the granddaughter of William Varanus no less—he was in for a surprise.

      “It is rude for a lady to refuse a man’s request to dance,” Alfonse said, growling.

      “It is customary for him to ask her,” Babette said.

      She was not entirely certain how to describe the sound that Alfonse made, but it reminded her of one of her Grandfather’s hounds being denied a piece of meat. The similarity did little to make Alfonse’s behavior any more palatable to her.

      “Mademoiselle Varanus,” Alfonse said, his tone still that of a growl, “would you do me the great honor of accompanying me for a dance?”

      Babette bared her teeth and forced a smile.

      “Of course, Captain,” she said. “It would be my honor. I will put you down for the next quadrille.”

      That at least would buy her some time. The quadrille was scheduled three dances away.

      “I would prefer the next waltz,” Alfonse said, speaking in such a way that it made Babette’s hackles rise.

      “That is most unfortunate,” Babette said. “But I fear that the quadrille is the next dance for which I am available. Not sooner.”

      She had no intention of allowing Alfonse to hold her in any sort of close manner.

      The two of them fixed eyes and stared at one another for a long while. Babette felt Alfonse’s seething anger at her impudence, but she refused to back down. Finally, Alfonse forced a smile and said:

      “Very well, the quadrille.”

      Satisfied, Babette bowed her head and smiled back.

      “The quadrille,” she said. “Now, if you will excuse me, Captain des Louveteaux, I must…see to something.”

      So saying, she snapped her fan shut and plunged into the crowd, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and Alfonse.

      * * * *

      Shaking with anger at Alfonse’s presumptuous treatment, Babette stole away from the ball and took the servants’ passage down into the kitchens. Father would be cross with her for leaving, but she could tolerate his anger. What she could not tolerate any longer was Alfonse. Five minutes with the man was worse than hours of her father’s fussing.

      Alfonse was simply so intolerably arrogant! And boorish as well. And to think that Father actually held the man in high regard! Like the rest of his family, Alfonse was an insult to Frenchmen everywhere, that much was clear.

      Babette stole a bowl of strawberries when the kitchen staff was not looking and settled in by the outside door to enjoy the cool breeze blowing in from the grounds. The ballroom had been extremely stuffy.

      As she savored the taste of the berries, thinking about the strange events of the past hour, Babette heard someone approach her from behind. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see one of the servants. Instead, she saw Korbinian striding along the corridor with a devilish grin upon his lips. Babette felt her heart leap with excitement at the sight of him, and she quickly looked away to conceal her delight.

      “Good evening, Baron,” she said. “I am surprised to see you down here among the common people.”

      “Nonsense,” Korbinian said. “Here are only you and I, and there is nothing common about either of us. Clearly this is where the ball ought to be, and the company upstairs is simply too parochial to realize it.”

      “How very astute of you,” Babette said. “But tell me, what brings you here? This is quite a coincidence, surely.”

      Korbinian thought about her words for a moment, as if trying to discover some hidden meaning.

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