tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

WHO: YOU.
WHEN: Valentine’s Day, sundown – 4 a.m.
WHERE:

caughtthebullet estate, the Palace.

And what is a City overrun by Venice flair without its masque?

Come sundown, the overly-lit Palace, suffering under a sea of orchids and a white-and-gold palette, will be welcoming the ladies and gentlemen of our fair City as its guests to this year’s Valentine’s Day ball. Have no fear, the Palace staff has been given notice to help newcomers dock their gondolas!

Should they lack their own, ladies will be served a dance card, white cape and masque upon arrival. Gentlemen without can also be helped find a suitablemask.

Guests will not be introduced by name, but by their choice of pseudonym; instead, they can play the guessing game until masks are formally removed at midnight, giving their time, and maybe their hearts to some hopeful stranger.

jesusing_clown and a cohort of waiters will produce the evening’s treats;

taravata will be attending on any task that calls for strong arms and keen balance;

risetwice’s patisserie will be providing breads, cakes, and the evening’s tort; and

eagleofautozam has promised sweets and candied souvenirs.

The ball’s sponsor and delightful host,

caughtthebullet passes his compliments, and the

sparkling_by puts himself at your service.

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Please, be welcome.

[ooc: up very early, but you know what to do! Thread, threadjack, take advantage of the masks for cute shenanigans, and most of all, have fun! ]

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So far, Ginny has been fairly unlucky in finding friends of hers at this fancy to-do. The masks don't help matters in the slightest, and though the redheaded witch is as fond of dressing up as the next girl, this is just about frustrating. Still, she's managed to find her time occupied with other company, mere acquaintances—and a handful of them young men she met during the curse a few days ago. Nothing more than a few dances, of course, all of which have been recorded on her dance card. Though, she must admit, it's nice to be able to dance without worrying about enchanted wings dragging you across the ballroom floor or into the gilded ceiling. Quite the change from Halloween.

That being said, she's drifting from the dance floor of her own volition this time, seeking out a drink and batting absently at the vibrant twists of hair falling around her lace mask. Quite the uneventful night, so far. She wishes Claire were here. She wonders where her roommate could be, though she can hazard a few guesses. With a soft tut under her breath, Ginny elbows past Finnick Odair in a flutter of white chiffon to get to the array of refreshments and belatedly mumbles her apology.

"Beg pardon."

There's no missing that red hair, even from a distance--and no mistaking that accent, either. Or the fact that Ginny is still short, and he's had more than enough opportunity to watch her, the way she moves, the way she walks, to pick her out of a crowd that way, too.

So he finds himself a stray orchid and turns it in his fingers before sidling up next to her at the refreshment table, offering it to her with ease. "Care to be flowery for the night, redhead?"

Even if she didn't recognise his voice—which she does, of course she does, that tone is all too familiar to her—the words it frames is enough for her to know the identity of the gentleman coming up to her side. Ginny drops one hand to a fluted glass, and with the other, takes the offered flower and tucks it into her hair with a practiced smoothness that speaks of summers spent in flowerbeds. The amused curve of her lips beneath her mask is equally unmistakable as her hair, and the youngest Weasley turns to face Finnick, a laugh already tumbling free with her reply not far behind.

"Just this once, I don't mind," she says, before taking an idle sip of her drink. "How does it look?"

"Not bad," he answers effortlessly. "Or did you mean the flower? I was talking about you in general."

What is it with people making her blush this evening? The heat of it all is just barely under the surface and now it's washing across her cheeks and Ginny has to duck her head a moment, take a quick drink, as if that will cool off the colour any better than just waiting for it to fade.

The redheaded witch smacks lightly at his arm, a helpless grin tugging at her lips as she replies, "As if I needed any more proof that this is Finnick I'm speaking to. Thank you. Good evening, then."

He'd flick her on the nose in retaliation, but she's wearing a mask and far be it from him to risk making it slip now. Masks are interesting to Finnick, and seeing all the people with their identities concealed on the dance floor is doubly so. It's such a Capitol thing to do, hiding their real selves and hoping no one will see through the mystery, giving themselves the brief and fleeting chance to act however they want to for an evening with--in theory, at least--no names attached.

How ironic, then, that everyone else has donned masks for the freedom to be themselves, and Finnick, upon donning one, has been anything but.

"Evening, Ginny. Having fun tonight?" he asks with a smile that's slightly more genuine than most of the ones he's been flashing, his shoulders relaxing slightly beneath his impeccable suit.

His question gets a little shrug of her shoulders, bright brown eyes drifting from his green ones to the busy dance floor beyond. The way a smile still graces her lips says that she's enjoying herself well enough, has spent the night with perfectly fine company, but that it could be better—it's a nostalgia she thinks she has no right to have. After all, she and Harry haven't been anything for technically two years, now. It's just the holiday. The atmosphere. But as frustrating as masks are, there's a kindness to them too, because it's like it allows the redheaded witch a moment longer to gather herself than without the façade.

"I've danced more than I ever have before," is the answer she decides on with the bright flash of a grin, gaze returning to Finnick no more than a few seconds after she looked away. "And since my Halloween was a bit lacking in that, I'd say, yeah, I'm having fun." Something in her smile softens and she cocks her head a fraction, taking a pause to look over him, and then she asks, "And you?"

"Be careful how much you do, or your feet will pay for it tomorrow," he answers, more from repeated experience with women who have said as much than from any personal knowledge of it; the nice thing about having stylists, especially good stylists, is that they knew how to make clothing comfortable as well as fashionable. Which meant he usually never had to sacrifice comfort for the sake of fashion--most of the time, anyway.

"I hear I've broken a few hearts already," he continues with a shrug. "I plan on breaking another dozen or so before the night is out."

"I'm not surprised," Ginny chuckles, making a bit of a show of casting her gaze about the room for a masked figure (no one in particular). "So where's your date, Odair? Am I going to get elbowed out of the way the moment she gets back?"

The mask isn't so obscuring that it hides the cheeky wink she sends his way, all bright Weasley mirth and teasing grins.

"No, she's a hair-puller, not an elbower," he tosses right back, catching that wink and playing right along. "Or she would be, if I had a date tonight."

He doesn't add that if he'd had his intended date, she'd also be a demon with an axe and that he wouldn't put it past her to give a girl a black eye in the bathroom if she wanted that girl's mask instead of her own. Strange to think how he always teased about Johanna as though she were something wild, something feral, when really she's done nothing more heinous than he has; the only difference between them is how much they choose to show of it, and the choices that led them to that level of reveal in the first place.

"Where's yours? It'd help to know which guy I'm trying to make especially jealous tonight," he adds.

"Mine's where he has been for the past year or so," comes the lighthearted quip, just moments before she takes another sip from her glass.

Ginny isn't bitter or even wistful, not really. Though the way she and Harry had gone about things never felt definite, whether it was in their home world or this one, she's gradually realising that for the here and now, at least, there's no waiting or moving forward. They hadn't talked about it here, when they started again. And they'd ended it since the funeral, there; and since his portrait turned up in the Hall, here. Was there even a name for what they were in the City? Even if Ginny never felt it was truly finished, even if she didn't know if he was alive or dead during the year in England. Complicated is the word she'd use.

Maybe that's why she's only ever gone on casual half-dates in the City, always once and never twice, never anything serious. Only a handful. And that handful of names is scribbled on the dance card dangling from her wrist.

"But no, I rode in on a gondola alone tonight," she continues with an easy smile, and then lifts her dance card with a snort of laughter. "D'you think this would be as filled in as it is if I did have a date?"

Edited 2011-02-15 22:14 (UTC)

"Well, I've only been here five months, so I know you're not talking about me," he teases. "Did the guys sing for you when you came in? I tried to get one of them to let me steer it in myself, but they're pretty adamant about their jobs."

He reaches for her dance card and thumbs it open, which might cause her to hold her wrist somewhat awkwardly to keep the ribbon from cutting into her wrist, but Finnick has the benefit of confidence--and to some extent, audacity--on his side, since it's always much easier to get away with things when you act like you know what you're doing. His eyes flicker over the names, and he casts Ginny a knowing glance as he does so. "You're a busy girl, Weasley."

"Sang the whole way over. Very charming," she says in a dramatically dreamy sigh. "But I'm sure you'll tell me you can do better," the witch adds with a gentle nudge to his side.

Ginny raises her arm a little so Finnick can get a better look at her dance card, knowing that this of all things would probably be the best reason to turn as red as her hair—but she doesn't. She just stands there, hip a little cocked and eyes smiling behind her lace mask, the curve of her lips more sheepishly amused than anything else.

"It's the hair," she says with a laugh framing the words. "Attracts attention like a three-legged centaur." Ginny brings up her free hand and traces a fingertip down the dance card, adding, "So, yeah, busy. But not too busy for you, if that's what you're wondering."

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