The Mysticke Krewe of Theseus

This is, without a doubt, the dullest party of the year.” Charles Robichaux, standing on the edge of the dimly lit back garden of the American District house, regarded the gathering disapprovingly.

            “This is not a ‘party,’” Jean-Marc Trenier replied, casually lighting his cheroot.

            “Where is du Reine?” Robichaux asked. “Would he even notice if we left?”

            Trenier puffed on his cheroot, considering. Du Reine had disappeared after his current flirtation as soon as they had arrived. That was the whole reason they were wasting the evening at this dull event to begin with, because du Reine fancied himself in love again.

            “He won’t notice,” Robichaux decided, answering his own question. He pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, tipped it toward the Japanese lanterns.

            Trenier knocked some ash off of his cheroot idly, and then abruptly stilled. A woman had walked out onto the terrace. Dressed entirely in white. She stood out sharply, distinctly, compellingly.

            “Let’s go.” Beside him, he vaguely heard Robichaux snap his watch shut. “If we hurry, we can still get to Storyville at a decent hour.”

            Trenier did not reply. He could not reply. He really wasn’t comprehending the words. He was watching the woman in white on the terrace. Who was that woman? He was quite sure he’d never seen this particular woman before. He surely would have remembered such a…such a…

            Robichaux frowned at his suddenly unresponsive friend. “Trenier.”

            “Who is that woman?” Trenier asked, without taking his eyes off her. “Do you know?”

            “Which woman?” Robichaux looked off toward the terrace, trying to seek what had caught Trenier’s eye.

            “The one all in white.”

            Robichaux picked her out, shrugged. “I don’t know who she is.”

            “Find du Reine,” said Trenier.

            Robichaux looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

            “Find du Reine. He knows the American women. He’ll know this one.”

            Robichaux, momentarily robbed of the ability to speak, looked from Trenier to the woman in white and back again. “What?” he exclaimed, because this was extraordinarily unlike Trenier. Very like du Reine, to become fixated by a silhouette. Very unlike Trenier, who had had the same mistress since Robichaux had known him. Who had never even courted any woman.

            Trenier finally tore his eyes away from the woman, looking impatiently at Robichaux, remembering the cheroot that had been burning uselessly in his hand and lifting it up to puff at it. “I need an introduction. Who is it that we know here who could get me an introduction?”

            “Come.” Raoul du Reine came walking up quickly, adjusting his collar as he came.

            “Du Reine,” said Robichaux, in obvious relief. Maybe du Reine would talk some sense into Trenier.

            “Let’s go,” said du Reine. “I was very nearly just caught in a compromising situation, and I think my assignation’s father is considering throwing me out by the scruff of my neck. So let’s-”

            “Who is that woman, du Reine?” Trenier cut him off, impatiently.

            “Who?” du Reine asked, blankly. “Who are you talking about?”

            “The woman in white. On the terrace.”

            Du Reine turned, looked. “Oh. Clara Tucker,” he answered, nonchalantly.

            Clara Tucker. The name resonated through his head as if someone had just rung a deep bell inside of him. “Do you know her?” he asked, focused on her figure again. “Can you introduce me?”

            Du Reine looked from Trenier to Clara Tucker. “Oh, bad luck, Trenier. She’s betrothed. To Randolph Perkins.”

            “Perkins?” Trenier echoed. “She is betrothed to Perkins? Are her parents mad? He’s killed three wives already.”

            “His wives died of yellow fever.”

            “Yes, his plantation is a veritable trap. Where has she come from? Why have I never seen her before?”

            “She’s from New York. Perkins went to New York wife-hunting and came back with that. Makes you think we should all be going to New York wife-hunting, doesn’t it?”

            Trenier didn’t answer. Trenier didn’t hear him. The woman in white had turned her head toward him. All the meager light in the garden seemed to have collected in her eyes. They gleamed at him, and she stood stark still for a long moment, looking at him across the garden.

            Then another woman walked over to her, between them, breaking their gaze, leading her away. She cast another glance at him over her shoulder, before disappearing into the house.

            “Trenier?” du Reine asked, curiously, glancing at Robichaux, who shook his head helplessly.

            “Perkins,” Trenier muttered, and shook his head in disbelief. There really was no accounting for a woman’s taste, he decided.