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Then the world melted around us.
Rivulets of the past flooded over the present, and the song playing in my mind bloomed from a few simple notes to a full orchestra. What I thought would be a waltz became a quadrille. Dune’s face faded. A masquerade mask replaced it, and the rip world replaced my own.
The eyes behind the satin assess me from head to toe. A cool
expression turns warm as what he sees passes muster. When the time comes to switch partners, he pulls me from formation.
“Cecile?”
I nod.
“You look beautiful. The dress pleases you?”
I nod again and offer a tentative smile.
“I’m going to arrange a meeting with your mother. Does this please you, too?”
“Monsieur Brionne.” My maman interrupts us. She wears a yellow dress of a much brighter shade than my own. Both complementary of our dark hair and skin. My skin and …
… not my skin. I looked down at my fingernails, not recognizing the oval shapes and bitten nails. I didn’t bite my nails.
“May I call upon Cecile tomorrow?” Monsieur Brionne asks my maman. He keeps his hand at my waist, and I know that he doesn’t want to let me go. Something about the way his fingers grip my waist is worrisome; as is the look in his eyes that tells me he hopes I’ll be alone tomorrow when he calls.
“That will be agreeable.” Maman dips her head into a slight bow.
The music begins, slow and disarming, and we step back into the throng of dancers, everyone here is part of the system of plaçage, arranged left-handed marriages of prosperous white men and women of color.
The soft glow of an electric chandelier replaces candlelight, and
the smell of calla lilies perfumes the air as bodies whirl around me.
Monsieur Brionne stops, and I spin out of his arms. The room fades, tilts, and the light changes, going from soft focus to sharp relief.
“A joining of two fine families.” I jump when a man with a shiny, bald head claps me on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t recognize my own voice.
My dress was no longer yellow, but stark white, and my hair fell in blond ringlets below my shoulders. A huge diamond graced my left ring finger, with a gold band below it.
“I’m so happy.”
The words came out of my mouth and not my mouth. The kiss I received landed softly on my cheek and not my cheek.
“No happier than I.”
I knew this man would be gentle, unlike Monsieur Brionne. He looked at me with the same kindness Dune did.
Dune.
“David.” I hold his hand as my new husband guides me across the crowded room. He takes two champagne glasses from a tray, and gives one to me.
“To my bride,” he says. “To Melina.”
“To Melina,” the crowd says in chorus.
Before I could catch my breath, the scene changed again.
