On the twelfth night
Of the twelfth month,
Nocturna opens her doors
To all members
For the Annual Dinner Dance.
The biggest night of the year.
They eat,
Drink,
Dance,
And make merry,
Entertained by a variety
Of extraordinary acts.
The date itself
Is significant at the club.
Numerology enthusiasts
See twelve-twelve
As a symbolic date of balance,
Completion,
And spiritual energy.
The club botanists
Celebrate the occasion
By creating
Breathtaking displays
Of poinsettia.
While club folklorists
Employ bakers
To construct
An elaborate
Gingerbread room.
Not a house.
A room.
An entire room.
With gingerbread walls,
Sugar-glass windows,
Marzipan furniture,
And a fireplace
Made entirely
From chocolate.
Members are repeatedly
Reminded not to eat
The architecture
Before midnight.
Few listen.
For eleven months
Of every year,
The great doors
At the end of Nocturna’s
Eastern corridor
Remain locked.
But tonight,
They open.
Beyond them,
The Nocturna Grand Ballroom
Comes to life.
Thousands of tiny lights
Glitter overhead.
Crystal chandeliers
Cast golden reflections
Across polished floors.
Great arrangements
Of crimson poinsettia
Cascade from balconies,
Columns,
Mantelpieces,
And staircases.
The botanical displays
Have been curated
By Nocturna’s Botanic Group,
Under the formidable
Direction
Of Madame Akiko Tsukishiro.
Naturally,
Mr Masaru Endō
Has spent
The previous three days
Carrying pots,
Moving pots,
Returning pots to their original positions,
And moving them again
When Madame Tsukishiro
Decided they had been correct
The first time.
Tonight,
Even Masaru must admit
The result
Is magnificent.
Red leaves rise in great waves
Around the ballroom,
Interwoven
With ivy,
Winter roses,
Hemlock,
Holly,
And silver branches.
Madame Tsukishiro
Surveys her creation.
Masaru stands beside her.
Exhausted.
“Beautiful.”
He says.
“Of course it is.”
And with that,
Madame Tsukishiro
Walks away.
Masaru sighs.
Throughout the club,
Every room is alive.
Members occupy their usual booths.
Collectors trade.
Scholars argue.
Artists sketch.
Botanists exchange cuttings and seeds.
Entomologists compare specimens.
Folklorists swap impossible stories.
Explorers unfold maps of places
That may or may not exist.
In the Smoking Gallery,
Rare cigars are exchanged
For rarer tobaccos.
In the Curio rooms,
Cabinets are opened
And peculiar objects Change hands.
At the bar,
Edgar Brillows
Attempts to remember
Forty-seven drinks at once.
Mabel Cobb
Moves quietly between tables,
Serving tea with her customary
Unhurried precision.
Gideon Rook
Seems somehow
To be everywhere.
Daniel Hargraves
Guards the entrance.
And Marcel Carreau,
Manager,
Host,
Observer,
And occasional instigator,
Watches everything
From his favourite
Observation point.
He is thoroughly delighted.
This year’s entertainment
Begins with ‘The Sisters Pike’.
Cellist and vocalist Euphemia Pike,
Accompanied by her sister,
Violinist Minerva Pike.
The sisters take their places.
Euphemia raises her bow.
Minerva follows.
And the ballroom
Falls silent.
The first note is low.
Rich.
Beautiful.
The second answers it.
Then,
Together,
Cello and violin fill Nocturna
With a sweeping midnight waltz.
Couples take to the floor.
Latty Flouse offers her hand
To Oleg Bloom.
Oleg looks at it.
Then at Latty.
“Do you dance?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Excellent.”
And away they go.
Badly.
But enthusiastically.
Henry Boudreaux,
Towering above
Almost everyone,
Takes the tiny hand
Of his beloved
Belladonna “Ding Dong” Moreau.
She barely reaches
His chest.
He bows.
She curtsies.
And somehow,
They dance beautifully.
Around them,
Others join.
Adelaide Thorne accepts the hand
Of Malcolm Coldbottom.
Malcolm,
Usually far more comfortable
With books than women,
Looks terrified.
“You do know how to waltz?”
Adelaide asks.
“In theory.”
She smiles.
“Then tonight we test the theory.”
And off they go.
Near one wall,
Silvania Crumb
Stands beside Beatrix Ashleaf.
Neither has asked the other
To dance.
Both appear very interested
In watching everyone else.
Beatrix clears her throat.
“Seems a shame
To waste a good waltz.”
“Indeed.”
Silvania replies.
Silence.
Beatrix looks at Silvania.
Silvania looks at Beatrix.
“Would you,
They both begin.
Both stop.
Beatrix laughs.
Silvania smiles.
Then simply offers her hand.
Beatrix takes it.
No announcement.
No explanation.
They walk onto the floor.
From a nearby table,
Seamus Draker notices.
He smiles into his drink.
Again,
He wisely says nothing.
And then,
Something rather remarkable
Occurs.
Jasper Cricklebone
And Edith Dustmore
Find themselves
Standing beside one another.
Neither speaks.
Jasper looks at the dancers.
Edith looks at Jasper.
“Well?”
She says.
“Well what?”
“Are you going to ask me?”
Jasper blinks.
“I…”
Edith waits.
Jasper gathers whatever courage
He possesses.
“Ms Dustmore…
Would you care to dance?”
Edith smiles.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
And finally,
After what seems
To everyone
Like several lifetimes,
Jasper Cricklebone and Edith Dustmore
Step onto the dance floor.
There are smiles throughout the room.
Even Marcel Carreau
Looks genuinely touched.
“Finally.”
He whispers.
The Sisters Pike
Finish their waltz
To tremendous applause.
Then the lights
Dim.
Leon Morrow takes his place
At the piano.
His sister Lenore,
Steps into the light.
Her voice begins softly.
Low.
Warm.
Sultry.
A song for dancing
Very close.
Couples return
To the floor.
But there is one small problem.
For much of the performance,
Lenore Morrow
Appears to be singing
Directly to Edgar Brillows.
Edgar notices.
Unfortunately,
So does
Everyone else.
He attempts to concentrate
On polishing a glass.
Lenore continues.
Her eyes never leave him.
Edgar selects another glass.
It does not need polishing.
He polishes it anyway.
Gideon Rook
Appears beside him.
“Interesting.”
“Go away.”
Edgar mutters.
Gideon smiles.
Near the entrance,
Rosie Winterbloom
Approaches Daniel Hargraves.
Daniel sees her.
Then looks towards Marcel.
“No.”
He says.
Marcel blinks.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“I know that look.”
“What look?”
“That look.”
Rosie smiles.
“Daniel…”
“No.”
She takes his hand.
“One dance.”
“I’m working.”
From across the room,
Marcel calls,
“Monsieur Hargraves!”
Daniel closes his eyes.
“Absolutely not.”
“You are relieved
Of duty for precisely
One dance.”
The ballroom laughs.
Daniel stares at his manager.
Gideon Rook
Is already approaching
The entrance.
“I’ll cover the door.”
He says.
Daniel sighs.
Rosie tugs his enormous hand.
“Come along.”
And once again,
The great guardian of Nocturna
Is dragged onto the dance floor.
Marcel beams.
Gideon watches them go.
“You enjoy this far too much.”
“Oui.”
Then comes
The Amazing Septimus Vane.
Magician.
Mesmerist.
Mystic.
Or,
According to Arthur Coldbottom,
“A very clever fellow
With excellent sleeves.”
Beside him stands his beautiful
Assistant,
Miss Dahlia Veil.
The performance
Begins with cards.
Rings.
Fire.
Flowers.
A dove that appears
From somewhere
Inside Malcolm Coldbottom’s
Jacket.
Malcolm is extremely concerned
By this.
But then,
Septimus announces
A demonstration of mesmerism.
“I require a volunteer.”
Every hand in the ballroom
Immediately points
Towards
Henley Marcus-Walker.
Henley looks around.
“What?”
The ballroom erupts.
By this stage,
Henley has enjoyed
A considerable amount
Of Nocturna’s hospitality.
He has spent most of the evening
Warning members
About crocodiles
Beneath the tables.
He has shouted
“What?”
At least thirty-seven times.
He has farted on four occasions
And blamed each upon
“Those damn Guenon monkeys.”
And he has winked repeatedly
At Daniel Hargraves.
Daniel has ignored
Every single one.
Henley is escorted onto the stage.
“What?”
Septimus smiles.
“Mr Marcus-Walker,
I want you to relax.”
“What?”
“Look into my eyes.”
“What?”
“Listen only to my voice.”
“What?”
Septimus produces
A small silver pendulum.
It swings.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Henley watches.
The ballroom falls silent.
Septimus snaps his fingers.
Henley freezes.
Then,
Slowly,
Straightens.
He adjusts his waistcoat.
Smooths his hair.
And looks around the ballroom.
“Good evening,
Ladies and gentlemen.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Marcel Carreau’s
Mouth falls open.
Daniel Hargraves
Looks horrified.
Henley bows
To Madame Tsukishiro.
“Madame,
May I say
Your botanical displays
Are exquisite.”
Madame Tsukishiro
Stares at him.
“What?”
The ballroom explodes
With laughter.
Henley spends
The following hours
As a perfect gentleman.
Courteous.
Quiet.
Sophisticated.
He apologises
When interrupting.
He discusses literature
With Arthur Coldbottom.
He compliments
Mabel Cobb upon her tea.
He thanks Edgar Brillows
After every drink.
And not once does he mention
A crocodile.
Everyone agrees
It is deeply unsettling.
Then Belladonna Moreau
Appears.
She is carrying
Something.
Something with fur.
Silvania sees it first.
“Oh no.”
Ding Dong
Approaches Henley
With enormous pride.
“Mr Marcus-Walker!”
Henley turns.
“Ms Moreau.
Good evening.”
“I made something
For you.”
She presents a beautifully mounted,
Taxidermied monkey.
Henley examines it.
“Extraordinary.”
Ding Dong smiles.
“It’s a
Moustached Guenon monkey.”
Henley’s eyes suddenly widen.
His entire body jerks.
“What?”
Ding Dong blinks.
“Moustached Guenon monkey.”
“WHAAAT?”
Henley leaps
From his chair.
“CROCODILES!”
The ballroom erupts.
Henley points at the taxidermied monkey.
“I KNEW IT!
THE DAMN
GUENON MONKEYS!”
Ding Dong
Laughs so hard
She almost drops
The specimen.
Henley turns towards Daniel.
Winks.
Daniel sighs.
“He’s back.”
Then,
At precisely eleven o’clock,
The doors
Of the Grand Dining Room
Open.
Gordon Chumwith
Appears.
The great gourmand
Raises both hands.
“Ladies!
Gentlemen!
Friends!
Gluttons!
Welcome…
To the FIRE FEAST!”
The doors swing wide.
And beyond them
Waits an extravaganza.
Nocturna’s chef,
Cedric Wintervale,
Has spent weeks
Preparing the feast.
But the ingredients
Have come
From everywhere.
From Nocturna’s
Own members.
Wild mushrooms
Provided by Oleg Bloom
And Latty Flouse.
Rare herbs supplied
By Rosie Winterbloom.
Honey
From Brian Darrow’s
Finest hives.
Edible flowers
Selected under the supervision
Of Madame Tsukishiro.
Exotic spices
Brought home
By travellers
And explorers.
Rare teas
Selected By Mason Grey.
Preserved fruits
From forgotten orchards.
Winter vegetables
From private gardens.
And several ingredients
That Cedric Wintervale
Refuses to identify.
The Fire Feast begins.
Great platters
Of flame-roasted meats
Arrive under silver domes.
Wild mushroom pies
Steam inside black pastry.
Honey-glazed
Root vegetables
Shimmer
Beneath candlelight.
Herb-crusted fish
Is presented upon beds
Of smoking salt.
There are spiced game birds.
Fire-roasted pears.
Blackberry reductions.
Saffron breads.
Truffle potatoes.
Winter soups
Served inside
Tiny hollowed pumpkins.
Cheeses
Wrapped in leaves
And warmed
Beside the fire.
And an enormous
Poinsettia-inspired dessert,
Entirely edible,
Created from
Dark chocolate,
Raspberry,
Rose,
And spun sugar.
Gordon Chumwith
Moves from dish to dish,
Explaining,
Celebrating,
And occasionally
Simply closing his eyes
In reverence.
Cedric Wintervale
Emerges from the kitchen.
The room rises in applause.
The chef bows.
Then immediately
Returns to his kitchen
Because something
Is apparently on fire.
Nobody
Seems concerned.
After midnight,
The ballroom lives again.
Cigars appear.
Champagne flows.
Tea is poured.
Deals are made in booths.
New projects are conceived.
Old arguments are resumed.
Collectors trade treasures.
Writers exchange stories.
Painters sketch faces.
Naturalists compare
Findings.
Musicians play
Whatever they feel like playing.
People dance
With partners.
With friends.
With strangers.
And sometimes
With people they have secretly
Wanted to dance with
For years.
Nocturna,
For one night,
Becomes not merely
A club.
But a world
Entirely unto itself.
Near two
In the morning,
The Amazing Septimus Vane
Returns for his final illusion.
Dahlia Veil
Steps into
A tall cabinet.
Septimus closes
The doors.
He raises his hands.
A flash.
Smoke.
The doors are opened.
Empty.
The crowd applauds.
Then someone screams.
Not in fear.
In delight.
Every head turns.
At his customary
Observation point,
Marcel Carreau
Is standing beside
Dahlia Veil.
Marcel looks at her.
Then at Septimus.
Then back at Dahlia.
“Bonsoir…”
He manages.
Dahlia smiles.
For months,
Perhaps longer,
The magician’s assistant
Has carried a secret affection
For the Frenchman.
Tonight,
Apparently,
She has decided
Secrets are overrated.
She takes Marcel
By the lapels.
And kisses him.
Not politely.
Not briefly.
But with a long,
Passionate kiss
That leaves the manager
Completely incapable
Of managing anything.
The ballroom explodes.
Cheers.
Laughter.
Applause.
Someone whistles.
Gideon Rook
Nearly doubles over laughing.
Edgar Brillows pounds
The bar.
Daniel Hargraves
Calls from the entrance,
“Need me to cover for you,
Mr Carreau?”
More laughter.
Dahlia finally releases Marcel.
The Frenchman
Stares at her.
Speechless.
Septimus Vane bows deeply
From the stage.
“My finest
Disappearing act
Of the evening.”
Marcel points at him.
“You…”
But he can think
Of nothing else to say.
Dahlia kisses his cheek.
Marcel immediately
Forgets why he was angry.
The hours roll onwards.
The Sisters Pike
Play again.
Leon Morrow eventually leaves
His piano.
Lenore finally
Gets Edgar Brillows
To stop polishing glasses
Long enough to share
A drink.
Daniel and Rosie disappear
Into the courtyard for a while.
Silvania and Beatrix are found
In a quiet booth,
Sharing the final Widowleaf cigar
And talking far more softly
Than either usually does.
Henry and Ding Dong
Dance again.
Adelaide and Malcolm
Continue testing his theoretical
Knowledge of waltzing.
Jasper and Edith
Are still together.
Latty and Oleg
Have abandoned
Any recognisable
Form of dancing
And invented something
Entirely their own.
Henley Marcus-Walker
Is discovered
Standing upon a chair,
Warning everyone
That the gingerbread room
Has become infested
With crocodiles.
Nobody attempts
To hypnotise him
A second time.
Eventually,
Dawn approaches.
One by one,
The members
Take their leave.
Goodbyes
Echo
Through the halls.
Coats are gathered.
Hats retrieved.
Books,
Specimens,
Plants,
Paintings,
And questionable purchases
Are carried
Into the morning.
Madame Tsukishiro
Takes one final walk
Through the poinsettia displays.
She adjusts
A single leaf.
Masaru Endō
Watches.
“Was it a successful evening?”
He asks.
Madame considers the ballroom.
The flowers.
The empty glasses.
The remains of laughter.
“What?”
Masaru smiles.
“Never mind.”
By eight o’clock the next morning,
Nocturna was empty.
The glasses had been gathered.
The chairs returned.
The musicians had gone home.
In the ballroom,
a single black cat slept
beneath the grand piano.
On the twelfth of January,
the lamps would be lit again.
The door would open.
And the Nocturna Club would continue.
For another year.
