“Where are my shoes?” Kingsley asked. He’d had enough.

“In the bathroom. Why do you need your shoes?” Polly asked.

“Because once they’re on, I’m going to jump off the balcony, run across the courtyard, scale the wall and run to the nearest village,” he said. “Or into the nearest body of water to drown myself.”

“You don’t have to scale the wall. The gate’s unlocked during the day,” Polly said. “But you really should stay. You’ll miss the party.”

“I’m not getting married. Hard limit.”

“It’s all for show, Kingsley,” Polly said in a conciliatory tone. “It’s not real. Just, you know, pantomime. Symbolic.”

He dropped his head back and groaned. “Why does no one ever tell me the important part first?” Kingsley asked the ceiling, the sky, God, as his pulse slowly returned to normal.

“Because you’re so handsome when you squirm,” she said, patting his cheek. “Now behave yourself. I’m here to dress you.”

“I’d rather you undress me.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do that first.”

Polly gathered his t-shirt in her hands and pulled it up and off of him. He couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this insanity.

“Pantomime, how French,” he said. “Please don’t make me wear a clown nose.”

“Never,” she said. “Unless Madame orders it.”

“That’s it. Goodbye.”

Kingsley took one step, but Polly caught him by the arm and he let her drag her into the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later the result was…

“There are two types of handsome men in the world,” Polly said. “Those who think they’re God’s gift to women.”

“And?”

She kissed his cheek and turned him to the mirror. “Those who actually are God’s gift to women.”

Kingsley surveyed himself. The suit was a classic evening tailcoat tuxedo. Black trousers, black coat, white vest, white collar and cuffs, and a white bow tie. He looked like a young count on his way to the opera.

Or a young count on his way to his wedding.

Not bad. Not what he’d ever get married in. Not that he would ever get married. But if he did get married, he’d wear his dress uniform. If he could find it…

He tried to run a hand through his hair, but Polly stopped him.

“It’s perfect. Don’t touch it.”

“Fine,” he said. “Can we go now? I’ve been cooped up in here all day. I’m bored. I’m horny. And I need a drink. And I’m horny.”

“You already—”

“I’m very horny.”

The kiss went on just long enough he thought it might lead somewhere. Then she stopped. “Kingsley.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He said nothing, though it wasn’t easy.

“Good boy,” she said. “I have to get ready. Someone will come for you soon.”

She started to leave him and then she turned back at the door and smiled at him. “You’ll have fun tonight,” she said. “I promise.”

“I want to believe you.”

She smiled. “Do you really want to leave? If you do, you can go. I’ll have a driver take you back to Paris right now.”

He believed her. If he asked to leave, she would make sure he was in a car in ten minutes. He’d already talked to the colonel’s nephew. The boy didn’t seem to be in distress at all—far from it, in fact. Why not leave? Because he didn’t want to, that’s why. He told himself he was “information-gathering.” Sure. That sounded like a good enough excuse.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “If only to meet this mysterious Colette.”

“Oh, you’ll do more than meet her,” Polly said. “You know what happens after a wedding, right?”

“A reception?”

Polly winked. “The wedding night.”

After Polly left, Kingsley paced the room like a caged lion. He only stopped when he realized that was the sort of thing a real groom would be doing. Pantomime? Really? A play ceremony? Insane. But he’d done stranger things for this job before. There were certainly worse ways of earning a living than getting dressed up and fucking girls at parties.

As Polly had promised him, it wasn’t long before someone came to fetch him. It was Leon, also in a tuxedo.

“Are you my groomsman?” Kingsley asked, looking him up and down.

“You don’t look happy. If you knew Colette, you’d look happy.”

“I don’t know Colette, but I’m already sick of her. I’m annoyed Madame is putting me through this stupidity.”

“I told you they fuck with you here,” Leon said. “Didn’t I? They fuck with all of us all the time.”

“Then why do you want to stay?”

Leon looked at him like he was crazy. “Everyone fucks with everyone all the time. Might as well get fucked with by beautiful women who let you fuck them after. Really, what’s there to complain about?”

Kingsley shook his finger at the boy. “You make a point.”

Leon waved Kingsley into the hallway, which had been transformed during the day from a decorous passageway into a gauntlet of ornate paper lanterns on every table surrounded by hot house flowers. Orchids and irises and winter roses overflowed from gilt vases. The stair railing was also decorated with flowers and lights and emanating from the walls of the house was the low hum of music playing somewhere. Kingsley couldn’t help but stare agog at the transformation the château had undergone. Holly hung from the ceiling and tall white candles glowed in the mirrors.

“How decadent,” Kingsley said, trying to fight off the spell the house was putting him under. His heart was racing with anticipation, excitement, and nervousness. When he passed under a hanging garland of roses, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t actually getting married.

“Maybe so,” Leon said. “But Madame likes to indulge her favorites.”

“Am I a favorite already?”

“I meant Colette.”

Before Kingsley could respond something to the effect of Fuck Colette, Leon ushered him through a set of heavy wooden double doors. They entered a glittering ballroom, the sort Kingsley had only seen in films from the thirties. Once he entered the room, exuberant applause erupted from the assembly. Polly had said there were nine men in the house and ten women, but Kingsley counted at least forty people in the ballroom, all in various costumes. Louis XV ball gowns on some of the women. Nineteenth century breeches and boots on several of the men. But some were wearing contemporary formalwear. Some were wearing almost nothing at all. One woman, resplendent in her white powdered wig, had on a pale peach dress so sheer and tight that he could see the freckle on her delectable bare posterior as she passed him by.

“Who are all these people?” Kingsley asked Leon as they were both greeted with kisses on their cheeks by the delighted—and likely inebriated—crowd.

“Friends of Madame.” Leon grabbed two glasses of red wine off a passing server’s tray and handed one to Kingsley, who downed half of it in three swallows.

“That’s Henri and Jean-Michel,” Leon said, pointing to two men—one white and one black, both wearing formal tuxedos but without the tails.

“Henri is Madame’s driver?” Kingsley asked.

“Right. And he does everything else for her. He’s been here with her for fifteen years. Jean-Michel’s mother is Senegalese. He’s been here ever since he graduated from the Sorbonne. Five years here, I think. Polly’s favorite. But don’t tell. They’re not supposed to have favorites.”

“Hmm…” was all Kingsley said. Kingsley wanted to be Polly’s favorite.

“That’s Nadine and Jacques,” Leon said, pointing to a pretty pale lady in a blue velvet Empire-waist gown.

“I know Jacques. We’re old friends now,” Kingsley said, smiling at the little baby boy in the blue velvet suit. Jacques had a white ruff around his neck like a seventeenth-century prince. Jacques was getting cuddles and goodnight kisses from a few people in the crowd. Must be his bedtime.

Leon pointed out others and named them. Louise, another of the ladies of the château, a woman of about forty with fiercely intelligent eyes looked haughty and marvelous in a Givenchy gown of black. Even that fierce-looking lady couldn’t stop herself from smiling every now and then. And Amal, Leon’s lover from last night brushed past them both without saying a word…though she did give Leon a little wink.

“Isn’t it great here?” Leon asked, beaming. “I don’t care what my father says. I’m never leaving.”

Kingsley eyed Leon. The young man was a puzzle. He thought about that American phrase he’d learned long ago, the one about drinking the Kool-Aid. Leon had clearly drunk the Kool-Aid. He hadn’t even asked Kingsley how his family was, or if his mother had sent a message. Brand new cult members were like happy brides on their honeymoons. Everything was perfect. Everything was a dream come true. Nothing was wrong. Everything was right. True love prevailed and would last forever.

The room they stood in was octagonal, with gray marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows all around. Outside everything was white with snow—trees and shrubs and statues. Lanterns hung from the rafters, and it seemed the entire party glowed with their light. The string sextet he’d heard echoing through the house sat on a dais playing lively waltzes. Not all the men were handsome and not all the women were beautiful, but every last one of them glowed like they were lit from within by wine and song. It was joie de vivre if he’d ever seen it and even Kingsley’s lingering suspicions began to wither under the light.

The crowd parted, and Kingsley spied lovely Polly coming to him. Her low-cut red dress was adorned with so many sequins that he could hardly tell the outline of her as she shimmered like a mirage in the desert.

“Magnifique,” he said to her as she reached for his hands and kissed both his cheeks.

“You like my dress?”

“I meant your breasts.”

Polly laughed, and he joined her in her laughter.

“Merci.” Polly grinned, her face flushed with happiness. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“If I was I wouldn’t admit to it,” he said. But he smiled when he said it.

“It’s about to be more fun.”

She nodded toward the center of the small ballroom and there stood Madame looking both blithe and lithe in her black double-breasted tuxedo dress, her white hair expertly coiffed in a low knot that gave her a sleek androgynous silhouette. She was a slight woman, but there was no denying she held the gathered in her thrall. The wine flowed and the music played and the partygoers danced and laughed and kissed, but the moment Madame raised one thin arm into the air and snapped her fingers…

Silence.

“Bonsoir, mes amis,” she said, as she turned a slow circle to greet all and sundry. “Welcome to Midwinter.”

Everyone applauded and cheered.

“For fifteen years we have held this celebration,” she continued, “on the first full night of the first true snow of the new year. What we honor tonight is life. And what better night to honor life than a night when it is cold and snow covers the land? Life is out there, under the snow, sleeping, yes, and waiting to wake. And life is in here. Warmth in the midst of coldness. Light in the midst of darkness. Beauty in the midst of bitterness. And to rebuke the barrenness of this season, we, as we have for three decades, offer up fresh and fertile young blood.”

“I said no human sacrifice,” Kingsley whispered to Polly. “Hard limit.”

“Hush, it’s symbolic,” she whispered. Kingsley rolled his eyes.

“And so we bring together our Midwinter King,” Madame said, holding out a hand to Kingsley. Polly nudged him and he walked over to her. “And our Midwinter Queen in marriage.”

Leon and Henri opened the double doors. A girl stepped into the hall. She was wearing a Renaissance-style dress of black and gold. Her dark hair fell down her back in rolling waves and her dark eyes danced in the lantern light. She wasn’t more than eighteen or nineteen and she was undoubtedly the loveliest girl he’d seen in his life.

And he would have recognized her in a heartbeat even without the red cap and beauty mark.