10-26-2025, 10:50 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-26-2025, 11:06 PM by Daphne Du Cadeau.)
The door was steel-framed glass, too modern for the building it had been welded into. Daphne paused just outside, the soft snow drifting into her hair like forget-me-nots. Two women inside laughed over flutes of champagne, their dresses shimmering, their joy loose and careless. The sound of it pressed faintly against her temples.
She exhaled once, slowly, then stepped forward.
Inside, the gallery was warm and loud with music: elegant but just tasteful enough to disguise the excess. The smell of old stone fought with perfume and food wood. Paintings hung in staggered levels beneath high ceilings, some backlit with halos of gold, others hunched in various light-scapes.
A man in black approached, tablet in hand. His gaze flicked over her hair, her gloves, the earrings that had once belonged to her Volthström great-grandmother. He drew breath as if ready to deny her entrance.
“I’m not on the list,” she said, her French accent soft, vowels touched crystal and cool. “But I was told the artist is showing new work. I’m prepared to purchase. If any are for sale.”
She let the silence wait a few moments without being forceful. Just enough time for the man to think of a commission if one existed. He stepped aside.
“Welcome, ma'am.”
She inclined her head once and entered.
She moved like water through the crowd, her silvery-white gown caught the light in spectral flickers. It was neither sequined nor adorned, but perfectly tailored, as if the dress had been sculpted for her by stillness itself. The fabric clung with dignified reserve. She was well accustomed to such attire.
Her skin was pale as porcelain, untouched by the cold outside. Blue eyes peered with curious iciness, intelligent, and faint distance. Her long dark hair had been smoothed and drawn back on one side with a silver pin, leaving the other to fall like polished obsidian over her shoulder. She wore opera-length gloves, pearl white and unwrinkled. Around her throat, only a thin thread of silver chain dangled.
The emotions struck her immediately.
Laughter was like birdsong at the edge of a canyon. Pride billowed from a man boasting about his art collection. Desire, sticky and gold-edged, leaking from a corner where a woman leaned into a man not pretending he hadn’t noticed. And beneath it all: longing, sharp and sudden and foreign issued off of him in return.
She stilled herself. A gallery attendant offered her champagne. She declined with a motion of her hand, fingers straight. Her gloves were lined with silk, but they were like a shield. She did not wish to muddle her mind with alcohol.
She breathed, adjusted her posture, and pressed on.
She saw the painting halfway through the adjacent gallery.
It was not the largest, nor the loudest, but abstract in form and framed in a way that set it slightly apart. Perhaps it was intentional. A soft shape washed in pale grey and bloodred tones. The composition drew her study, but there was a simple nameplate on the display: Araminta Rosewood.
A voice to her right stole her attention.
“That's one of the artists' earliest works. She never sold it despite fabulous offers."
Daphne turned. A man stood beside her. He felt of curiosity, and something fuzzy that she assumed was the effects of the prosecco in his hand. He wore a fashionable blazer with a pin shaped like a magnolia leaf on his lapel. His smile was loose but not unkind.
She offered a polite smile, hoping it would draw out his curiosity.
“I would like to speak with the artist.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, Minty is around somewhere."
Daphne studied him a moment, her senses sweeping through the warmth of his mood. Minty? Her gaze connected the nickname with that on the display plate.
“Does Ms. Rosewood own the gallery too?"
That paused him. His brow furrowed faintly, then smoothed. “Of course. How do you not know that?" He chuckled and wandered away.
Her Wallet buzzed. She stepped aside and glanced at it.
MOTHER: Daphne. There is rumor of a border lockdown that begins at 4:00 a.m. your time. You cannot risk it. We will send a car.
She exhaled through her nose and typed quickly.
DAPHNE: Those rumors have been incorrigible. I'm sure nothing of the sort will happen.
Another message appeared instantly.
MOTHER: Do you want to sit in customs for hours? Have you the faintest idea how awful that will be?
She didn't need her sixth sense to imagine her mother's frustration. She silenced the phone, but not before doing a quick search for Araminta Rosewood.
The music swelled. From a corner near of the gallery a violinist had begun to play. A live quartet was now blending into the crowd’s crescendo. Laughter rose. Talking gained momentum. Excitement filled the room. The countdown was soon to begin.
She exhaled once, slowly, then stepped forward.
Inside, the gallery was warm and loud with music: elegant but just tasteful enough to disguise the excess. The smell of old stone fought with perfume and food wood. Paintings hung in staggered levels beneath high ceilings, some backlit with halos of gold, others hunched in various light-scapes.
A man in black approached, tablet in hand. His gaze flicked over her hair, her gloves, the earrings that had once belonged to her Volthström great-grandmother. He drew breath as if ready to deny her entrance.
“I’m not on the list,” she said, her French accent soft, vowels touched crystal and cool. “But I was told the artist is showing new work. I’m prepared to purchase. If any are for sale.”
She let the silence wait a few moments without being forceful. Just enough time for the man to think of a commission if one existed. He stepped aside.
“Welcome, ma'am.”
She inclined her head once and entered.
She moved like water through the crowd, her silvery-white gown caught the light in spectral flickers. It was neither sequined nor adorned, but perfectly tailored, as if the dress had been sculpted for her by stillness itself. The fabric clung with dignified reserve. She was well accustomed to such attire.
Her skin was pale as porcelain, untouched by the cold outside. Blue eyes peered with curious iciness, intelligent, and faint distance. Her long dark hair had been smoothed and drawn back on one side with a silver pin, leaving the other to fall like polished obsidian over her shoulder. She wore opera-length gloves, pearl white and unwrinkled. Around her throat, only a thin thread of silver chain dangled.
The emotions struck her immediately.
Laughter was like birdsong at the edge of a canyon. Pride billowed from a man boasting about his art collection. Desire, sticky and gold-edged, leaking from a corner where a woman leaned into a man not pretending he hadn’t noticed. And beneath it all: longing, sharp and sudden and foreign issued off of him in return.
She stilled herself. A gallery attendant offered her champagne. She declined with a motion of her hand, fingers straight. Her gloves were lined with silk, but they were like a shield. She did not wish to muddle her mind with alcohol.
She breathed, adjusted her posture, and pressed on.
She saw the painting halfway through the adjacent gallery.
It was not the largest, nor the loudest, but abstract in form and framed in a way that set it slightly apart. Perhaps it was intentional. A soft shape washed in pale grey and bloodred tones. The composition drew her study, but there was a simple nameplate on the display: Araminta Rosewood.
A voice to her right stole her attention.
“That's one of the artists' earliest works. She never sold it despite fabulous offers."
Daphne turned. A man stood beside her. He felt of curiosity, and something fuzzy that she assumed was the effects of the prosecco in his hand. He wore a fashionable blazer with a pin shaped like a magnolia leaf on his lapel. His smile was loose but not unkind.
She offered a polite smile, hoping it would draw out his curiosity.
“I would like to speak with the artist.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, Minty is around somewhere."
Daphne studied him a moment, her senses sweeping through the warmth of his mood. Minty? Her gaze connected the nickname with that on the display plate.
“Does Ms. Rosewood own the gallery too?"
That paused him. His brow furrowed faintly, then smoothed. “Of course. How do you not know that?" He chuckled and wandered away.
Her Wallet buzzed. She stepped aside and glanced at it.
MOTHER: Daphne. There is rumor of a border lockdown that begins at 4:00 a.m. your time. You cannot risk it. We will send a car.
She exhaled through her nose and typed quickly.
DAPHNE: Those rumors have been incorrigible. I'm sure nothing of the sort will happen.
Another message appeared instantly.
MOTHER: Do you want to sit in customs for hours? Have you the faintest idea how awful that will be?
She didn't need her sixth sense to imagine her mother's frustration. She silenced the phone, but not before doing a quick search for Araminta Rosewood.
The music swelled. From a corner near of the gallery a violinist had begun to play. A live quartet was now blending into the crowd’s crescendo. Laughter rose. Talking gained momentum. Excitement filled the room. The countdown was soon to begin.
![[Image: Daphne-sig-updated.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Daphne-sig-updated.jpg)