(Previously, as the debauchery got steamier in Kot's party, I spotted Darce for the first time)

Well, we didn’t share numbers, and the masks stayed on the entire time.

Retreating, she held my gaze as I walked up the stairs and turned into the hallway when I reached the landing. Following her, we left the debauchery behind and stepped into one of the smoking rooms upstairs.

Stepping into the candlelit red room, I couldn’t help but chuckle in awe. A red Persian rug with intricate gold patterns, along the edges, covered the floor of the lounge, where red leather sofa sets were arranged around a wooden table.

Further beyond the threshold, sat a prominent concert piano in a circle of wooden chairs and tables. Candles flickered along the wooded walls, polished to a sheen, and from the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

A bookshelf covered the furthest wall, filled with trade cloth books.

“You play?” she asked, already halfway to the bench.

“I listen,” I said, watching her fingers hover over the keys.

On the table was a bowl with smoking accessories and a sheesha pot beside it. As she stepped over the threshold to the piano, I walked to the table, plucked a rolling paper, and picked a pouch.

I had to admit, Kot did know how to party.

I didn’t know what to say as I walked up to her, seated on the piano bench, 

“Do you play?” I blurted, putting my glass on one of the tables and taking a chair as I tore the pouch to roll the contents.

In reply, a soft stroke was keyed, then another and another.

I paused from the task at hand to listen. Lara Price’s Crazy, was the tune.

Softly and delicately, she stroked as I lit a match, pulled and blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling. She didn’t sing, but I could feel the restraint of emotion echoing in the strokes.

Her bare shoulders were etched with the flow of symphony and seemed to shimmer in vibration to the tune. I blew another ring and got up from the chair. Walking up to her, I offered her the smoke.

“Beautiful,” I mumbled.

Pausing, she looked up at me as if contemplating her next move. I held out, the smoke rising to shroud the suspense in the moment.

She reached out in gloved hands, took a long draw, dabbed ash in the convenient tray on the piano, and passed it back. She then walked to the bookshelf and stood browsing.

She then reached up to grab a book from the top shelf, too high. I was already behind her, one hand steadying her waist without a word.

"I’ve got it," she said, but didn’t move.

“So do I,” I murmured, turning her around. Her hair smelled gentle, and disarming, like crushed petals, jasmine, or maybe lavender.

Deliberately, unmistakably slow, I brushed her fingers as I grabbed the book to read the title.

“A Curious History of Sex, by Kate Lister,” it read.

“Do you always reach out for dangerous ones?” I asked.

We were too close, I could see the brown in her eyes, with flecks of gold behind the mask.

The silence had shifted. Charged, the air felt. But she didn’t step back.

Neither did I.