Stained Glass Kings | ONC2024

i. exordium

Halfway through Rachmaninoff's prelude in g minor, opus 23, no.5, her fingertips are bruised and Divya Mahavant is wondering which of the chandeliers in the piano bar are strong enough to hang herself on.

It is midnight but The Winter Valley Lounge is flickering with finely dressed people and their finely dressed shadows. The bartenders mix delicious poisons at the marble bar-flutes of sparkling strawberry wine, goblets of bubbling absinthe, shots of tequila with sugar sweet syrup. Waterfalls of black silk curtains hide booths along the walls. Frail crystal chandeliers dripping above cast slivers of silver light-- as useless at lighting the room as they are for suicide.

Divya sits at the ivory glass grand piano beside the bar. In the silence between notes she catches glimpses of people passing by, fur coats and pearl necklaces and satin ribbons. The sugary scent of vanilla liquor in the air blends seamlessly with a cloud of expensive perfumes. Working at a piano bar is something like being tortured in a gilded cage. She has been sitting here for the last four hours and will be here for the next four before her manager sets her free.

Oh, the inexplicable joy of the minimum wage.

The piece decrescendos down to silence and Divya rolls her aching wrists. There's a clink above her as one of the waitresses rests her silver tray on the lid of the piano.

It's Belle--gold hair, cherry lips and amber eyes.

"What are you doing?" Divya whispers.

The Winter Valley Lounge is an efficient machine. The waitresses are meant to be seen and not heard; the pianists heard and not seen.

Belle leans down, balancing precariously on her four inch velvet heels. She mutters in Divya's ear, gesturing up with her head. "You need to know that there's a delicious hunk of meat in that corner who's been staring at you for the last half hour."

"What--?"

Divya screws her head around, trying to make it look like she's just brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

Belle is not wrong.

He is half drenched in shadows, just a silhouette behind a black silk curtain. A man, in his twenties--his skin alabaster pale, his hair obsidian dark. Sharp features, cut from marble. From here she can make out his storm dark eyes, hooked nose and high ivory cheekbones, something out of a sculpture found in a far away museum. Lithe build, so tall he sits sprawled on the velvet armchair. Expensive suit glittering with diamond cufflinks. Belle is not wrong at all. In fact, he is quite exquisite.

And he's staring directly at her.

When she meets his eyes, he raises his glass in a mock toast. It is filled with red wine, dark and thick, and she wonders if he is drinking blood.

"Enjoy yourself." Belle winks at her. She picks up her tray before gliding away between tables.

She has watched many vanishing faces pass through the silk curtains of The Lounge. She knows how to play this game. Divya turns back to the piano keys, refusing to look back at the man in the shadows.

She manages three bars through the next piece before she gives in and glances back. Then she pauses.

The man is gone. It is as if he disappeared, falling right through the darkness. The only thing left is a single wine glass standing alone on the empty table. Chewing on her bottom lip, Divya turns back to her piece.

♤

It is the darkest part of the night when the lounge finally closes. Final stragglers flitter through, glassy eyed and wine drunk. Divya's fingers are stiff and her shoulders feel like there's something pressing down on them. Her vision is blurry as she clocks out and heads to the coat-room behind the bar.