Magia Posthuma ✓

Sixteen

Vienna, Violet Tuesday 1764

She knew she'd be spilling over with regrets when dawn arrived, but while the darkness still reigned, Amalia refused to care. And as the church bells chimed eleven – the sombre tolling a warning – she scooped up her midnight-coloured skirts and velvet cloak, slipped off her shoes and stockings and waded out into the fountain.

The last snow of winter had barely melted away – a few flakes still fresh over the cobbles, like the powdered sugar dusting the last batch of krapfen before Lent – and yet, even though the icy waters stole her breath away, at least they served to soothe her tired feet.

Amalia threw her head back and watched the stars blur as she spun. "Glücklicher Karneval!" she cheered to the handful of men dressed as harlequins crossing the square – the bells on their costumes jingling with each step. "Asteria shines on you!"

Irina raised an eyebrow behind her golden mask. She was perching on the edge of the fountain, leaning back against one of the bronze statues. "...Are you happy now? Now that you've dipped your toes in Destiny's Spring?" she asked as she smoothed a hand over the pink and saffron ruffles of her gown – her costume hidden beneath her black, velvet cloak. "What secrets does she hold in her waters? Hm? Love? Death? Fortu–"

"Feathers..." Amalia replied, wrinkling her nose as she waded over – hobbling past a few floating grey and white feathers.

The water sloshed and slurped up the sides of the fountain.

Irina smirked, "Well, I did warn you that pigeons like to use it as a giant bathtub, Mal," she said, snatching up the end of her cloak before it was ruined by the rising tide. She lowered her voice a little, "I won't bother telling you what the market men like to do in it–"

"Pardon?"

Irina sat forward, "Nothing – shall we go?"

Amalia looked aghast – her blue eyes wide within her silver mask, "What? But why?"

"Well, it's nearly midnight–"

"Nearly midnight! There's still an hour of Violet Tuesday left!" the archduchess complained, pouting as she paddled. "A whole hour left of Karneval. An hour before it's gone! Gone! Gone forever!"

Of all the feast days on the calendar, Violet Tuesday was the one that they looked forward to the most. It was final night of Karnival – the final opportunity for reckless indulgence before Lent began – and after a morning spent in prayer and confession, the afternoon was always a frenzy of feasting, wild games and performances by acting troupes to celebrate the end of winter, culminating in an extravagant masquerade ball where ladies – in a rare reversal of roles – could ask gentlemen to dance. It was the only night of the year where court rigmarole was (mostly) set aside, and – with the aid of a costume and a mask – you could be anyone you wanted to be, whether a Greek goddess or simply your true self.

But it was outside of the Imperial Palace – on the cobbles and down the alleyways of Vienna – was where Karnival truly raged without rein. There were parades during the day, where harlequins danced through the streets with bears on chains and rung bells to chase away the winter – carrying with them on their shoulders a coffin full of flowers that they'd dug up to symbolise the resurrection of spring. When the sun set, the city became wild and wanton with balls and parties where every indulgence and desire could be and would be fulfilled.

And so, they donned their masks and cloaks and stole away from the palace and the watchful eye of the Swiss Guards to see it all, Amalia dressed as Asteria of the Stars and Irina as Eos of the Dawn. They'd shared a bottle of champagne in the palace gardens, watched an acting troupe performing Molière outside the cathedral, and finally, had crashed a ball at the Schwarzenberg Winter Palace – dancing until their feet throbbed. It had been wonderful.