God bless Berlin, I think, my eyes taking in all the sights of the marvelous city at night. There’s no comparison, the cathedrals singing jazz from the belfry, the fairy lights giggling to each other, flashing green and blue in time, the cobblestones charmed to sing a sweetling waltz as we walk along the street. New York was practically falling apart compared to a place like this.
My friend, my patron, and provokateur, native German heiress of an indeterminate mechanical fortune, led the way, smoothing down the emerald beetle wings embroidered onto her dress.
“Sweetling,” cooed Metha, taking my arm and squeezing it, “you know you look perfectly ravishing.”
“You said to dress up!”
“And you’ve outdone even me.” Metha laughed. Her accent was mild and made her voice seem husky and dark, a perfect accompaniment to her dramatic eyeshadow and rouged knees. I was mostly in love with her, a fact that she seemed to either ignore or play on for her own pleasure. We had only been in contact for three months, and I was, of course, perfectly willing to be so abused.
“Happy new year, darling,” I said, shifting my shoulders a little so the corslet that bound my breasts and shifted my waistline down sat easier along my collarbones. Metha noticed and turned slightly, drawing her hand down the lapel of my tuxedo.
“So smart,” she murmured, leaning into my ear. “A Ganymede, so handsome.”
I laughed and blushed, tilting my head away from her as she simpered. She was a flagrant flatterer and knew that the blush rising to my cheeks was entirely due to her nearness, as the chill from the night had been well dispelled by the enchanted threadwork in her coat. We passed a few other couples, likely bound for another party to dance and drink until midnight.
“However,” she continued as we walked towards the flashing lights of the cabaret district. “Clara is far too fair a name for a man like you.”
I laughed, looking down. Tonight, at least, that was true. My slacks were pressed, my hair had been cut short and then tucked into an even more masculine style. Even my nails had been cleaned of polish, a detail noticed by a sharp-eyed tailor who advised that with a hemline like mine, perhaps the red would not match.
“What do you suggest?” I asked, sliding a hand over Metha’s, keeping her fingers closely tucked into the curve of my elbow. From this angle she reminded me of Anita Berber, and I fought to keep such an idea to myself.
Metha grinned, her dark eyes flashing under the absinthe-green lamplight.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly suggest your own name,” she said. “Don’t you have one?”
“Metha, please,” I begged. “An idea at least?”
She hummed. “Marvin?”
“I have a cousin named Marvin.”
“Perhaps Arthur?” Methe asked, smiling.
“No, no,” I protested, unsure why. Arthur was a perfectly good name, and I had no relatives to claim it this time.
Metha sighed. “A German name?”
Her hand slid down my forearm, clasping my hand in hers. I nearly lost my breath, but she pulled me along an alleyway, heading off the brightly-lit main road toward a hotel that appeared to be more of a palace than an infamous pansy club.
I had dreamed of this place, of course. What girl like me hadn’t? Spurned by tea parties and cricket matches, wasn’t this the most beautiful sight of all? A firework was shot off from the top of the roof, and I was so startled that Metha had to pull me back on the sidewalk.
“Did you not hear a word?”
I looked down, eyes wide, “Pardon?”
“Ah, you are too polite for a boy!” She exclaimed, twisting her fingers. “I asked if Sebastian would be suitable?”
We were at the door of our designated place of worship. I swallowed and nodded. “Sebastian it is.”
“Marvelous,” Metha cooed, leading me up the steps to the palatial Ellington. Women and men and many in between were filing in and out, and a group of young men, topless, dressed in voluminous, color-changing skirts and nothing else, stood smoking in the cool air, their nipples rogued as if they were a young lady’s knees.
My mouth was dry, and I was suddenly hit by a start of panic. I pulled my hand out of Metha’s grasp and stepped down. She turned back to me, surprised.
“Metha, I can’t.” The fear was back. It was ridiculous, of course. As if I hadn’t already lied to my Londoner foster-family about returning to America for the holidays, as if I didn’t travel to Berlin on my own, as if I hadn’t been swept up. This was the start of something, a difference. When I stepped over that threshold, into the Madame’s party, a fete of Unseelie proportions and jazz, what was I going to become?
Metha, an angel, quickly ran down the stairs. She slung her arms around my neck and pulled me close. I wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her as she whispered in my ear.
“Dear Sebastian,” she murmured, her voice like lavender and moonlight. She pronounced Sebastian in the German way, her mouth full of zed at the first sound. “It is only a party. You don’t want to miss this after so long spent in its pursuit. Nineteen-twenty-five will only come here once.”
She was right. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright.”
Metha kissed my cheek quickly, leaving a burning mark near my lips, and I only had a few seconds to wonder what kind of charm one could mix into lipstick to make it snap against the skin like sunburn before she took my hand again.
This time I didn’t panic, my self-consciousness over my new costume, my new walk (Metha had been very clear that walking like a girl would not be stealthy at all, and I should be clear to walk with my shoulders first and not my hips and knees) and even the way I had been coached to lower my voice. It all seemed easier after Metha walked me up the stairs. My eyes went up to the ceiling of the foyer; the chandelier, the glass turning slowly from delicate spider-silk strings.
“Sebastian.” Metha’s voice brought me down again. She squeezed my hand encouragingly and, after dropping off our overcoats, she led me through the hallway and into the ballroom, to the Berliner New Year’s Fairy Fete.
It was like nothing I had imagined, and my mouth became dry before I shut it.
“Here it is, my dear,” Metha purred, slinking away from me towards a veritable tower of champagne. “This is your coming out party. Be sure to get some addresses for later.”
I watched, unable to stop her as she flitted away to the refreshments. My eyes were taken by the sights, the floating spheres of light that turned and cast shadows of different colors on the ground. The jazz band in the corner with brass instruments gilt in gold, the piano that was kindly playing itself as its usual musician was wetting their palate. My charms significantly less polished, I took a few hesitant steps among the arrangement of tables.
Metha had said to sit anywhere I liked, and I found a table with nobody attending it and pulled out a chair. I was feeling dizzy and fumbled with the crystal laid on the table, pouring myself a glass of water. My hand was shaking as I drank.
“Erstes Mal?” A young man was standing across from me, diabolically handsome, with a sharp part in his hair and a tight waistcoat. I swallowed and took a deep breath.
“Ich spreche kein—”
He laughed and cut me off. “In English then.”
“Was my accent so bad?” I asked, likely looking like a shamed toddler.
“No, no.” His accent was thicker than Metha’s, his voice like honey, “this is your first time, yes?”
“Yes,” I agree, shifting a little, setting my shoulders. I wanted so badly to belong, I might at least try. Hadn’t I dreamed of the fairy ball? Hadn’t I spent the last of my money to get here? “But I’m thrilled, old sport.”
“Ah, good.” He walked around, offered his hand. “Fritz.”
I stood, swallowed any kind of hesitation and smiled, in possibly the best imitation of my brother’s self-confident smirk that I’ve ever done, and shook his hand. “Sebastian.”
“Well met.” Fritz smiled and dropped my hand; a gesture that was sufficiently manly. I felt elated. If Fritz had suspected me a woman, or even wished to treat me as one, he would have kissed my knuckles, or taken my fingers with a delicate touch. This was none of that. Hard and sharp.
I put my hands in my pockets, spread my legs a little in the stance.
Fritz eyed me up. I saw it, clear as day. I swallowed, my eyebrows going up to my coiffed hair, and waited. What kind of inspection was this?
“I’d fancy a drink,” I said, tilting my head upwards, a strong jut of my chin.
“I’m feeling dry myself.” Fritz said, stepping back and gesturing. There was a bar across the way, not far from where Metha had disappeared to find champagne. I took the lead this time, nodding at Fritz and stepping around him, going towards the bar.
I tried to ignore Fritz’s closeness, how near he was to my shoulder as we walked. I looked everywhere but him; at the booths on the far side of the ballroom that had curtains you could draw across for privacy, at the stage where a pair of young men, finely dressed as flapper girls, were taking off each other’s clothing to a bright tune.
I watched them for a few seconds, and Fritz had to reach over and pull me out of the path of the tallest, most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. I stared as she passed by, her red hair piled high on top of her head, a halo of butterflies flitting around her ears and forehead like a crown.
“She’s wonderful,” I breathed, hardly noticing Fritz’ hand on my back. “What a dame.”
“The Helen of Berlin,” Fritz murmured, pressing me onwards, “she’s quite the draw.”
“She performs?” I asked, and I must have seemed like a rube of the worst order because Fritz laughed at me. I blushed and he continued to lead me to the bar.
“Of course,” he explained, his hand sliding to my elbow, holding me fast. “A marvelous singer.”
Along the way we passed a table that had a live owl hooting showtunes, a trio of ladies cooing over a gentleman’s violet hair, and a posse of masked people of indeterminate gender playing with various buttons and clasps on clothing. It was all very much in the open, and as Fritz and I finally got to the counter, my mouth was dry and my face was very hot.
Fritz, noticing my color, ordered us two whiskeys and saved me the embarrassment of ordering in broken German.
“Admiring the view?”
“It is very…” I paused and looked back to him. He was very close and I noticed his eyes were grey.
“It’s very German,” he offered, smirking.
I took the whiskey and took a long sip, wincing. As I put the drink down I saw Metha with another woman, sitting on her lap, her hand halfway down the front of the stranger’s dress.
My flush of embarrassment became one of shame; how dare I imagine that I might be someone Metha might engage with? She was too beautiful, too worldly, and what was I? A foolish girl from Massachusetts in a borrowed tuxedo and an abrupt haircut.
Fritz saw where I was looking, he must have, because he immediately grabbed my chin and turned my face towards his. I swallowed, eyes wide.
“I would very much like,” Fritz said, his grey eyes wide. “If you led me in a dance, Herr Sebastian.”
I nodded, focused entirely on the gentleman. “Can you waltz?”
He smiled, and in a rush of impetuousness, I finished my whiskey, grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles, and then immediately led him to the dancefloor.
There was a slow dance winding down, and I put a hand on his waist, holding his guiding hand up as the band went from a steamy jazz piece to a jingling waltz. Bells appeared above the band, and the dancefloor, ensorcelled as it was, allowed all those who wished to rise high above the ground. This served to not only double the size of the dancefloor but allowed for anyone to take a glance upwards and peek underneath the dresses of some of the revelers.
It was all very coquettish, and as soon as the waltz began I pulled Fritz’ chest to mine and stepped forwards, dancing up onto the air. He seemed surprised to be taken so firmly, but I didn’t drop my eyes from his, both frustrated and excited by what I had seen.
“Sebastian,” He murmured, his arm around my shoulder. “I would not have guessed-”
Whatever that was, I wouldn’t find out.
As the waltz played a cascade of thick silken ribbons fell from the ceiling. I somehow kept my hold on Fritz’s side, spinning him around as acrobats dressed in glitter and bespelled gems in key places tumbled down the silks.
My eyes were wide, and Fritz laughed, squeezing my hand.
“You must concentrate if you wish to keep us above the crowd.”
He was right; I quickly looked up at him and then smiled, trying to play at the confidence he might find attractive. I pulled him close and executed a spin, and we rose another few feet in the air.
For a few minutes, I forgot Metha existed.
We danced in the air, above the reveling masses, speaking soft encouragements to each other. The acrobats twisted and turned near us, dropping down to their silks and then climbing back up, the fabric spelled to emit a light tinkling noise like chimes as they were used. Around us, dames dressed like fairies danced in circles. Many in masks danced with no pretense as to where their hands were headed. A woman below us stared as Frtiz and I danced, eyeing us over suggestively.
The waltz over, I led us back to the ground, gently stepping away from Fritz and bowing. To my credit, I remembered how to hold a follow’s hand, how to incline my head properly to show respect. Fritz smirked and drew me close by the hand, tucking his fingers under my chin.
“A lovely dance, Bastian.”
The nickname, spoken so casually, so closely, did me in. I closed my eyes. Fritz leaned in and kissed me sweetly, and then stepped away, an utter gentleman.
I know that he had felt my corslet, seen my tucked hair up close, but he did not ask for another explanation, didn’t know that I was a woman playing pretend for the night. Maybe that was enough. Maybe he thought I was a man after all, in spite of the corslet. He didn’t ask for an explanation, and I wouldn’t reveal myself.
“I should find my hostess,” I said softly. Fritz nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets, looking around.
“Will she chide you for spending so long away?”
I thought about her own hands, straying far down a chest that was not mine, her hair draped over another’s shoulder like a promise.
“No.”
“In that case, I will steal more of your time,” Fritz chuckled, tucking his hand against my elbow, a follow position, but he was clearly leading me through the crowd. I, sweetly against his side, admired the velvet of his jacket, the tooling of his shoes, the musky scent of the shine that he used in his dark hair.
With no hesitation, Fritz led us to the bar, ordered us flips and then spirited us away into a booth. He pulled the curtains closed and before I even had time to thank him for the drink, he slid into my lap.
My face must have been a beacon of surprise because he immediately sat back and laughed. He tilted his head and spread his legs on either side of mine.
“Herr Sebastian, what is the matter.”
“You’re very forward,” I muttered, eyes huge.
Fritz grinned and kissed my temple. “Perhaps. But why hesitate when there is something I like?”
“I must warn you,” I said, not wanting Fritz to be surprised or upset. Wanting more from him and afraid only of seeing disgust on his face. “I am not…a traditional man.”
“Then we are very much the same, my dear.” Fritz said, leaning down to kiss my neck. My hands sat on his legs, unwilling to stray too far. I took a deep breath, and I knew that Fritz understood what I was implying, but what did he mean? Was he as queerly gendered as I or was he expecting something else?
“You are thinking too much,” Fritz said, and it was then, close up, his nose against mine that I thought I knew what he meant. We were the same. Perhaps it wasn’t an undershirt I touched under his jacket but another corslet to bind his own breasts down. Perhaps he and I were the same, Fritz and Sebastian, as darling as selkies luring each other closer and closer.
I put aside my fears, put aside Clara, put aside thoughts of Metha and let the sounds of the fete outside the curtains of our booth. I reached up and cupped Fritz’s face and pulled him down to kiss him, the sparkling spells of alcohol on our mouths making a chill run down my spine.
An hour or so later, reclining in the booth, still tangled in each other, the boom of New Year’s fireworks exploded above our heads. I looked up at Fritz and he smiled, pulling me close and spiriting the two of us to the roof.
I gasped, trying to find a way to cover myself, but Fritz just laughed. There were sounds and movements of others around us, but he had magiced some kind of protective barrier around us, fogging us from onlookers, but allowing us an uninterrupted view of the fireworks. Taking a deep breath, scrambling with my clothing, I looked up.
The fireworks were dragon’s breath and chimera fire, serpent’s tongues and cat’s paws. They exploded above us in brightly lit creatures that pranced across the sky.
I relaxed against Fritz, the stars in the sky pale compared to the magical display of fire and paper above us.
“My name is Clara,” I said, looking up at him. Fritz smiled a little, moving his hand against my back. “When you see me in a dress, I’m Clara.”
“And when you are in nothing at all?” He asked, looking down at me. I flushed and hit his side. The fireworks cast strang shadows down on us, and one even caused icy droplets of rain to fall on us, cooling my overheated face.
“Then I’m…” I paused. “Whatever I had been wearing last.”
Fritz chuckled. “Well, dear Bastian.” He turned and kissed me, cupping the back of my head. “Happy New Year.”
I sighed, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, sliding over his chest again. Whatever kind of year it was, we would bring it closer in a marvelous style.
