Capering Rogues

My invitation to Bartholomew’s party had arrived on embossed stationery, smelling faintly of sandalwood and something that might have been a very expensive, very rare orchid. It was the kind of invitation that made you feel like you’d won the lottery, or at least found a particularly shiny pebble on the beach. Bartholomew, you see, was *everything*. He was a whirlwind of charm, his laughter like the tinkling of a thousand tiny bells, and his apartment…oh, his apartment! It was less an apartment and more a carefully curated museum of opulence. Gilt-edged paintings hung on walls the color of twilight, and every surface gleamed with a polish that suggested a legion of devoted servants. I, Traydon, a creature of comfortable, if slightly rumpled, normalcy, felt utterly out of my depth, yet thrillingly alive. Bartholomew had swept into my life like a benevolent hurricane, all dazzling smiles and extravagant pronouncements, and I, bless my naive heart, had been swept along with him.

The air inside his palatial dwelling hummed with the low murmur of sophisticated conversation and the clinking of crystal. Waiters, impossibly elegant in their crisp uniforms, glided through the throng with trays laden with delicacies that looked like edible jewels. I clutched my glass of something bubbly and effervescent, trying to appear nonchalant while simultaneously trying not to knock over any priceless Ming vases or inadvertently engage in conversation with someone who might be a minor royal. Bartholomew, of course, was in his element, a radiant sun around which lesser planets like myself orbited. He greeted guests with effusive warmth, his voice a melodious purr, his hands clasped in a gesture of profound welcome. He even pulled me into a brief, sparkling embrace, whispering in my ear, “My dear Traydon, so glad you could make it! You must mingle, darling, truly, you must!”

And mingle I did, or at least I tried. I managed a few awkward nods and a mumbled “lovely party” before finding myself near a display case showcasing a truly breathtaking necklace. It was a cascade of diamonds and emeralds, each stone catching the light with an almost predatory gleam. It was, Bartholomew had mentioned with a dramatic flourish earlier, an heirloom, passed down through generations of *his* family. It was the kind of thing that made you understand why some people had entire wings dedicated to their jewelry.