Bending Tyme by Maria-Claire Payne Page B

motto—‘Where Their Past Becomes Your Present.’ It’s creative anachronism.” Esme ran her finger along one of the bracelets, the half-twist creating a curious one-sidedness to the bracelet. Given the unique geometry of the Möbius phenomenon, the continuous surface flowed into one plane, resulting in twice the space to include information, their logo and website address streaming in an endless cycle around the impossible single surface of the silicone band.
    Esme slipped on her mask. “Be sure to hand out a bracelet to everyone here,” she reminded Charisse.

    Several hours into the evening, Esme noted every guest wore at least one of her bracelets, the incongruity with the period costumes and ornate masks giving Charisse cause to lift an eyebrow at Esme during one of the tiresome quadrilles. Esme ignored her, happy to put her contemporary mark on this event—also happy the tight corset had, so far, managed to keep her boobs in check.
    The six-piece string ensemble struck up a waltz and Esme ducked into a corner, intent on avoiding any of Charisse’s BB4Bs seeking her out. No such luck—Esme watched the tall gentleman in the exquisite outfit approach her, a golden half-mask concealing much of his face, the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corners of his full lips. Her gaze wandered across the breadth of his shoulders, down to his waist and his long legs, his trim lines evident even through the layers of clothing he sported. He wore his costume with practiced ease, and Esme thought a professional had probably tailored the ensemble specifically for his exceptional physique.
    He said nothing, but bowed in her direction. His intent was clear. Esme cursed under her breath, then dropped a small curtsy, looking up…
    Into impossible aquamarine eyes. He took her hand and Esme danced the initial steps of the waltz, flustered, her partner silent.
    She faltered, dizzy.
    Now I know what ‘swooning’ feels like , she thought, the room spinning.
    His strong arms steadied her, but her rescuer said not a word, withdrawing his hand after he had helped Esme to lower herself onto a silk-cushioned chair. She looked up, riveted by the eyes behind the golden mask.

    * * * *

    Seeing Esme unsteady and alone, Charisse yelled for help, her voice lost in the swell of the music. She lifted her skirts, pushing her way through the crowd, hoping to catch Esme before she hit the floor.
    By the time Charisse reached her, Esme had settled herself onto a nearby chair, so Charisse helped her to her feet and hustled her to her private suite.

    “Where did he go?”
    Charisse shook her head. “Who? You waltzed a few steps alone and just about keeled over.”
    Esme sat on the four-poster bed dominating the room, looking confused.
    Charisse watched her carefully. “Too much excitement, huh? New office, planning a three-month sabbatical…no wonder you’re exhausted. Sure you’re up to trekking across Nepal? Shall I cancel your flight?”
    Esme shook her head. “Please make my excuses to the guests.” She smiled. “This is your party anyway, really.”
    “Want me to send someone to keep an eye on you?” Charisse winked, a bit put out that her efforts at matchmaking had fallen short. Esme laughed. “I’m good. Just need sleep…”
    Charisse helped Esme strip down to the corset and pantalettes she had donned earlier, helped her into bed and kissed her. “Until tomorrow, then.”
    Esme made no response, exhausted and already lost in her dreams.

    Charisse let herself into the office just after noon. “Esme?”
    No answer.
    She checked the showrooms, where the mess from the party had been cleared away by the crew she’d hired, and moved on to Esme’s private suite. Still no sign of her.
    Charisse sighed. Last time Esme had taken an impromptu—albeit much needed—hiatus from work, she’d turned up in Italy weeks later, paying for lessons from street artists. This time, at least, Esme had left an itinerary.
    Charisse popped off a