DATE: April 3rdTIME: 5:00 PMLOCATION: Twelfth Night MuseumIn the wake of Cirque Arcana, Verona is le

DATE: April 3rd

TIME: 5:00 PM

LOCATION: Twelfth Night Museum

In the wake of Cirque Arcana, Verona is left to collect itself in the dawns and twilights following. Psyches made fragile by false visions and prophets, wounds inflicted in the chaos, shattered pride and words that can never be taken back—these are traumas with which the city and its inhabitants are intimate. The Cirque had made its mark in a world of permanence and, like a stain that had set in, it remained on its perch on the edge of the city, watching, lying in wait, as if to taunt. Add another piece to the scales and this is what the board looks like: The Montagues on one side. The Capulets and Spades crowded into another. The Siblings in the middle and, at the opposite end of them, Ringleader Severine.

“They must be talking.” A black cat emerges from the dark of night, their movements slick and deliberate as they wind their way around marble and abstract installations.

“They never stop,” the raven remarks from their perch. The last of the The Tempest’s patrons have trickled out, and all that remains is the company of statues, the quiet of a sleeping city as its sentinels deliberate.

“They think we’re losing control,” the third says, their voice floating to the beams, through the ceiling and into the night air. “First the Auction, now this.”

“That damned ringleader and her jesters,” Cinead grouses, “made us look like fools. We were caught off guard, and for what? For her to prove that she could touch us?”

“Her flagrancy made us look weak.”

“The City will think we’re starting to lose control.” A sigh, and then a beat. Clockwork workings to which only the other two are privy. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Mallory?” Cinead says, their voice taking on an uncharacteristic impatient edge. It is the first time the other two siblings hear of it in a long, long time.

“We remind the city who it is who holds the key to its center. Its balance. After all,” their fingers flutter against the window, their eyes tracking lights blinking through a sea of black in the distance, “It’s been some time since we took to the stage and hosted an event.”

“We are Verona’s final arbitrators,” Hea says. “Although Faron has not committed an offense towards us, it shall serve as a reminder that as long as he is in our territory, he is not immune to our authority or our rules simply because he is new blood. Him and that ringleader.”

“Then it’s decided. This next act is ours.”

The Siblings’ words carry the weight of finality that resonates in the very foundation of Verona, subtle and running undercurrent of its ancient bedrock. The authority of true deities does not demand excess nor announcements—it makes itself known in the flow of cause and effect, their influence reaching the peak of its power in the event of a cosmic imbalance, the tilting of the scales when they must right the wrong. They are neither benevolent nor malicious, and it’s what demands the city’s respect—they are untouchable when everyone thrums with the frailty of mortality. Death counts and violence have no home on the Witches’ territory.

But for deities to be made mortal, even for a moment, is blasphemy. The veil is parted and some of the mysticism has dissipated, like candy confetti on a warm tongue. Those who were present at Cirque Arcana watched, some in terror, some in ignorant delight, as the Witches were silenced, bound, and made to be a laughingstock at another’s hands. A minute lasted an infinity, and the humiliation is not readily forgotten by any witness and any party. Luckily, the Witches know better than anyone that an immediate show of power and authority is needed to reclaim dignity lost. Exactly a week later following the calamitous night, an invitation dressed in embellishments is sent out to the luxe of Verona.

“You are cordially invited to Ornella Fallaci’s fashion designer debut. Join us in The Twelfth Night Gardens under an intimate canopy of stars and lights as Verona’s most illustrious socialite unveils her Spring Collection.”

Then, printed below, almost as if it was an afterthought:

“The theme is Aching.”

The days pass, and the Twelfth Night Museum remains as it always was until the week’s end, when the Gardens transform from a verdant green refuge to an opulent centerpiece, resplendent with a shimmering Tanzanite chandelier strung up above the elevated catwalk, silver and black silk hangs off of edges and lines the antique settees and loveseats that face the catwalk. Photographers and a select few members of the press are in attendance, the light of their cameras flashing intermittently through the evening as the more well known attendees are pulled aside for interviews. Peacocks slowly roam the greens, some perched atop statue arms—guests are discouraged from allowing the birds to sip from their cups. A serval lounges on the steps leading from the Museum to the gardens, never lifting its head once even as guests stream in. At the entrance of the catwalk sits a small orchestra donned in white and Alva Gwon, singing sweetly as the pianist plays the beginning notes of a slow, haunting requiem. Tonight has a bite to the air despite the mild weather weeks beforehand, and crimson, fleece blankets are provided on each seat. In their fine gowns and suits and swaddled in their blankets that look more like cloaks, lounging with their arms and legs outstretched, the attendees look not unlike half-gods of old, awaiting their next diversion to lessen the burden upon their shoulders.

The hosts themselves are dressed in their finest, standing tall despite the spectacle they’d been a part of not a week prior, stern as gods who have come down from the heavens to guide their flock back on its path.

Attendants roam the grounds with trays of champagne and cocktails commonly served within The Tempest, but there are no hors d'oeuvres to be found—following the show, attendees will be invited to join the Witches for dinner inside The Twelfth Night (which is currently roped off to everyone until the start of supper).

There are glimpses of Ornella as she makes her rounds, kissing ladies daintily on the cheek and smiling cryptically as men shove each other out of the way to make their way into her line of sight. Rumors abound of the designer, who still insists on dressing all in black and living in her sprawling estate despite being without her father and brother for years. She herself is a vision in a sweeping, inky gown with silver accents, a nightshade who has the misfortune of being envied and coveted simply for the curve of her lips or the jewels adorning her neck, and she walks to the dying rhythm of the orchestra as silence falls over the crowd.

“My friends, thank you for joining me today, and taking part in my passion. Thank you to the Siblings for allowing me a stage for my art.” She smiles as the applause dies down. “Everyone here has surely ached at one point in their lives - be it with grief, for vengeance, for a love they’ll never have—do not forget the sting. Let it consume you, let it harden you, for life is fleeting, but it is relentless.”

Applause. The curtains part. The night begins.

OVERVIEW: Be forewarned -  for you tread on neutral territory now, and the Siblings are ever vigilant about maintaining peace on their grounds. All those who have been invited to the show have been searched thoroughly for knives and guns before entering the premises, and violence is strictly forbidden.  Attire is black-tie formal. There are those who were asked to walk once by the Siblings, either because of their high visibility or because they, for one reason or another, seem to embody the show’s theme:

Roman Montague
Juliana Capulet
Faron Vasiliev
Delilah Vogel
Orion Massetti
Odessa Vernon
Lillian Wen
Catherine Daly
Lucrecia Falco

The seating for the show has also been prearranged with two to three people to one settee. They are as follows:

Row 1: Roman & Juliana & Faron, Cosimo
Row 2: Alexander & Lawrence & Priam, Calina & Boris & Vivianne
Row 3: Alva & Clark & Lillian, Lucrecia & Hugo & Grace
Row 4: Orion & Catherine, Orpheus & Bellamy, Regina & Ramona
Row 5: Valentina & Nikolai, Pavel & Theodora, Tiberius & Hector, Delilah & Odessa

Guests are allowed to move from seat to seat or congregate by the open bar or the photobooth off to the side or off in the gardens further away from the runway. Date your threads April 3rd, with time stamps ranging from 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM. The runway show begins at 6:00 PM, and everyone will reconvene at 8:00 PM in the Galleries for dinner.