[center][b]9:00PM[/b][/center]

“Sorry about this, ladies and gentlemen,” says Klara, whose face betrays a flash of amusement underneath her cool professionalism. The houseguests have been assembled in the once more empty and echoing entrance hall, “Herr Wolf has a certain love of theatrics.”

“Are you talking about me?”

The lord of the manor appears at the top of the staircases, leaning over the balustrade that joins them above the doors to the ballroom and in front of a second set of double-doors completely parallel with those downstairs. If he looked excited upon their arrival, he is positively gushing at this point, grinning so hard that his cheeks must hurt. He has also changed, apparently deciding against any subtlety and opting for full white tie, accentuated by the chic subtlety of two of deep emerald green cocktail dresses joining him on the landing: Lena and Maria, or is it Maria and Lena? They’re utterly indistinguishable so there’s no way to know for sure. Gertrud, in a handsome black dress, can be seen bringing up the rear, though her frailty makes her descent a rickety, slightly sluggish affair.

“By god, you all look incredible,” says Sol, beckoning the guests up the stairs to join him. He looks a little tipsy, but it does nothing but exaggerate his enthusiasm and lending him an extra shine, and, given that a couple of beads of sweat can be seen framing his hairline, literally so, “So glad you all could make it. Now, follow me!”

He puts a finger to his lips in a mischievous bid for silence, and creeps toward the doors behind him before opening them, heading through, and gesturing for the guests and the rest of his family to follow in a similar manner: one of the twins turns to the guests and rolls her eyes in her brother’s direction. They’re on a rounded balcony above the ballroom that circles it completely, and, though the guests haven’t clocked them, the ballroom is finally visible in its full splendour, with its arched ceiling and stone walls. The lighting is all-natural, and deliciously gothic, with torches in wall-brackets and chandeliers with what can only be real candles. The ground is covered with sprung floorboards, polished to within an inch of their lives, so that, looking down from the balcony, the guests can all but see themselves staring back up. The bulk of the floor is uncovered, and it’s perhaps only now that the fairy-tale nature of the ball is dawning on everybody the group: it can only be for dancing. There are, mercifully, a few tastefully-decorated tables toward the entrance of the room, but not many. At the very end of the room, against the rounded wall with beautiful stained-glass windows like a secular European cathedral, is a stage, upon which plays the orchestra and a spiral staircase leading up to their balcony. It becomes apparent where this is going. The ironic grimaces of the twins and the epic struggle of both Klara and even Félix to wrestle mirth from their lips foretells what is to come.

“Klara and Félix know what to do, okay?” says Sol, as he straightens his bow tie in a moment of surprising calm, concentrating his boundless energy in one foot, which taps so violently to the music it threatens to trip him over. As the band crescendos, he suddenly turns tail and dashes along the left side of the balcony to the far end of the ballroom: the audience spots him and begins to laugh. It’s a well-timed spectacle – he reaches the very end of the balcony with a great leap, landing on one final sting from the string section with even a slight flourish with the hands, as if to say [i]ta-daa[/i]. Rapturous applause, of course, explodes upwards at him.

“Grüß Gott, grüß Gott, meine Damen und Herren! And welcome, once again, to Wolf Manor!” More applause. The twins and Gertrud also begin to walk along the circular balcony, with a more graceful approach than Sol’s characteristic mania, so as to join him, “To those of you who are new, we say ‘[i]wilkommen[/i]’! And to those familiar faces, we say ‘[i]wilkommen[/i]’!” Judging by the crowd, the joke is hilarious, and there is a literal [i]ba-dum tish[/i] from a percussionist, “Now, as you probably know, this ball is a very important part of Wolf history, and on behalf of my family,” The ladies have just joined him and gather around him. He straightens his face, and they genuinely do look like a nice, normal family, “I’d like to remind you to respect one of our most valued family traditions: drink the fucking champagne!” There is a roar of appreciation.

“Now, apart from drinking us dry, I know you’re here for one main reason – to meet our wonderful guests of honour! Come on over!”

He beckons the group, and Félix and Klara give the nod, directing the girls around the right side of the balcony, and the gentlemen to the left: on their way, Sol bellows each of their names, voice just carried over the ecstatic applause. All in all, there’s something a little bit gameshow about it all, particularly when they finally join the Wolfs at the far end and have nothing to do but stand there awkwardly, though Klara’s theatrical look of sympathetic despair from across the balcony indicates she at least feels their plight. Félix has apparently come down with an acute but silent cough that gives him the convenient opportunity to cover his mouth with his hand and turn away.

“Well, I’m not going to stand up here boring you all night, when my alcohol, my dance floor, and my band are all the way down there! Maestro, if - you - please!”

The band starts up again, with a [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pbr9U_2X-8U]spritely waltz[/url], as the Wolfs and their guests of honour begin to troop down the spiral staircase. The exception is Gertrud, who steps back: it would take her about half an hour to make it down the stairs. Predictably, Sol leads the pack, practically running down the stairs, with his sisters hot on his heels, for all that they bemoan his hyperactivity. The three of them reach the dance floor in fifteen seconds flat, where one of the twins peels off to a glass of champagne and to mingle: Sol, meanwhile, invites the other to dance with a mockingly formal extension of his hand. Trying not to laugh, she plays along. They are, predictably, excellent dancers, missing no beats: Lena (or is it Maria?) twirls sublimely, while Sol is a surprisingly graceful lead.

The champagne is flowing. The band is swinging. The ball is alive.