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The Invitation

I recall vividly the delivery of the invitation; it was printed on a fine, rose-tinted linen sheet of paper with an elegant border of delicately sketched nymphets, their hand's interlinked and held up high as they danced around the invitation's edge.

"You have been invited to be an initiate at the Sapphic Society monthly meet at the Sapphos Estate of Lady Clara Huntington. On acceptance, you will be paired with a chaperone who will prepare and accompany you to this auspicious event."

My chaperone turned out to be none other than my dearest friend, Lady Janelle. We bathed and dressed together at my townhouse in the evening, and then a carriage let us off under the portico at Sapphos Estate. Our arrival was fashionably late, and we had to wait as a line of ladies disembarked from their transportation ahead of us. Two elegant ladies-in-waiting dressed as butlers admitted us to the closed marquee which covered the lawn. It was the riding crops which they held lightly in their gloved hands, that should have tipped me off to the theme of the gathering.

The scene under the canvas top was magical. Crystal candelabras hung from beams, casting flickering lights across the scene below. I was immediately drawn to the fountain at the center. Figurines carved out of the finest marble poured water from their pitchers in seemingly never-ending supply. The water splashed and danced its way down, creating a joyous symphony of sparkling light and sounds.

As I watched, a young, bare-footed maiden sat down on the fountain wall. With elbows raised high, she brought a flute to her ruby lips and breathed a kiss of life into the waiting instrument. Her fingers tapped at the silver keys creating a haunting melody, accompanied by the tinkling from a chain circling her slender ankles. I felt myself being carried away to a land of mists and myths.

The music was a call to action; as if from nowhere, a circle of ladies formed and began to circle the fountain. The music stopped and I watched in wonder as each participant reached forward and pinned up the gown of the lady in front. I counted twenty young women, their heads held high, and their bottoms bare. A lady-in-waiting approached the circle. She carried a bunch of beautifully prepared birch rods in her arms; the switches were supple and smooth, the handles beautifully bound with pink or blue ribbons.


Emma

The little flautist, whose name was Emma I was later to be told, looked directly at me for just a second. I could have sworn she gave me a conspiratorial wink, but in an instant that moment passed. She lifted her instrument once more and began to play. She chose a lively Gaelic jig, and as the rhythm picked up the ladies began to circle. Dancing three steps forward, those with the blue handled rods swished the lady in front.