One wore a massive white polar bear of a coat, a red tricorn adorned with half a dozen feathers of various hues sticking up from its golden band, a pair of gray breeches with red stripes up the legs, gray stockings, an eye-stunning yellow jacket, a lavender-hued blouse and a white cravat wound around the throat. On his feet were greenish-black boots made from the hide of the South American python and his hands were protected by ostrich-skin gloves. It was apparent this gentleman was bald beneath his tricorn. His face was whitened by powder and the cheekbones heightened with red rouge.

The second man of the moment was taller and slimmer than the first. He was made much taller if one counted height by the elaborate white wig that wobbled atop his head and was in turn topped by a purple tricorn. This curiosity of nature wore a long coat of gray sealskin, a pair of brown-checked breeches, pale yellow stockings, a maroon blouse, a jacket the color of brown street mud that yet had a strange and somewhat fascinating shine to its fabric, a pair of calfskin gloves and on his feet boots that few but the most seasoned world travellers would recognize as gray elephant hide. The gentleman’s face was a white mask from chin to the hairline, with red arcs drawn above the eyebrows to give the face the illusion of further length.

As these aliens to the more sedate style of the London elegant came down the stairs, they gathered a few stares, shrugs and contemplative puffs of clay pipes from idlers in the lantern-lit lobby, but that was the limit of interest. The knowledge among the guests here was that if one could afford lodgings at the Mayfair Arms, one was entitled to show their colors to the world, no matter which world they represented.

“Ow,” said Matthew very quietly, as his left ankle in its elephant-hide boot threatened to turn on him in anger for being pushed into such an unyielding enclosure. In truth, the boots would’ve needed a long breaking-in period before they were comfortable, and these bastards wanted to hobble their owner before the bottom of the stairs was reached.

Julian said from the corner of his mouth, “I can barely walk in this get-up, so keep your pain to yourself.”

They reached the bottom. At his desk the clerk who had signed them in last night stood up from his chair to give a short bow, and to Matthew’s amazement and horror Julian redirected his path toward the man. Matthew followed, thinking that all this weight on him was going to wear him out very soon and he felt like a true circus performer trying to balance a stack of plates on his head.

“Good evening, Count Pellegar,” said the clerk, with a nod. And also, “Good evening to you, Baron Brux.”