Masque of the Red Death

  Today I don’t recognize the world from up here, and the room I inhabit in this sterile apartment seems completely unfamiliar, too. If April were here, she would laugh and offer me a drink. We would toast to something banal. We wouldn’t talk about what our lives were supposed to be. But we would know.

  I turn away from the window, pace back and forth. Without April and her steam carriage, I am trapped.

  The hours trickle by. At lunchtime the cook assures me that she sent my packet of food to the address I gave her in the lower city. After lunch Mother plays piano. That’s how she seeks her oblivion.

  Instead of working in his laboratory, Father sits on the couch, staring out the window. If he doesn’t leave the apartment, I won’t be able to search his lab.

  This conviction that I won’t be able to steal from Father fills me with relief. But relief is quickly followed by guilt at my cowardice.

  “Mother gave me money,” I tell him. “I want to buy a child-sized mask.”

  Father writes instructions on a slip of paper and then signs it.

  Our courier is back at his post in the hallway. Like most people of our social status, we never really have to leave the building. We pay him to brave the germs and the violence. Except that I want to get out. The walls are closing in on me. Without April, I’m only allowed to leave the building with Father. And if I can’t go to the club, I won’t see Will.

  I instruct the courier carefully. He is an older man, balding and thin. I remember what Mother told me yesterday, that they sent him to search through the bodies. I shudder, because he was looking for April, and because he had to look, had to touch… I force that thought away.

  “Do you have children?” I ask, remembering the half-overheard conversation he had with Father.

  “A daughter,” he says.

  “Does she own a mask?”

  “Not yet. She isn’t old enough for school. We’re saving…”

  I scratch out what Father wrote and carefully rewrite the order for two child-sized masks, instead of one.

  “Ma’am?” He stares at the note.

  “My parents can afford it,” I say.

  He folds the paper carefully and puts it in an inner pocket before he walks toward the stairway; couriers aren’t allowed to use the elevator. I consider running after him, going with him to the factory. But as a woman on the street … he doesn’t get paid as much as a guard. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I go back into the apartment.

  I nearly collide with Father in the foyer. He pats my arm.

  “You’re so grown up. I always meant to have a portrait made. It’s one of my greatest regrets, waiting until it was too late.”

  I don’t ask whether it’s too late because I’m too old now, or because what he wanted was a portrait of both of his children.

  “I’m going downstairs to inquire about the damage,” he says. His voice is pleasant and vague. Perhaps he thinks Mother is listening.

  As soon as he’s gone, I slip into his laboratory. Beakers filled with bright bubbling liquid simmer above a controlled flame that is not so different from the one Will used to cook breakfast for Henry and Elise. The right side of the room is lined with shelves filled with jars of dead insects, mostly crickets.

  Father’s notes are scattered everywhere, except for a large wooden desk, which is completely bare. I take one step over the threshold, and then another. Father won’t stay downstairs long. I cross the room, drawn to the desk. The first drawer is empty. No ink, no quill, none of the implements that one would keep in a desk. The next drawer is empty as well.

  The third drawer is filled with papers. I grab a folded sheet from the back. It appears to be a schematic for some sort of … airship? At the top Father has written Impossible.

  Tell the boy this will never fly.

  I hear a noise and jump before I realize it is the cook, padding into the sitting room to ask Mother a question.

  In the next drawer I find a stack of carefully labeled papers. Drawings, diagrams, directions. Everything a person might need for making a mask.

  “Araby?” Mother calls from the sitting room.

  I shut the drawer too hard. Mother must certainly have heard it; I slide the papers up into my sleeve, thankful that I wore this modest dress.

  “Araby?” Mother says from the doorway. “What are you doing?” She sounds confused rather than accusatory, and that makes me feel guiltier than ever.

  “I was looking for Father.”

  “He’s downstairs, talking to the guards. Didn’t you see him leave?” Now she’s suspicious. “Come into the hallway. He won’t want you in here.”

  I follow Mother, but before I can smooth the bulge of folded papers in my sleeve, the front door opens and Father steps back into the apartment.

  I wait, heart pounding, but Mother doesn’t accuse me of anything.

  Father stops and waits, obviously wondering why we are standing there.

  “I may work in the laboratory before dinner,” he says finally, eyeing the door that I neglected to close all the way.

  “Dinner will be served in an hour,” Mother says. “Cook got some mushrooms—”

  She is interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.

  I catch my breath. The only person who knocks is April. Everyone else has to go through security at the front desk. A servant opens the door, and we all stare.

  A young man is standing on the threshold with a bouquet of very red roses. I almost don’t recognize him because I’ve never seen him in a mask, but he’s wearing one now. The arrogant way he stands and his quizzical eyebrows give him away. They have even more impact, somehow, now that his face is obscured. I like the mask on him.

  One of his eyebrows looks darker, slightly singed. I remember him sitting in the darkness, lighting matches. Maybe he burned himself. Or maybe he was out in the city last night.

  Either way, I’m thrilled to see him.

  Elliott saunters in, shakes Father’s hand, nods to Mother, and hands the flowers to me. I hold them awkwardly; a thorn scrapes my hand, leaving a thin trail of blood.

  “I’m Elliott,” he says to my parents. “The…” He hesitates. “April’s brother. I was hoping your daughter could walk up to the rooftop with me.”

  The rooftop. I’m not allowed to go there, though I haven’t considered jumping in a long time. I deposit the flowers unceremoniously on a side table. Mother stares at Elliott, her face white. She goes to the sideboard and pours a drink. Whether it’s for her or for Elliott is unclear.

  “The roof?” Before Mother can go on, our courier walks into the room. Tears course down his face. This man who sits outside our door, impassively waiting to run our errands, is weeping. “The bombing last night…” he whispers. “It destroyed the factory where they manufacture the masks.”

  I gasp and put my hand up to the mouthpiece of my own mask, and as I do so, the papers in my sleeve make a loud crinkling sound.

  Elliott’s eyes meet mine.

  “Surely they will rebuild,” Mother says.

  “People on the street say that even if they do, the workers will have to make each mask by hand again. Only the very rich will be able to afford them.” The courier collapses onto our couch.

  Mother serves the drink to him instead of our guest.

  “Are people saying who did it?” Elliott asks.

  My eyes go back to his singed eyebrow. What does he know?

  “Black scythes were painted on the walls that were still standing,” the courier says.

  Elliott nods. “Malcontent.” The way he says the word makes it sound more like a name than a mood. Mother and Father seem unaware, but the courier looks up sharply.

  Father rests his hands against the windowsill and gazes out. “They will regret this when the next wave of illness hits,” he says. He wipes his brow furiously, leaving a residue of ink on his forehead, and puts the handkerchief back into his pocket. “They’ve destroyed the very thing that gave them hope.”

  This room is stiflingl
y hot.

  Elliott is staring at Father. Father speaks of the possibility of new diseases, of our vulnerability, often enough that I’m used to it.

  “Many people still have masks,” Mother says.

  But not little Henry. And not the courier’s daughter.

  Father clears his throat. “Perhaps I will go tomorrow and offer my assistance. One more person might speed up the process. I gave them the knowledge—”

  “You helped, sir. No one can question that. But you didn’t give them the knowledge,” Elliott says.

  Mother and Father turn to stare at Elliott, the prince’s nephew. Elliott isn’t intimidated by their anger.

  “You gave the knowledge to my uncle, and he kept it,” he says.

  “If you don’t require anything else, I’ll go back to my post.” The courier is nervous. As he leaves, he picks up a rose that dropped from Elliott’s bouquet and hands it to me. “Thank you,” he whispers. “My daughter … it was kind of you to try.”

  We are silent as he hurries across the tile floor and back to his chair in the hallway.

  “You could still help the people, sir,” Elliott says. “You could pass the plans along to me. I would find a way to share them.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Father says sharply. “And you know why.”

  I look back and forth between them. The papers scratch my arm. I’m preparing to do what Father won’t. And I know it’s wrong.

  “I do what I can,” Father says. “Your inventor friends can attest to that.”

  Elliott nods. Father turns away as if he does not want to acknowledge Elliott’s understanding. His voice is bitter. “There isn’t anything we can really do, ever. Not when people destroy…” Father’s shoulders slump forward. He stumbles into his laboratory. The door doesn’t slam. Doors in the Akkadian Towers never do.

  “We should go,” Elliott says to me, smiling sadly. “None of us can do anything to save humanity this evening.” His hand, gently squeezing my wrist, says otherwise.

  I offer the rose I am holding to Mother. She’s already placed the others in a vase. I want to say something to her. “Good-bye,” or “It will be all right,” or maybe even “I love you,” but she’s intent on the flowers.

  Elliott leans close to her as we take the three steps to the door. “It was good to see you again, Catherine,” he says in a soft voice.

  Mother’s eyes flit from me to Elliott and back to me. She shakes her head, like she’s saying it isn’t good to see him again, but she can’t mean that. She’s flustered. Obviously they have met before.

  “Your parents disapprove of me,” Elliott says as we walk down the hall. I try to think of something nice to say, but he doesn’t give me a chance. “I’m used to it. Parents often disapprove of me.”

  I could ask him if he calls on many girls. But then he might think I care. So instead I ask, “Are your men still downstairs?”

  “For a few more days. I’ll leave a few to look after you and my mother. And April, when she returns.”

  We’ve reached the locked door that leads to the roof. I used to go up these stairs every day, before April came. She thought she was protecting me by having the heavy silver lock placed on the door.

  Elliott unlocks the door and gives me a little bow, indicating that I should proceed.

  “Why the flowers?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “I had to have some reason to visit you.”

  “To give me roses?”

  “Because I am passionately in love with you,” he says.

  I snort.

  He laughs.

  “The more I’m around, the less your parents will question my visits.”

  “I see.” I’m glad I didn’t ask him about other girls.

  The narrow stairway ends with another door.

  I hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. The rooftop holds many memories. Lonely ones from when we first moved here. I had never been so alone. Occasionally, as a child, I would wish for a few moments by myself, but not like that. Not forever.

  Then April returned from the prince’s palace to her childhood home.

  I open the door at the top of the staircase and stop on the landing. Wind whips around us.

  I remember the sensation well. I was crushed when April took this away from me. I wasn’t going to jump, but she believed I might. That day she insisted on dyeing my hair, trying to make me forgive her for meddling. When it was done, she pushed me in front of the mirror.

  “Look how pretty you are,” she said.

  I kept staring at the bright hair. I didn’t recognize myself.

  “It’s the first time you’ve looked in the mirror for more than half a second,” she said softly. “The first time you’ve looked in the mirror without seeing him.”

  Now the cold wind blows my unnaturally bright hair into my face.

  “It’s disheartening, isn’t it?” Elliott thinks my pained expression is caused by the state of the city.

  “Terrible,” I say.

  “With the destruction of the factory, the plans for producing masks are even more important. The quicker you get the information, the quicker we can get masks to the children.”

  He takes a flask from his pocket, reminding me so completely of April that it hurts.

  If I trust him, maybe we can find April. I can have a mask made for Henry. And maybe he really will overthrow the prince. I’m going to betray my father, and I hate myself for it.

  “I already have the blueprints,” I say.

  “You do?”

  I love his surprise.

  I had wanted to copy the plans before I gave them to him. But his hand is out, and I pull the papers from my sleeve, trading that opportunity for his approval.

  “You are amazing.” He scans the documents, holding them like they are the most precious papers in the world. At least he appreciates their worth. “Amazing,” he repeats. I hold his gaze. He takes a drink from the flask and then offers it to me. The liquor burns going down, but I don’t grimace.

  “Good girl.” His admiration warms me. “You aren’t what I expected.”

  I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.

  “I have to go,” he says abruptly. “But this is most helpful.”

  “Please copy the plans and get them back to me,” I say. “They were the only papers in the drawer. If Father opens it, he’ll know.”

  Elliott nods. “Of course.” But I don’t think he’s really listening. He’s staring out across the city. “It’s dismal right now,” he says. “But it will change.”

  I like the idea of making the world better, instead of hiding from all the ugliness. I don’t know if Elliott can keep any of his promises, but the prospect of finding out is the first thing that has given me hope in a long time.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  ELLIOTT WALKS ME DOWN TO PENTHOUSE B. After he leaves, I pace back and forth in my bedroom. Without him, my excitement gives way to a sort of despair, and I collapse onto my bed and cry.

  At bedtime, I gulp down my sleeping draft. There are no explosions in the night, but I still sleep poorly. I don’t tell Father that his medicine is no longer working for me. The dreams that I am not supposed to have are dark.

  The next morning is long and uneventful. I empty my makeup bag, spreading bottles and vials over the vanity table.

  Mother comes into my room without knocking.

  “I know why you were in your father’s laboratory,” she says.

  I freeze. My guilty response proves her suspicions. I can see disgust in her eyes.

  “Prospero’s nephew sent you there. He wants you to betray your family. I used to know him … when you and Finn lived underground with Father. He’s troubled. Araby, stay away from him.”

  I calculate quickly. “He couldn’t have been more than a boy.”

  “Old enough that I could see him for what he was, what he is.” She pauses, waiting for me to ask what she means. Waiting for me to turn and look her in the face.
I toy with a makeup brush. She puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “There are people who are honorable and good, like Finn. There are people like you and me, who try our best. And there are people who scorn everything that is good in this world.”

  Does she not see that leaving her children for a life of luxury was scorning something good?

  “He’s April’s brother.” I open a bottle of glitter. At the least I can hide my red eyes.

  “April was spared most of … what their uncle put him through.”

  We hear Father in the parlor, pacing back and forth. Our floors must be wearing thin from all the pacing. I put down the bottle and wait to see if Mother will tell me more, but she shakes her head and leaves my doorway.

  Father is still pacing an hour later when I emerge from my room. I want to slip over to the sideboard and pour myself a drink. But I don’t.

  “We might walk together later,” Father suggests. He starts to say something more, his face serious and sad, and I lean forward in anticipation, but then a chord from the piano startles both of us. Mother is playing—not one of her tinkling pleasant melodies, but something dramatic and harsh.

  It ruins everything. Father looks upset, heartbroken, like the music reminds him of something terrible. Whatever it is, the moment is over.

  Mother continues playing, the same song over and over. Is she playing something wrong? Trying to correct some error? There is no place in the apartment where I can escape from the sound.

  Father seems to feel the same way.

  “Maybe I should get my coat,” he says. “Do you think it’s cold outside?”

  The music stops.

  “Don’t go outside,” Mother says. “It’s dangerous.”

  Father turns to reassure her, but he’s interrupted by a steady rap at the front door.

  A dozen white roses nearly hide Elliott’s face.

  “Oh, how lovely,” Mother says before she can stop herself.

  He hands half the flowers to Mother and holds out the rest to me.

  “I was hoping Araby would do me the pleasure of joining me at the … er, at my club. Will you?” Elliott asks. The question is for me rather than my parents.