Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death)

  This room is lit by glowing gaslight bulbs in a huge chandelier that dangles low over the dancers’ heads. The floor is mosaic tile, cool and elegant. The walls are purple, trimmed with gold, adorned with antique portraits, ladies and gentlemen in tall wigs posing with unnaturally thin dogs. Some feature gentlemen riding horses. In the corners of the room, ladies sip tea from china cups. Some have exposed legs; others wear skirts that touch the floor, like those from before the contagion.

  The doors here are not hidden; in fact, there are too many. Dozens of white columns line the wall, and between each pair is another door. All are propped halfway open. I look for mirrors or some other sort of illusion; this chamber cannot be as large as it seems.

  Across the room, I see April’s mother. I hadn’t expected to meet her here, and she’s the last person I want to see.

  As I try to decipher where the prince might have hidden an object of significance, she spots me and comes forward. The gold hair that both of her children have inherited is artfully arranged to hide the streaks of gray.

  My breathing becomes quick and shallow. I have to tell her. I’m going to have to look in her face and tell her.

  But she doesn’t ask about April.

  “Come.” She sweeps me across the room, out of the way of the revelers. Throughout the room, the guests are dancing, their ball gowns swirling around them.

  “We need to talk, you and I,” she says, in a tone that suggests we have spoken more than a few words before tonight. Her tone is crisp. When I would visit April, her mother always sounded overly friendly, as if she couldn’t believe anyone wanted to spend time with her daughter. But she sounds different tonight. It hits me that she’s speaking to me not as April’s friend, but as Elliott’s . . . whatever she believes I am to her son.

  I need to get away from her, but she’s holding my arm tightly, and I don’t think it’s in my best interest to cause a scene.

  She’s led me to the ladies with their china teacups and feathered fans. They wear lacy white masks and pastel dresses, in contrast to my dark, bold one.

  “You have to help Elliott,” April’s mother says. Sharp blue eyes peer at me through her mask. Pink feathers caress her cheek. “He won’t be able to kill his uncle,” she says. “The man has power over him. You have to find someone who can actually kill the prince.”

  “Elliott hates his uncle,” I tell her. I’ve run my hands over the network of scars on his back. I know a little of what Prospero put him through.

  “He does. But that doesn’t mean he can do what needs to be done. When you were here before, the prince poisoned you, yes?”

  When I nod, the sapphires at my throat jab again into the delicate skin.

  “You were alone in a carriage with Prospero. Elliott was planning a rebellion. Did you never wonder why Elliott didn’t kill him then?”

  I stare at her. What is she suggesting?

  “Do you think that he didn’t have a weapon, hidden somewhere? Or did you doubt that Elliott could kill a man with his bare hands? His uncle trained him very, very well.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I whisper.

  Around us, ladies sip their tea to the sounds of stringed instruments from some hidden alcove. Everything in this place is hidden under layers of deception. Like this woman’s motives.

  “Every day Prince Prospero is alive is a day that he will cause suffering.”

  “I understand,” I say. And I agree with her.

  “Elliott chose wisely in you. Share a drink with me before you got to the next room.” She heads for a table covered with silver goblets.

  I haven’t found whatever’s hidden in this room, but I can’t stand to share a drink with this woman, when I know her daughter is dead and she does not. I can return to this room after I’ve found the other items.

  People come and go. But I realize that they aren’t really leaving. They waltz through one door and then back in through the next. It’s a series of closed-in arches rather than passages to another room. But to the left is a wall draped with purple hangings. I’m guessing that, as in the last room, the main door is obscured. Edging forward, I’m about to brush one of the curtains aside when a guard blocks my way. He smiles and pulls a vicious-looking knife from a sheath at his side. So this is what happens if I try to move on without succeeding in my search. I take a step, as if to challenge him, but the extent of his smile unnerves me, and finally I step back. It’s Prospero’s palace, after all. He makes the rules.

  April’s mother is watching me. She raises her goblet in a mock toast. It’s silver, like the one the prince used to poison me. What does she know? As April’s mother sets her cup on the table, I see that a purple ribbon has been tied around the heavy stem of one of the goblets, and I lunge forward to take it.

  Inside is Henry’s toy airship.

  I spill it into my hand. Is this supposed to tell me that Henry is in danger, that somehow the prince has found not only the treasured toy, but the child? I deny the sudden crippling fear. Henry and Elise are safe. It’s Will I need to worry about. As I drop the toy into the bag, April’s mother melts into the crowd. And the gong of the clock sounds once again, clear, loud, and deep.

  Does it mark the hours, or my progress? It doesn’t seem long enough for an hour to have passed.

  I square my shoulders and move on, ignoring the dozens of open doors. Instead I go back to the wall covered with purple silk curtains. I push the first aside only to see bare stone, but the second one reveals a narrow passage. It leads to a room that is completely green, from the tapestries on the walls to the ornaments on tables.

  A woman steps into my path and says, “At your age, you should be married.” When I dodge her, I end up on the dance floor, nearly colliding with a pair of revelers. I stumble out of their way and look up to see a figure approaching me from across the room. He looks no different than the other revelers in his dark suit and vest. But the black mask accentuates his fair hair.

  The first time I came to this terrible place, Prince Prospero said that at a masked ball, I might not even recognize his nephew.

  But I know Elliott. He is all subtle grace and elegant menace.

  Elliott’s on my side. He can help me through this maze. Help me find and kill Prospero.

  The green-tiled floor is filled with dancers.

  But someone, somewhere, is watching me, recording my progress, and even as I allow Elliott to take me into his arms, as one hand moves to my shoulder and the other to my waist, I know that whether Elliott realizes it or not, this meeting is on Prospero’s terms. That I can’t let myself be swept up in the relief of not being alone. Even in Elliott’s arms, it’s still me against Prospero.

  We glide across the floor without speaking.

  Finally he says, “If you see Will, tell him I want that walking stick back. It once belonged to the mayor of the city, and as such, was precious to me for a long time. I thought it was all I had left of my fath—”

  “Prospero has Will and my mother.” I cut him off, his teasing tone not sitting well with me.

  “Where’s April?”

  I hate telling him like this, in the middle of all these people. I reach up, putting my hand to the front of his well-cut coat. And that’s when I see that a slender green ribbon has been affixed right above the pocket of his vest. Somehow Prospero has pulled Elliott in, hopefully unwittingly, and made him a part of his game. At least now I don’t have to search this room. What I need is right in front of me. But first I have to tell him about his sister.

  “Elliott, April is dead.”

  He misses a step. And then another. A pair of dancers collides with us, hard, and I’m knocked out of Elliott’s arms. He stands there stunned, and guilty, and altogether too young for the amount of responsibility he has taken on.

  The couple who crashed into us find their rhythm and glide past. Elliott closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they are bright with unshed tears. He doesn’t ask for details, and for that I am thankful.

&nbs
p; “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “I came for food,” he says. “And weapons. Thousands of people sought out my protection. With what Prospero has here, I can care for them.”

  Despite everything, he could make a good ruler.

  “And to look for you,” he says, but he says it dispassionately. As if I am something he misplaced. “After you rescued those girls, the city was abuzz with rumors about the scientist’s daughter. I need you, at least until I’ve shored up my support.”

  Now the emotion is in his voice. A sort of longing that makes my heart ache. Because it isn’t for me. Not anymore. Our feelings are so twisted and confused. We don’t love each other, not in the way that begets complete trust and sacrifice. Not the way I need to be loved.

  Elliott wants to use me. April once told me that Elliott liked poetry better than women. She should have said power. But I promised to be by his side.

  “I will always help you, however I can,” I whisper, inching my hand from where I was holding his forearm, toward the pocket and the green ribbon. “How did you get in?” I ask. “Did Prospero send men after you that night in the Tower?”

  “No, your father and I escaped that night. I took the clockmaker’s invitation.”

  Did he kill the clockmaker? The horrible suspicion makes me stumble, though Elliott catches me. I don’t meet his eyes. He’s ruthless. I am trying to be. In the end, maybe we will be the same, but I’m not there yet.

  “I told you not to trust me,” he says, and smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. And I don’t trust him. Whether he’s telling the truth or not, he’s not here without Prospero’s knowledge. I thrust my hand into his pocket and pull out the ribbon.

  Elliott jerks away, releasing his hold on my arms. I trip over my feet and fall to the floor, a heap of skirts, and stare at what is lying in the palm of my hand.

  I’ve never seen it before in my life.

  It’s a small gold pocket watch. I press the release, and it springs open. Inside, there’s an inscription: TO FINN. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. LOVE, PAPA.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask.

  The distant clock tolls.

  For a few moments everyone on the dance floor freezes. Listening? Waiting?

  Elliott extends a hand to pull me to my feet, but I wave it away. On the floor, I finally have a chance to untie my dagger. Removing it from beneath the midnight-blue skirts, I slide it, along with the small gold watch, into the black satin bag.

  Then I climb to my feet without his help.

  “I am sorry,” I say. Apologizing for having to tell him about April. For not loving him. For the death of whatever might have been between us.

  He puts his hand under my chin and raises it.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I can’t afford distractions, not now. Not even pretty ones.”

  The music ends.

  In a ripple of movement, people begin to bow. The prince has mounted a dais in the center of the room. The musicians stare at him in apparent surprise.

  The clock strikes once, a different peal than the one I’ve heard before. Deafening. The lights flicker, and a woman screams. Even the prince is completely still.

  And I am alone. Elliott is gone. While I was watching Prospero, Elliott abandoned me. Without telling me how Finn’s watch ended up in his pocket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MY KNIFE IS WITHIN REACH, AND SO IS THE PRINCE.

  I edge closer to the dais. Now that the shock of the clock striking has worn off, people are moving again. The prince claps his hands and tumblers flip into the room, pushing the guests back to the walls. My eyes are still trained on Prospero, but then a man grabs me, and holds me in place, just for a moment. It’s long enough for the prince to disappear.

  To force me to continue the game.

  I find a door at the back of the room leading to two staircases. One goes up, and the other down. Which to choose? In the end, surely they will all lead me back to wherever Prospero wants me to go.

  Holding the black bag, and my knife, close, I go up and through an arched entryway into a room that hurts my eyes. Everything burns orange.

  Contortionists do tricks on a brightly lit stage, and servants in orange dresses circulate with drinks.

  Guests kiss in the corners. And on low divans, and on the dance floor. My face burning, I thread my way though. A servant hands me a chilled beverage, but instead of drinking, I rub the cool glass across my forehead. This room is very hot.

  Dozens of shiny objects have been suspended from the ceiling on nearly transparent strings, so they appear to be floating. A diamond catches the light and flashes. I can’t escape from Elliott’s ring. As many times as I’ve traded it or given it away, it always returns. This time with a finger inside. It hangs from the ceiling, shimmering. The nail bed of the severed finger is covered with dried blood. I try not to imagine how it got that way, whose finger it was.

  I slide the ring from the finger and drop it into my black purse. And then, before the gong can sound, I stumble out of the room, into a long corridor. No one interferes or follows. My footsteps echo.

  It’s mostly empty and drab after the decadence of the room behind me. Could I have left the path I was meant to follow? But no, signs have been scrawled above each door of the corridor. Elliott’s eye symbol. The red scythe. I stop before a door covered with mathematical equations. It reminds me of father’s incessant scribbling, and of solid, dependable Kent. I have something that reminds me of Elliott, of Finn, of Will, and of the Debauchery Club. Could the next be something of my father’s?

  I choose the equation door, but have no idea if it’s the right decision. Behind it is a quiet room, not a lavish ball.

  As I look around the room, I realize that it feels familiar. It is almost the same as our sitting room in the Akkadian Towers. I tiptoe closer to the white curtains. Behind them is a garden nearly identical to ours except for a stunted sycamore tree in the center.

  Leaning against its trunk is a figure dressed in black robes. A mask streaked with red tears covers his entire face. He is holding a scythe.

  If Prospero had captured Reverend Malcontent, why would he place him in this garden, instead of using him as part of his gruesome entertainment?

  But then the figure reaches up to adjust his mask, and I know his hands. The same hands that held me during the parade, that soothed me, that gave me sleeping drafts night after endless night.

  I fear death like everyone else, but this is only my father.

  And then he sees me. He raises his hand, as if to ask me what I am doing here. Covered in dark robes, he picks his way to the glass door that separates us. On my side, it is in an alcove, mimicking the closet Elliott took me through in Penthouse A.

  The door of the garden slides open.

  “Araby,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Father.” I throw my arms around him.

  “Not too close,” he says. But still, he pulls me into him, crushing me against his chest. “Find your mother and get out of here, as far away as you can.”

  I don’t have to ask why he’s here. With his disguise, with everything the prince has done to our family, Father is here for revenge.

  And he deserves his vengeance. But I traded my safety for his.

  “You need to go back to the city,” I say. “The prince would love to kill you.”

  “My life isn’t worth anything,” he says.

  “It is to me,” I say, “and to Mother. Please. You go. I can kill the prince, but you’re the only one who can help the people dying in the city.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says. “So very sorry.” There is so much regret in his voice that I think he’s apologizing for all the deaths, for Finn. The atrocities I’ve been waiting for him to atone for. “I can’t let you do this. I should never have let you trade your safety for mine. If you die, then I have nothing to live for.”

  He pushes me into the garden and slams the door. I hear the deadbolt slide home.

 
“No!” I throw myself at the window. Father turns away, dramatic in his costume. I pound the glass with my fists and scream for him to let me out, but he doesn’t even look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I DON’T WASTE A MOMENT. IF THIS GARDEN IS A replica of the one in the Akkadian Towers, then there must be a trapdoor leading out. Father didn’t cover his tracks; he didn’t expect to be locking me inside. I can see where the earth is disturbed, and I feel something metallic beneath my heels. The trapdoor. As I kneel, frantic to clear it, I see something else in the dirt. Father’s glasses, tied with a white ribbon. The ones the man in the alley gave me to convince me that Father was dead. Did Prospero go through my room at the Debauchery Club? And does Prospero know Father’s here, or is this simply a twisted reminder of the hero I thought my father was?

  Clearing the hatch is messy but not difficult. As I work, the clock strikes again. I pry the door open and peer into the smoky darkness. This opening has no ladder.

  The room below does not seem to be a closet like the one in the Akkadian Tower, but part of a larger chamber. Voices and laughter float up.

  I swing down, wincing at the pain in my bad shoulder. My dress makes a horrible tearing sound as I fall to the floor with a thump. I’m in a long antechamber.

  At the end of the room is an archway. People stand beneath it, their eyes pass over me, but none of them seem surprised that I’ve appeared through a hole in the ceiling. I take a deep breath but choke before I’ve fully inhaled. Directly in front of me, a man lights a pipe. The smoke that billows around him is more than any one pipe could produce.

  The walls of this new room are covered with lavender silk. The lights are low and purplish, streaming through windows with leaded violet panes. Low couches line the walls, and people recline upon them, laughing quietly. The conversation here is intimate, sedate.

  On a low table is an assortment of implements. Syringes, pipes. Gauzy curtains caress my face.

  “This is the good stuff,” a girl murmurs. “It’s been in the prince’s storehouse for years. They say it gets better with age.”