Page 46 of Red Masquerade

I trailed my fingers along the fountain and shivered when the frigid stone sent a zing up my arm. The air cooled, the late afternoon slowly turning to evening, and I had not realized how long I had stayed out, wandering the city. Stepping off the path, the dirt was damp beneath my feet, grass reaching up and tickling my ankles. There were benches placed around, moss growing up the sturdy legs. In the far corner was a sycamore tree, which I made my way toward. It was planted so far from the house, with the hope it would be able to grow large, without consideration for the surrounding lots, and one day, it’d have to be cut down and used for wood, before it could really begin its centuries-old life. What things this tree could see, if not for human folly.

I sat beneath it, my back against the rough trunk, and let my weight sink into the ground. If anyone came looking, I’d be hidden away, unless they came off the path to search for me. Just as I wanted it.

I could still hear the traffic, the buzz of the street, but my eyes told me a different story, and it was easy to block out the noise.

And though I sat there for upwards of an hour, as the sun began to set and the sky turned to crimson, then violet, it wasn’t until I brushed the grass next to me that I realized a single rose had been set curiously upon the ground—a deep maroon, stainedblack at the petal-edges, its long stem tucked into the roots of the sycamore. As though someone had left it. Though who would’ve known of this spot?

Suddenly came the memory of Adam with the flower, waiting for me outside the house, while I foolishly believed I could save him from my brother. The same flower, bringing forth all the feelings of my past for the umpteenth time this day. And a small part of me hoped it was Adam—not Vince, whoever he was now—who left it for me to find.

When I reached for the stem, I pulled away quickly, pricking myself on its thorns, and bringing my finger to my lips, sucking away the blood it had drawn so easily.

Fifteen

The dressmaker’s shop was charming, as always, but I could not bring myself to examine the fabrics with any sort of eagerness. Mother insisted on purchasing a few new gowns for the arrival of my coming beau, but the luster of expanding my wardrobe had ceased to exist.

“What about this? It’s a very nice silk.” Mother ran her fingers over a bolt of cool blue, glossy in the light of the lamps overhead. She did not look at me as she moved from fabric to fabric, silk to linen to chiffon; fabrics which seemed to shimmer, to move like water against her fingers.

I followed her absentmindedly.

There was still a small red dot on my finger; I had placed the rose in a vase in my room and forbidden the maid to touch it. It had been only a day or so, but its blood-redpetals remained.

Who had left it? Perhaps a servant’s own gift left absentmindedly behind?

Or was it forme?

I told Flora of it over the phone that evening, conveniently forgetting to tell her about the lunch with Lucas, and she speculated about the rose’s origins, slyly suggesting that perhaps Adam remembered hopping the gate when we were younger.

In visits past to the dressmaker, I would have scoured the shop for the perfect color, the perfect feel. Would have insisted on trying the model dresses on to find the right fit, even if I had to pull a dress from the window. The mannequins posed against the glass, still, like dolls, looking out upon the street, safe from the misting rain cascading from the dark gray clouds above the city.

I could not bring myself to raise my hands to touch, to do anything but hug myself, like the chill in the air was too much to bear. Though it wasn’t the bitter air that made me shiver.

“Helena.”

Mother’s brow was raised.

I glanced at the bolt of fabric. “It’s alright,” I said.

Silk was silk. In the end, my mother would purchase whatever she saw fit enough for my brother, for any other “respectable” man. She was prone to choosing silhouettes that mimicked those of decades past, more traditional looks that were no longer in fashion, but what she deemed proper: skirts that went past my knees, necklines that covered my shoulders; corsets and sleeves and bustles.

To be a mannequin. To be always dressed in the fashion of the day, to be the epitome of the present.

I raked my eyes over the shop. The seamstress was busy with another customer, but she kept glancing our way. She knew my mother, knew that our purchase would not be small.

“Pay attention,” my mother said under her breath, moving a little closer, lest the seamstress or other customer hear her chastising. “This is important.”

Yes, it was important. Toher.

What would Adam like? The thought appeared in my mind before I could warn it away. Not any of the other men that I had taken a fancy to in recent months. But the man who had looked down upon the party like a king, who had saved me from a lunatic; the man with my lost lover’s eyes.

“Are you looking forward to meeting him?”

“Who?”

A glare. “Lord Highsmith.”

Lord Highsmith. His name had been revealed to me that morning, a slip of the tongue by Lucas, his eyes delighted when he saw the nausea sweep through me at the prospect.

With a name, this became real.