Page 7 of Red Masquerade

But I was entranced by a different figure.

High above it all, a man, easy to miss, standing upon the balcony of the stairs. His being solitary cast a beacon upon him. Hands splayed out on the banister, his head turned, so I saw only his profile. I could not see his features, just that his hair was long and dark—unfashionable to anyone else—and there was a sobering look about him as he gazed down upon his revelers. Atrue king of his court, feeding the masses, giving them their bread and circuses.

And somehow, like there was no one else in the room, his eyes found mine. I could feel it, deep inside me, like he had shot a bow and arrow straight at me. His eyes cut through me, dissected me.

I gasped.

A harsh grab to my arm. Dixon pulled me out of the reverie. “We should leave.”

“Leave?” Flora gasped. “It’s not even that late! We just got here!”

I opened my mouth to retort, but it died on my tongue.

Dixon dragged us off immediately.

I felt entirely like I had just seen a ghost.

Felt it in my bones that I had looked up at a dead man.

And when I peeked over my shoulder once more, that man was gone. Eaten up by the crowd, as though he were a wraith and had never existed at all.

Three

Six Years Ago

We collided on a street corner.

I was waiting for my family’s driver to pick me up. He was walking home from work. And we ran into each other with the finality of a supernova.

I did not know then that it would become what they call a whirlwind romance. I didn’t know how much he would mean to me.

He was disheveled. There was a smear of dirt on his cheek, a tiredness to his eyes that only darkened to disdain when he saw how nicely I was dressed; how clean I was. The expectation that I’d yell at him for running into me—even though it was likely my fault—just because I clearly came from a wealthier family. Disdain for the purse at my wrist, the crisp dress I wore, the short heels.

But I only laughed and watched as confusion, then relief, fell upon him.

He was attractive. I could see it, even under his hard exterior. His hair was a dark brown that shone red in the sunlight. There were creases at the corners of his light hazel eyes when he tentatively returned my smile. He took off his cap, strands of his hair falling in his eyes.

“Apologies,” he said, somewhat quietly, but his voice was assured, strong.

“Don’t apologize! I should have been watching where I was going.” I smiled, unable to look away from him.

I wasn’t sure what it was about him; he was perhaps ordinary in every way, except for that we’d run into each other.

His eyes roved over me, taking note of my dress, my shawl, my curled hair. The white gloves covering my fingers.

Though it was the truth, a man of his station would be expected to defer to me. To take the blame, to take the verbal lashing I should throw at him. He expected it.

But I would never; I wasn’t Lucas, and I wasn’t my mother.

“Perhaps we’re both a bit caught up in our heads, then, yeah?” he said. His accent was rounder, curling around my neck and my ears as he spoke. It was then I noticed his fingers were stained in black—grease? Ink?—with smudges on his trousers about where his hands would reach, as though he wiped his fingers as he worked.

Of course he worked.

God, what if he was employed in one of our factories?

My cheeks reddened with a peculiar embarrassment. What if he already knew who I was?

“What do you do?” I blurted.