Chapter 105: Whispers in masquerade
Night panted fiercely as I entered the darkness, the midnight air heavy with summer breathing and something else—hope maybe, or deeply concealed fear beneath moon and satin. My skirt, a cascade of midnight-blue silk and tulle, fell around my legs as if cut from darkness. Small beading that traced out the bust glowed like embers with every movement step I made, catching and throwing back the dirty gleam of lamp posts at the villa entrance.
My mask was a feather mask, and it was a beautiful mask, with tiny chips of silver that glittered like shreds of star balls. It rested lightly on my face just enough to hide the secret of what I appeared to be, leaving my eyes and mouth open—two places where feelings were sure to seep in.
Caspian stood beside the car. Even under cover of the driveway, he was something out of a delirium. His black tuxedo enveloped him with a death's glow, neat and imperial. His mask—a dark green Venetian mask lined with gold—wrinkled up over the sharp bones of his face and cast shadows on his eyes making them look even darker. They met mine across the space between us and froze me there, captive to an instant filled with tension.
"You look…"
he began, his voice rough and raspy.
"So do you," I replied, my own voice a little caught.
He didn't need to continue. The rest of the sentence clung there like mist, unnecessary. His eyes crept over me slowly, warming and thickening the air more than the summer night allowed.
The engine purred, but with pent energy seething within the bounds of restraint. Our hands swept over the gearshift—a thoughtless, innocent caress—but neither of us moved. His hand stayed, his fingers inches from mine, and the tension between us hung like a suspended breath.
Outside the window, city lights melted into strands of gold and silver. The closer we came to the estate, the more forcefully music drummed—strings and laughter pouring out into the night like the shriek of a siren. Lanterns flared along the drive, casting whirling shadows dance along the sidewalk. The estate stretched out ahead of us, broad and tawdry, draped in ivy and soft lights that transformed it into a palace plucked from fantasy.
Inside, the ballroom was another universe—a universe that was, that was inviolate, that was timeless, where there were no laws but beauty. High ceilings vaulted with chandeliers, and rich tapestries on floor-to-ceiling windows. Masks of every color sparkled in candlelight, their wearers laughing, champagne-flipping, whirling across gleaming floors.
Caspian threw up his arm. "Will you lose yourself in fantasy?"
I hesitated for half a second before putting my hand in the crook of his elbow. "Let's pretend," I whispered.
He smiled, but not up to his eyes.
The music swelled up around us as we danced onto the floor. Caspian drew me into his arms with suave ease, our bodies slipping into the beat as if we'd never lost a step. The pressure of his hand on my waist, the curve of his other hand over mine—he was strong but not rigid, guiding without forcing.
"You waltz like you still practice," I teased, my own breathing almost collapsing over the music.
"I remember you," he gasped.
They slapped against me like the undertone of the tune—silent, but humming inside me. I rolled away half a step, my smile wavering. But Caspian did not let me go. He drew me forward, turned me around again, and for an instant, a few broken heartbeats, we were two strangers trapped in song.
But I couldn't help it—this crawling sensation at the back of my neck. The sense of being watched.
I turned around over my shoulder. The ballroom was a whirlwind of color and motion—partygoers spinning in jewel-toned clothes, laughter rising like bubbles to the ceiling. But there were no eyes upon me. Only masks. Only unreadable faces.
"Hey, you okay?" Caspian asked, his voice dropping.
"Yep," I replied too hastily. "Just a funny feeling."
He nodded, but his hand slid higher up my back, now possessive. Guarded.
We danced and drank and laughed into the night. We were at the masquerade, but still along its periphery. Every glance we shared, every brush of fingers on silk or flesh, was meaningful. We weren't dancing. We were stretching—both of us—toward something just out of reach.
Then we leaned out over the balustrade to catch some air. Night was cold, roses and damp stone in my lungs. Sky above in dark velvet, stars a scattering of shattered frost. I was leaning back against the balustrade, panting for air, trying to ease the ache in my chest.
"I've missed this," Caspian panted beside me. "Missed you."
I was standing in front of him. His mask had fallen off now, and his face confronted me, all its loveliness so piercingly cruel. His eyes darker than the sky overhead, his face naked.
"I'm here," I told him. But the words were not so firm as they needed to be.
He moved in one step closer. Space between us no longer existed. "Are you?" he asked quietly with a razor edge to his tone.
I had nothing to say. So I said nothing. I leaned in and kissed him instead. It was slow, questioning, an apology without words. When we pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, eyes closed.
"I'm trying," I whispered.
He nodded once. "Then I'll wait."
His words were simple, but they lingered there between us like a promise we didn't know how to keep.
We went back to the ballroom, arms around each other. The moment would have been perfect, and maybe it was—but there was that creeping sense again. Watching. Seen. Judged. It danced away from me, like the scent of air where there is none.
I did not glance back this time.
But on the edges of the crowd, by a pillar shrouded in silver, stood a man in black as rigid as a statue. He drank nothing. He laughed not. He just looked—eyes fixed upon me with chilly purpose.
Waiting.