Lancing me with the memory of my mother is low, even for him. “She wouldn’t want to attend this, either. She hated your balls.”
“Katherine might’ve hated them, but she would never tolerate this behavior and you know it.” As much as my mother preferred books to balls, she did always attend social functionswith a smile on her face and encouraged me to do the same. So, he’s right, but I’m not going to tell him that. “If you can’t be relied upon to attend a ball, how the hell am I supposed to entrust you with the region?”
“Looks like neither of us has a choice in that, do we?”
Papa sighs, evidently weary and exhausted with me. “I am only asking you to attend a goddamn ball, Luciana. I want to see you downstairs in less than ten minutes.”
My hand goes up in salute as I stand. “Yes, sir, Leader Piccolo, sir.”
His expression softens only a tad as he looks me up and down. Papa gets that look in his eyes every so often when he sees my mother in me. She did it better, of course. She did everything better. But our resemblance is a more powerful weapon than her memory. “That is a nice dress. You look lovely,principessa.”
“Thank you, Papa.” I pluck his mask from the breast pocket of his coat, securing it around his head. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. Promise.” Planting a quick kiss on his cheek, I turn his wide frame around and usher him out the door.
I wrangle myself into impossibly high heels, bringing my tallness to new heights. During events in which I know I’ll be thrust toward some rich man’s salivating son, it’s an inner delight to truly tower over them. Giving my dress a once-over, I run my fingers along the real emeralds stitched into the matching emerald-colored fabric, shimmering with every subtle movement of my body. My mask matches in aesthetic, made from finely crafted mahogany. Shooting up from the left side is a bright bouquet of exotic feathers in orange, red, and yellow. I am a tree in the midst of autumn—beautiful, but in the throes of death.
The servants lingering outside my door erupt in a chorus of hushed “oohs” and “aahs.” I want to roll my eyes at the dramatics, but good breeding forces a polite smile at theirprofuse adoration. It isn’t their fault. Papa pays them to make me feel good about myself. There is always someone on payroll to tell me how beautiful, how smart, how funny I am. With that inflated sense of self-worth it’s a wonder I fit through any doorways at all.
But I do, and I find myself making the familiar trip toward the busy kitchen. Using my foot to prop open the door, the gust of room temperature air hits the sweating chefs and distracts Jean enough to glance over at the source of prolonged relief. Jean resembles a twentieth-century movie villain, complete with nefarious eyebrows, skinny physique, and a sloping nose he looks down to talk to anyone. He’s a twirling mustache and top hat away from tying a damsel to a railroad track, but a kind heart beats beneath his standoffish French exterior.
“Your dress is magnificent,” he says with an unnecessary half bow toward me. “Like a beautifullibellule.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”A server hoisting a silver platter whizzes past us. “How much could I pay you to hide me in here?”
“Like when you were a little girl, yes? Hiding from tutors and your parents.” He grins, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. “Can barely see you underneath this mask. Your mother gave you that pretty face and that pretty hair and yet, you hide.”
“That’s the point of a masquerade, is it not? Disguise yourself? Be someone else for a night?”
One of the servers greets me by name as she passes. I’d respond in kind if I had any idea who she is, so I smile politely and nod. Papa has close to fifty people employed at the mansion full time, and for these events the number is at least doubled. Knowing their names would be a full-time job unto itself.
“You don’t want to be you? These people here would kill to be you.”
I’m about to heartily disagree when Jean gasps as if he’s been shot. “Oh, no, no, no! The dough should be golden brown on the ends! Do not serve thismerdeto the guests.”
It looks fine to me, but if Jean’s reaction is anything to go by, these pastries are as inedible as bootstraps.
“I am so sorry, Luciana. I will see you tomorrow because I have to watch over everymietteleaving the kitchen. Otherwise.” He slides his finger across his throat. Jean can rest easy. Considering Papa’s gluttonous gift for excess, the last person he would fire would be the chef.
Temporarily anonymous by virtue of my mask, I stalk around my ballroom unnoticed. The last thing I want to do is draw attention, lest Papa catch wind I’m downstairs and force me to meet good ol’ Jimmy’s son. I’d rather eat my own hair. I’d even eat someone else’s hair.
I mill about, picking up bits and pieces of conversations: snippets of gossip or unsolicited advice, drunken rants, and salacious whispers. Most of it is drivel or rumors below my level of interest, until I’m near the edge of the ballroom by the garden windows. In the daytime these windows showcase exotic flowers Papa has imported, but at night it looks like an ominous jungle with dangers lurking inside. The ballroom has never been my favorite place in our mansion. It’s cavernous and gaudy, like a bygone relic from the reign of a Russian czar. Gold trim, immense oil paintings, heavy draperies, skylights, and Doric columns just shy of flagrantly phallic.
“Did you hear about Silas?” A hook-nosed man and his short companion stand near a pillar, heads bowed together in close conversation. Casually I glide to the other side of the pillar, my back to them, watching over my shoulder.
“Oh, certainly,” his companion replies.
“Murdered in his sleep. Slit throat.” The hook-nosed man gossiping uses his index finger to swipe across his neck like Jeandid, but this time it’s not an exaggeration. “All the kids found dead, too, and his pretty young wife.”
“Heavens! The Order, I presume?”
“The same. They are so brazen nowadays. I heard rumors they took out top brass in other regions, you know,” he says in a gossipy whisper. “Silas lost nearly every one of the high-ranking men in his military before his murder. Leader Reed’s top two consultants, missing. Leader Thorne’s top Duster? Dead.” They share a look of vague concern.
“What do they want?” the ugly man inquires of his companion. “Democracy? Democracy was a theory, like Communism. Was this not proven in the Rift? You cannot sustain a country on ideals. Uneducated fools, the lot of them. They’ll doom us all.”
Perhaps I should comment about how gravity is also a theory, but no one is floating around the room. I don’t.
Our ballroom is awash in rumors and scandal; it’s as prevalent in the air as music. On their lips is the fate of Silas McGovern—or their worries and bets on who the next target will be. Others blissfully engage in more benign conversation about inter-region trade or extramarital affairs. The only truly useful information I gather is from those who doubt Papa’s ability to combat a rebel force. I make a mental note of them; Papa will want to know about it later.
“Savages.” An old woman sips from her martini glass, held in diamond-encrusted fingers. “Killing innocent children? The Order of Prometheus is no harbinger of peace. They’re…violent radicals.”
