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The salon was far livelier than I had expected. No one appeared to be in a rush. Conversations flowed as easily as the laughter. Charlotte moved effortlessly between stories, introductions, and compliments. At various points, she and I discussed books, travel, disastrous fashion choices, and memorable opera performances.

One of the stylists passed, smiling at us. “How long have you two been friends?”

Charlotte and I exchanged a glance. “About a week,” I admitted.

She blinked. “Really? I’d have guessed years.”

Charlotte laughed. “Well, that is officially my favorite thing anyone has said all morning.”

She smiled and continued on her way. I sat back and enjoyed the services. My nails were painted a pale pink that contrasted with my sapphire pedicure, while my hair received a deep conditioning treatment and the voluminous blowout I always preferred. As the stylist finished, I remembered something another stylist had once told me: The higher the hair, the closer to heaven.

I glanced over at Charlotte. She had chosen a French manicure and pedicure. Her hair had been swept into a soft half updo, loose strands framing her face. She looked beautiful, though by now that was hardly the most interesting thing about her.

“Did your dress arrive last night?” she asked.

“It did. And yours?”

“Marcus brought it up.”

I turned toward her. “Marcus?”

“Yes, Marcus Barrett. He runs security for the Hall. Apparently he was passing through the lobby when it arrived.” She said it casually enough that I thought nothing more of it. The stylist made one final adjustment to Charlotte’s hair before stepping back. I looked at my new friend.

“Charlotte, you look stunning.”

“Well, thank you.”

“And… thank you. For yesterday. And today.”

Her smile softened. “You’re very welcome.”

As we walked out of the salon, she pulled me in for a tight embrace while giving me instructions to be in front of the Opera House doors precisely on time. “Failure to do so will be interpreted as a personal betrayal,” she declared with complete seriousness.

“Noted.”

Outside, daylight gradually surrendered to evening. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had softened as dusk settled over the gardens, turning them into silhouettes of silver and shadow. The corridors of the residential building were noticeably quieter as I made my way back to the suite. The evening had not begun, yet the entire building seemed suspended in expectation.

When I reached my suite, something unfamiliar waited on the small console beside my door. The vase of fresh flowers that usually occupied one end had been joined by a box wrapped in midnight-blue paper embossed with the Blackwood crest and tied with a silver ribbon.

For Emilia.

I carried the box into my suite and closed the door behind me. Unable to resist, I untied the ribbon. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, rested the most beautiful masquerade mask I had ever seen. Delicate silver filigree traced intricate patterns across its surface, elegant enough to feel timeless rather than theatrical. Small sapphire stones had been set throughout, their color remarkably close to the sapphire of my gown. I glanced from the mask to the gown hanging nearby, unable to imagine how whoever had chosen it could have known what I intended to wear.

This wasn’t something that had simply been purchased. It had been chosen. Beneath the mask rested a folded card.

For this evening’s masquerade.

Nothing more. No signature. No explanation. I stood there, turning the mask carefully in my hands while the last of the daylight caught against the silver and sapphire. Buying the dress had made the masquerade real.

Holding the mask, it felt inevitable.

* * *

Alexander

The masquerade gala had arrived.

Somewhere below, Blackwood Hall was filling with guests, quartets were beginning to play, and the Opera House was nearly ready for the evening. I finished dressing in the solitude of my suite. I fastened my silver cuff links and pulled on my jacket before turning my attention to the mask waiting for me in front of the mirror. Mine concealed nearly half of my face. Most years, I had seen little purpose in hiding at an event held beneath my own roof. Tonight, anonymity held considerably more appeal.