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When its cry died down, snuffing out at last with a lingering, mournful echo, Isobel could hear nothing but the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears. That, and the quiet turning over of the clock’s innermost mechanisms.
She’d been here before, she realized, if only in her mind. It was exactly as she’d imagined it too. Every detail. Down to the clock that now towered over her, real as life itself.
Then the clangs came, dull and droning, and the seed of Isobel’s fear grew.
She rushed back toward the clock, but any trace of the door she’d entered through had vanished. In its place, a silver pendulum close to Isobel’s own size swung to and fro just as the lightbulb had. It swayed back and forth as the clock chimed the hour.
Four. Five. Six.
Wait. What time was it?
Nine. Ten.
Isobel’s eyes rose to the face of the clock. One long spearlike hand aimed at twelve, the other, shorter hand at eleven. She listened as the last chime throbbed around her until it dissolved into nothingness.
There was a beat of pure silence. The gears in the clock finished turning, and then a woman’s light laughter trickled from some chamber far away. It was followed by the pluck of strings and the immediate build of voices. The music started again, and somewhere, a champagne cork popped.
No. No. No. This wasn’t real. She placed a hand to her forehead, trying to backtrack through her memory, to recall in reverse order the night’s events. This couldn’t be happening. She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming.
The clock’s pendulum sliced through the air like a scythe, reaping the seconds. With each pass, its ornately engraved silver surface flashed a mottled version of Isobel’s reflection.
The pendulum passed again, revealing in the circle of silver the white face of an empty-eyed figure, one which now stood behind Isobel.
She gasped and swung around, nearly tumbling backward into the clock.
There was no one. Her eyes darted, catching the tail end of the fleeting shadows thrown by the flickering light of the bloodred windows.
She looked back at the clock and the pendulum passed again, reflecting only her own image. Isobel took a step back. She looked up at the clock and saw the minute hand twitch. She turned and ran for the violet archway.
Midnight. That was when it had happened in the story. That was when it would happen, she realized with renewed panic. Wherever she was, whatever was going on, dream or not—she had an hour. One hour. To do what? To find the door Varen told her to find? Did he think she would leave him? And if she couldn’t find him before midnight, then what?
Isobel pushed the thought out of her mind and passed through the archway, eager to escape the black chamber. Violet walls hugged in close around her in a short, curving, almost tunnel-like passageway. It funneled her into another room of about the same size, this one sharp violet with windows cut to resemble amethyst jewels.
Where the black chamber had been empty, people stood scattered throughout the violet, dressed like peacocks and jesters, demons and queens. There were feather masks and silk masks, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks. Countless golden ornaments hung suspended from the ceiling, filling the space like a gilded solar system. A young woman decked in white ostrich feathers and diamonds lay stretched on a divan. Her ivory slipper hanging from one toe, a glass of wine in each hand, she laughed hysterically as a tiny man in a green and yellow jester’s costume took one false fall after another.
Isobel scanned their masked faces, their forms, looking for anyone—anything—familiar. She pushed through the room and wove her way around groups and couples.
Reaching the archway to the next room, she had to pull herself back to one side to avoid being trampled by a long train of revelers. Hands linked, they rushed past her, screaming and shrieking with laughter. The last person in line, a man wearing a floppy-eared dog mask, reached to grab her hand, to pull her along. Isobel fell away from him, half stumbling into the next room.
This chamber, white as snow and decorated in pastels, opened large and wide around a circular dance floor filled with revolving dancers. Gilt details chased the curved walls and netted the domed ceiling far above. The whole room glistened and sparkled like the inside of a Fabergé egg.
Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sat huddled in one corner. They played their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insects they represented.
The rhythm they kept was a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turned like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.
Powdered and pale, the women looked like stale pastries. Tall and with garish, pointed masks, the men seemed like predators.
She caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. He turned away, locked in dance with a dark-haired girl in red.
“Varen!” Isobel ran onto the crystal tiled floor, dodging between dancers, ducking below gloved arms and snapping fans. She lost sight of them, then saw the couple again and pressed toward them once more. She was sure it was him. His hair, his height and frame—they matched. And the girl. Had it been Lacy?
She ran straight for them, shoving to get through. The couple disappeared and reappeared in flashes through the web of costumed courtiers. They twirled in front of her, glided behind her—then just beside. She felt the brush of the red skirts against her leg as they passed, and she fought to follow them, forcing her way through the linked arms of one couple.
Reaching them at last, she grasped his shoulder. He turned. Black eyes stared down at her though the holes of an equally black bird’s mask. The figure smiled, flashing crimson teeth.
“Care to cut in, cheerleader?” Pinfeathers asked. He moved aside from the arms of the girl in red, revealing her dress to be the twin of Lacy’s, complete with the stains that Isobel had caused earlier. In fact, everything was Lacy. Everything except for the featureless, fleshy space where her face should have been.
Isobel uttered a sound of shock. Pinfeathers took up her hands, pulling her to him.
