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1
Isabelle
A masquerade ball. What can be more beautiful? More perfect? Especially one put on by The Society.
Bouquets of flowers spill over tables set with the best china. Waiters serve champagne in crystal flutes and an eight-piece orchestra plays a waltz beneath the dazzling glow of a dozen chandeliers.
It’s every girl’s fantasy.
Every girl but me.
I stand in the shadows and watch the dancers. Men and women move together as if they’ve practiced this all their lives. I wonder if they are guests or professional dancers hired by The Society to add to the ambiance. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter because I’m pretty sure I didn’t look like they do when I danced with the stream of men my brother, Carlton, arranged for me.
I shudder at the thought of my last dance partner. A man old enough to be my grandfather.
A breeze blows into the grand Baroque ballroom as someone opens a window a few feet from me. The rain has slowed to a drizzle and the room is muggy even with the air conditioning running on high.
After a quick glance to confirm Carlton isn’t watching, I drink the last of my champagne and set the empty flute on a nearby table. I slip quietly toward the exit and out the double French doors that stand open, in spite of the damp night.
In the courtyard, small tents have been erected to protect guests from the rain. They’re decorated with warmly glowing lanterns and too many flowers to count. Men and women collect beneath the tents drinking, smoking their cigarettes and laughing too loudly.
Everyone turns to look at me as I pass. It’s the dress. It’s ridiculous with its feather skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh and the cinched waist of the corset top which is seriously limiting my oxygen supply. Carlton’s choice. It showed all my best attributes apparently. At least the mask, which I liken to chainmail, leaves only my eyes on display.
The mask is pretty with it’s delicate gold chains and coins brushing my shoulders with each step. And it offers some protection from curious eyes. The too-revealing dress I could do without.
Deciding to risk the drizzle that will likely make the feathers of my dress wilt, I hurry to the small chapel on the other side of the courtyard. No one will be there. I know that for sure. Society members may profess to be religious but from what I’ve seen, they’re going through the motions. Showing up in their Sunday best, each outdoing the other, at least where fashion is concerned.
The wooden door is heavy. It creaks open just far enough to let me slip inside. I close it behind me and breathe a sigh of relief at the familiar sight, familiar scent. I miss incense when I’m away too long and Carlton isn’t the church-going type.
I like this particular chapel especially. I have since I was little and my mom brought me with her when she cleaned the compound. I still remember sitting in the front pew, my legs too short for my feet to touch the floor. I remember how at home I felt when she sat me here to wait for her while she did her work.
I walk to that pew now, taking in the usual shadows of the place. The only light comes from candles lit along alcoves in the walls and those on the altar. When I get to the center of the aisle, I bow my head, make the sign of the cross, then take a seat. I slip off my shoes. The heels are too high and the fit too narrow. I touch the familiar carving in the pew. Two initials. CY.
It’s the same seat I always take when I can get here. Right in the front row as if God could see me better for it. It’s not that I ask for anything. I know better than that. It’s not even that I pray. I just close my eyes and feel the silence here. The absolute absence of sound.
It’s better than any masquerade ball. Better than dances with a hundred men as Carlton brokers a union that will benefit the family. I don’t think it’s crossed his mind what I want. Don’t think he’s considered the fact that while it may benefit his—our—family, it has already taken me off the course I’d set for myself years ago.
But I can’t dwell. Not now. I need a reprieve and this chapel, these stolen moments, are it.
And so, I open my eyes and lift my gaze to the altar. One of the candles that is usually lit has blown out. I wonder if I did that when I walked in. I get up to relight it.
A creak along the back of the chapel startles me. I gasp, spin around. It’s darkest there, just before the baptismal font. Almost pitch black. I peer into the shadows but see no movement, hear no other sound.
“Is someone there?” I ask, feeling silly when no one answers.
It’s old wood creaking. That’s all.
I turn back around, trying to ward off the chill that’s clung to me all night. But I remind myself it’s always cooler in the chapel and resume my walk to the altar. There, I find the book of matches and strike one. The flame glows bright and I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the wick of the tall candle.
Soon it’s lit and I’m blowing out the match when the sound of laughter from just beyond the door disrupts the peace of this place. Before I know it, the chapel door slams against the wall.
I jump.
Two men stumble in, laughing as they do, and one rushes to shove the door closed behind him. With them they bring the stench of alcohol and weed. The moment I see their faces, I’m sure they’re both high. I can see it in their red eyes, in the flush of their skin, hear it in their strange, giddy laughter.
I’d guess them to be twenty, twenty-one maybe. Just a year or two older than me. And I recognize one of them. I danced with him not one hour ago. Although I can’t recall his name. Only that I didn’t like him. Didn’t like the way his fingers caressed the exposed skin of my back as he spun me around the dance floor.
“There she is,” he says, as if recognizing me, too. His mask is pushed to the top of his head and he licks his lips, allowing his gaze to linger at the swell of my breasts above the bodice of the dress. “That’s the girl,” he tells his companion with a nudge of his elbow.
