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Talia
Snaking through the crowded ballroom, dodging masked faces as they turned toward me, I couldn’t help but regret my choice to dress up like a bright red macaw. Wearing the costume had seemed like a good idea six months ago when I’d ordered the dress, when the only thing at stake for the evening was who I would dance with.
A man in a wolf mask stepped in front of me, halting my escape. “Señorita,” he began, voice deep and falsely melodic, like he was trying to sing to me. He even moved his feet back and forth and lifted his arms at his sides.
I nearly choked on my sip of sangria but recovered enough to offer a smile, wishing my bird mask covered more than half my face, so I wouldn’t have to worry about schooling my expressions. The man, unfortunately, took my smile as encouragement and angled his body even closer.
“Excuse me, señorita…what-was-it?”
“Talia Balcázar Ferrera,” I supplied through a clenched smile.
“Ah, yes, señorita Balcasan.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t correct him.
“Do me the great honor of dancing with me. I have been watching you all evening, and I must say, yours is the most magnificent costume in the room.”
My shoulders lifted and fell in a quick sigh. There was no escaping these hungry vultures. “I’m sorry, but you mistake me for my friend. You see? Over there.”
His eyes traveled. I watched them widen beneath his mask as he discovered Zara, wearing the exact same costume.
“Do you not mean her?” I asked again.
Silence hung between us in the noisy ballroom. Just as Zara and I had planned, this vulture had no idea which of the women wearing the ridiculous macaw mask was the one set to win a fortune in the morning.
He coughed politely. “Indeed. I was mistaken. I would greatly appreciate it if you could put in a good word with your friend over there? I was hoping to dance with her before the evening expired.” He tapped his chest with his free hand. “And I must say, she caught my eye the very moment I arrived.”
To make him wait, I took a long sip of sangria, emptying my glass. “I’m sure she did.” Zara was always turning heads, even in a room full of masks. Her curves, highlighted as they were in this year’s tight-fitting style, put mine to shame. “I’ll do my best.” I gave him a dismissive curtsy before stepping around him and hurrying away.
Practically stomping through the ballroom, I looked over to where Zara was fanning herself flirtatiously as she giggled at something a broad-shouldered man had said. She’d had her seamstress make me a dress to match hers, a stroke of brilliance that had kept the fortune hunters positively puzzled all evening. But wearing the same dress as the prettiest girl in the room also made me feel like one of the cheap pieces of glass cut to look like rubies dotting my mask. Zara leaned around the man and waved her fan at me, but when I only shrugged in return, she excused herself and hurried toward me.
Halfway across the crowded space, my friend was waylaid by a nobleman in a garish orange suit and fox mask. Her shoulders sank and her own bird mask seemed to linger on me as I skirted the crowd for the open terrace doors at the back of the ballroom.
The night was warm but refreshing compared to the caged air inside. Fewer conversations to avoid out here. I took a deep breath.
The moon was already descending toward the horizon, but the dancing wouldn’t end until dawn peeked over the endless rows of olive trees stretching across Zara’s family’s estate. The night before the official start of the Festival de los Cuentos meant no sleep for anyone, save the youngest and oldest.
Frustrated, I tossed my red macaw mask aside, but it snagged on my long hair, yanking out several dark strands and nearly dislodging the lily wedged against my tight bun. The mask hit the gravel a little too hard and shattered the false jewels, which looked eerily like drops of blood on the path. A shudder swept down my frame. After a last glance at the loud ballroom, I turned toward the massive stable in the distance, my heart jumping into my throat. In mere hours, the first of the summer’s most important races would begin, including the race that would determine my family’s fate.
Palacio del Sol, named for his golden dun coat, was my father’s best stallion to date, favored to win five to one. My costume tonight, my lack of sleep this past week, and my thundering pulse were all tied to this horse.
I gripped the hem of my ballgown, which had been designed to mimic the myth of the scarlet macaw, wife of the sun, and followed the branching path toward the stable. Six months ago, deciding to dress like the fabled wife of the sun god had seemed like a fun way to celebrate our promising young racehorse, whom we called Sol for short. Little had I known he would improve so much in half a year. My steps grew quieter as I left the gravel for hard-packed earth.
A light flickering over the stable entrance illuminated the guard on duty who was currently slack-necked and snoring loudly. I shook my head as I walked straight past him into the wide aisle of the immaculate barn.
The smell of hay and horses washed over me as I moved into the shadowy aisle between stalls. Every one of these horses signified someone’s hopes and dreams. So many bets were placed at the midsummer races that fortunes were lost and made, and the fixed planes of society’s strata became fluid for a single day.
Only the champion of this race would be entered into the Carrera de los Reales, the royal race, held by the king himself at the end of summer. The champions from each of the three largest races in Avencia competed in the royal race. Winning lifted one into the highest ranks of society, and this year, we had a real chance.
“Talia, there you are! I thought you’d be here,” Zara teased.
I whipped around, startled but not surprised to see my friend standing in the barn’s entrance. Her dark, unruly curls were smoothed back in a slick knot at the nape of her neck, but after hours of dancing, the thick tresses were starting to rebel.
“Thank you, by the way,” I said, waving a hand at our matching red dresses with stacks of ruffles at the hems. “I had no idea they would be so aggressive.”
After a quick snort, Zara cringed in disgust. “One of the men who danced with me tonight was sixty-five. Had two wives die already.”
