Free Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin Page A

lived underground with Father. He’s troubled. Araby, stay away from him.”
    I calculate quickly. “He couldn’t have been more than a boy.”
    “Old enough that I could see him for what he was, what he is.” She pauses, waiting for me to ask what she means. Waiting for me to turn and look her in the face. I toy with a makeup brush. She puts her hand on my shoulder.
    “There are people who are honorable and good, like Finn. There are people like you and me, who try our best. And there are people who scorn everything that is good in this world.”
    Does she not see that leaving her children for a life of luxury was scorning something good?
    “He’s April’s brother.” I open a bottle of glitter. At the least I can hide my red eyes.
    “April was spared most of … what their uncle put him through.”
    We hear Father in the parlor, pacing back and forth. Our floors must be wearing thin from all the pacing. I put down the bottle and wait to see if Mother will tell me more, but she shakes her head and leaves my doorway.
    Father is still pacing an hour later when I emerge from my room. I want to slip over to the sideboard and pour myself a drink. But I don’t.
    “We might walk together later,” Father suggests. He starts to say something more, his face serious and sad, and I lean forward in anticipation, but then a chord from the piano startles both of us. Mother is playing—not one of her tinkling pleasant melodies, but something dramatic and harsh.
    It ruins everything. Father looks upset, heartbroken, like the music reminds him of something terrible. Whatever it is, the moment is over.
    Mother continues playing, the same song over and over. Is she playing something wrong? Trying to correct some error? There is no place in the apartment where I can escape from the sound.
    Father seems to feel the same way.
    “Maybe I should get my coat,” he says. “Do you think it’s cold outside?”
    The music stops.
    “Don’t go outside,” Mother says. “It’s dangerous.”
    Father turns to reassure her, but he’s interrupted by a steady rap at the front door.
    A dozen white roses nearly hide Elliott’s face.
    “Oh, how lovely,” Mother says before she can stop herself.
    He hands half the flowers to Mother and holds out the rest to me.
    “I was hoping Araby would do me the pleasure of joining me at the … er, at my club. Will you?” Elliott asks. The question is for me rather than my parents.
    Mother is shaking her head.
    I raise my gaze to meet his. He gestures to the flowers and shrugs, embarrassed. I can’t help smiling.
    “With pleasure,” I say.
    As if I would say no. My need to get out of this apartment borders on desperation.
    Mother steps forward, preparing to say something, but I hand her the rest of the roses and turn away. Elliott grips my arm, and with a quick, guilty wave to Father, I walk away from them.
    Elliott whisks me down the corridor to the elevator.
    In the mirrored wall of the elevator I see, not some exotic creature transformed by makeup and sequins, but myself. I hate seeing myself.
    If April were here, she would put glitter on my cheeks to make me feel better.
    “Next time, send a message.” I touch my hair. “I’m unprepared for going out.”
    “I don’t have a courier to send with a message,” Elliott says. “Expect me to arrive at any time, and then you’ll always be ready.”
    I give him a dirty look, and I can tell by the crinkling of his forehead that he’s amused by my annoyance.
    In the years since we adopted the masks, we’ve become adept at reading the expressions behind them. Eyes and eyebrows are the best indicators. To know when someone is smiling, I rarely have to see his mouth.
    Before I can respond to Elliott’s smirk, the elevator begins to shake. The attendant pushes buttons frantically. Elliott reaches for me, as if to offer some sort of protection. I step away from him, and he drops his arms with a shrug, still amused.
    The elevator tilts, and I’m