Snippet #10023

From the windows they were watching.

The privileged upper class looked down through the glass to the streets below, watching the middle class walk by, whose eyes were fixed on the glowing mansion, their faces turned to watch the harlequin ball gowns and other-worldly masks. “La petite bourgeoisie,” the women at the window simpered, turning away from the merchants and farmers below, champagne flutes glimmering in their gloved hands.

This night was nothing more than an exercise in superiority. Wealth and standing was showcased in the luxuriousness of the gowns the women wore, and men stood in small groups discussing business, subtly implying their own success. The masquerade was beautiful and festive, but there was a darker undercurrent that the perceptive could sense. The air was charged with a sort of expectation, and the dancers at the center of the room, neatly lined up, were more giddy than usual.

In a corner of the hall, a young woman was amusing her small party with a few magic tricks she had learned. She pulled a red rose from a vase hanging on the wall and twirled it between her fingers, careful of the thorns. A look of concentration passed over her pale, freckled face, and the rose changed from red to violet for a moment, then changed back. The young men and women politely clapped, impressed with her little trick, smiles on their masked faces. One man stepped forward, extending his hand for the rose, and the freckled young woman held it to him, trying to keep back a grin. She doubted he could outdo her own trick.

The rose gently floated above his outstretched palm, as if suspended by a string. Slowly the petals began to fall, disappearing before they hit the ground. The flower became barren, and the young women frowned in dismay. What a terrible party trick, they were thinking. Then, after a pause, the petals began to re-grown; pure white petals that started out as a tight bud and then bloomed open. Impressed, the small semi-circle of young men and women clapped, their gloves dulling the sound. The masked man smiled and handed the white rose to the freckled woman, who took it, blushing.

Looping her arm through his, she gently led him away, looking up at him with a curious frown. “Take your mask off- I can’t tell who you are,” she said, lips pursed. He laughed, though it didn’t sound genuine.

“I believe that’s the point of a masquerade.”

“Are you here with someone?”

“Yes.”

“Who?” she questioned adamantly, no longer amused with his behavior. The man looked around the crowded room, looking above the other people’s heads, trying to pick her out of the crowd. He spotted her and looked back down at the woman on his arm.

“Miss Roscoe.”

“Amelia Roscoe?”

He nodded. “That’s the one. You know, rather plain, easily pushed around?”

Shocked, the freckled woman let go of his arm and hurried away, her expensive ball gown swishing behind her, her expensive shoes making little clicks on the marble floor. He turned on his heel and cut through the crowd, silently coming to stand behind his summoner. He leaned over, whispering in her ear. "I've never seen you look more beautiful, Amelia. That mask does wonders."