Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death)

by Griffin, Bethany

  April grabs my arm. “We should stay out of sight,” she says. “Elliott and I had hiding places when we used to live here.”

  “Show me.” But we’re in the tide of hundreds of bodies moving in the same direction. We couldn’t turn and leave the room without drawing attention. A lady in an enormous dress pushes between us, and April is gone.

  My mother stands by Prospero’s throne. Her face is white. She makes a quick gesture at me, as if shooing me away. Beside Mother, Prospero is smiling. I go cold all over. But even as I turn, more people surge into the room, and the enormous wooden doors swing shut. I’m trapped.

  Everyone follows Prospero’s gaze to me. I back up until I’m against the great wooden doors, but they grab me, herding me forward to a red X painted on the floor. The crowd pulls back as a noose drops soundlessly from the ceiling. Before I can react, someone loops it over my head, cinching it around my throat.

  I stand very still, trying to draw calm breaths, but can’t quite fill my lungs. My knife is still in my boot, but how can I get to it?

  And then the noose begins to rise.

  “I had some lovely children who could have danced for us tonight, but the scientist’s daughter robbed us of that pleasure,” Prospero says. “We shall see what sort of entertainment she can provide.”

  Mother cries out. I’m on my toes, gagging, grasping at the rope. I can’t turn my head, but my eyes find her. Servants hold her back as she tries to run to me. Then she holds out her hand, offering it to the prince. “Not her.”

  Around me, the couriers murmur expectantly.

  “Your maternal affection does you credit.” The prince smiles, and the servants release her. Tears course down her face.

  A boy with a hammer is pushed onto the dais. Mother tousles his hair with her left hand. Her right rests on the arm of Prospero’s throne. And I know instantly what’s about to happen. No! I can’t get my fingers between the coarse rope and my throat, but I keep clawing at it.

  “Mrs. Worth has made her decision. Her daughter is more important than entertaining my guests. She no longer needs the use of her hands.”

  The courtiers press forward. Mother considers them with cool disdain. The boy raises the hammer and then looks to the prince, who nods. I scream as the hammer slams down on Mother’s hand, but it comes out more like a croak.

  When the boy raises the hammer again, it is shaking so hard that I think he might drop it.

  “He’s new,” someone whispers.

  The boy brings the hammer down again. I scream again, but my throat burns.

  Suddenly the noose slackens, and I fall to my knees. A walking stick hits the floor beside me. In the silence, the sound reverberates through the room. Elliott. He came. To save me. Gasping, I look up, tearing the rope away from my throat. And it isn’t Elliott. Will stands among the courtiers, holding the thin, sharp blade that was hidden within the stick.

  “Is this what passes for entertainment in your court?” he asks. His voice is calm, reasonable.

  He holds out a hand for me, never taking his eyes off Prospero. I take it and stumble to my feet. Prospero smiles. Anyone with any sense would run. But Will isn’t budging, and I doubt we would make it far anyway.

  “I’ve heard so many stories about this wonderful place, filled with marvels,” Will says. “Is this what impresses you, seeing a woman’s hand smashed with a hammer?”

  The prince shakes his head slowly, as if we’ve disappointed him in some way. I stand so close to Will, he must feel how violently I am trembling.

  Will finally looks over at me, and I see that he is as terrified I am. In one smooth motion, he has us running toward a small door at the side of the room. But we aren’t fast enough. Someone hits Will from behind, and he drops to one knee.

  Blood dribbles down the side of his face.

  “Come on,” I rasp, helping him back to his feet.

  He pulls me close and swings out with his blade to clear our way. But we only get a few more steps before someone hits him again. I feel the impact this time too. Will wavers, but he raises Elliott’s sword. I pull the knife from my boot.

  “Take him,” the prince commands, and the crowd surges forward.

  Will thrusts and stabs a man in a purple velvet waistcoat. Blood pours out, splashing onto the floor tiles. But the blade is stuck, and in these close quarters Will can’t yank it free. I keep my knife low, slashing at anyone who gets too close, but then the guards are upon us, and they have guns.

  Prospero’s men ignore me as they throw Will to the ground, chaining his hands behind his back. Our eyes meet for a moment. I reach out, and then drop my hand to my side.

  And then the guards drag him away.

  The throne room is completely silent, and as I look into the faces of the courtiers, I see pity on a few. I glare back. Some of these people purposely blocked our escape. Prospero shouts something about dancing, and then Mother is beside me. The crowd parts. They are letting us go. A servant leads us past the expressionless jugglers, out of the throne room. Once outside, the servant puts an arm around my mother and helps her up the spiral staircase to her tower room. Without saying a word to us, he locks us inside.

  We stare at each other. Mother’s face is ashen, and I’m still holding my knife. Prospero will pay for that oversight.

  “Let me see your hand,” I say, putting the knife down.

  “It will heal.”

  She hides her face. As always, she won’t let me see her pain.

  “Mother . . .” I think it’s my broken voice that makes her turn back to me and place her hand in mine. It’s soft, from hours of soaking in scented oils. I probe it quickly, wincing when she does. It isn’t a formless mass, not like the clockmaker’s hand. Only one of the fingers is obviously broken, swollen over the others.

  “See if you can move it,” I say, because that’s what Father would ask when Finn or I came to him with some injury. She can’t.

  Both Mother and I jump at the sound of a key in the door. It swings open, and a servant enters with a tea tray. Followed by April. Wordlessly, the servant puts down the tray and leaves. I grab a delicate silver fork and one of Mother’s silk scarves and use them to make a clumsy splint for Mother’s finger. Father used to do this for neighborhood children. Before sending them off for a real doctor.

  If Will were here, he could help me.

  If Will were here . . . I blink back tears. Who knows what Prospero has done with him? The remains of Mother’s silk scarf fall to the floor.

  “Fix her mask, too,” April says in a low voice. Mother’s mask has fallen askew. I reach up, but she adjusts it with her left hand.

  Her eyes are dry, yet the way she sits, with defeat in every line of her body—I can’t help imagining this is what it would have been like if she’d been with me while I waited for Finn to die.

  “I’m sorry,” April says. “I heard someone whispering. They could tell that I was diseased. I had to get out of there before they realized who I am. Then everyone would know.” She drops into an armchair and looks up at me from under her lashes. It’s a common pose for her, but her expression is not. “I think I may be dying.”

  “No,” I say, as if my denial can change anything. “But you need to lie down.” I reach out to her, unsure what to do. Frustrated that we’re trapped here. I pick up the tea set and lead her into the bedroom.

  “Have you come up with an escape plan?” I ask, crumbling a tiny cake beneath my fingers. The texture is so dry, I couldn’t possibly swallow it. “You have to get out of here.”

  “Perhaps someone will rescue us.” April smiles weakly.

  “Will tried,” I say. “And look how that turned out.”

  “You and your mother got out of that room alive because of Will.”

  “Do you think he’s alive?”

  “Yes.” She says it too quickly, and I think she must be lying to make me feel better until she adds, “My uncle can keep people alive for a very long time.”

  I discard the
rag I was using for her face, and wet another one for her shoulders and neck.

  “Why?” I ask. “He’s always stayed in the shadows before, keeping himself and the children alive.”

  “Araby,” April says, “why do you think he’s done any of it? Why do you think he went to the city? Because he loves to walk around stinking piles of dead bodies and listen to Elliott’s snide remarks? He loves you.”

  I squeeze the cloth hard, and water drips down onto the floor.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, being in love?” she asks.

  “No.” It feels like the rope is back around my throat, cutting off my air supply. And yet, to finally be sure, to know my feelings, even if they are desperate, even if I may never see him again—it’s terrible and wonderful at the same time.

  “I love him,” I whisper.

  “Love.” April spits the word out. “Even if I live and by some miracle I’m not hideous, all Kent really wants is to take his airship and explore, to see what’s left of the rest of the world. That’s why he built it.”

  “Kent?” I ask.

  “Don’t ask. I can’t explain it. And it will never work. I could never go with him,” April continues. “Even if we find a way to stop my illness, no one with the contagion can go exploring.”

  I take her hands. “We’ll find a way.”

  “I’m pretty sure that everything doesn’t always work out in the end,” April says. “Not for everyone. You’ve just figured out that you love Will. So you’re going to break my brother’s heart.”

  A few weeks ago I might have argued that Elliott doesn’t have a heart to break. Now we just sit in silence, waiting for the night to be over.

  April drifts off, and I go check on Mother.

  She is sitting in her chair, with her eyes closed. I’m not sure if she has dozed off or not, but her mask is askew. I reach over and adjust it, not wanting to take any chances now that April is with us.

  She reaches for my hand. Despite the makeshift splint on her crushed finger, her hand feels like it always has. Cool. Loving. Hands that tucked me into bed at night and felt my brow when I was sick.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  She opens her eyes. “You don’t need to apologize, Araby.”

  I kiss her forehead and then tiptoe back to the bedroom, where I stare at the ceiling as the gruesome images of the night replay in my head. April lies beside me, and though she is quiet, I know she isn’t sleeping either. Tomorrow is the masked ball. Tomorrow it all ends, one way or the other.

  Sometime in the earliest hours of morning, we hear screams. The nights’ festivities are coming to an end.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FOR HOURS ONCE THE SUN IS FULLY RISEN, THE castle is silent. Guests are sleeping, or hiding, terrified by the revelries last night. We’re given no breakfast, but taciturn servants deliver an afternoon meal. April asks if she can visit her mother, but the request is ignored.

  She shoves back from the table and stalks over to the barred window.

  My bag was brought to the tower, along with the mask that Prospero borrowed, so I pull out the little poetry book that Father gave me. Tucked inside is the flyer accusing Father of creating the contagion. I hand the pamphlet to Mother and watch as she reads. Her cheeks turn pink.

  “Did he know—” I start, but I can’t bring myself to finish. Did he know it would kill people? Would kill almost everyone?

  “He had nightmares. So many nightmares. Afterward . . .” She crumples the pamphlet in her fist, rips it, and lets the pieces fall to the floor. “There was a time when he actually hung a noose in our bedroom. I begged him to stop, reminded him that you were still alive.”

  I dreaded hearing this from him, but it’s worse hearing it from her.

  “The guilt was crushing him,” she whispers. “He never meant to hurt anyone. That’s why he was so driven to create the masks. And then Finn—”

  She stops at the sound of a key rasping in the lock. I leap to my feet, but Mother is seemingly frozen, and April remains at the window. A troupe of maids sweep into the room with bundles of satin and bows.

  I bend closer to Mother’s ear. “What will they do to Will? The one who saved me, last night,” I ask in a low voice.

  “He didn’t save you, Araby,” Mother says. “There are two plagues raging through the city. We’re trapped in this palace, and Prospero has decided to use you for his entertainment. He never changes his mind about such things. None of us have been saved.” It isn’t an answer. She can’t tell me that she thinks Will must be injured or dead. I refuse to believe that he’s dead.

  The maids draw us apart and shake out the dresses.

  April’s dress is silver, soft and flowing. It reminds me of the one I wore from Elliott’s closet, though this is satin rather than silk.

  “You are going to be beautiful,” a tiny maid says to her. Even in this terrible place, there are kind people.

  “I already am, though this dress is nice.” April smiles. But she is leaning against the wall and doesn’t move to touch or truly admire the dress. I’m afraid to show too much concern for her in front of the audience of maids. Still, I keep my eye trained on her when I can. She is very pale.

  Next the girls unwrap a dress the same shade of blue as the strands of my hair. It’s lovely. I reach out to touch it, but they pull it away and usher us from our tower prison, down a hall and two sets of twisting stairways, to a series of interconnected rooms with bathing alcoves.

  I look for a chance to break away, but guards flank us the entire time.

  The room fills with steam and condensation builds up behind my mask, but I don’t take it off. The maids begin to untangle my hair. If they brush April’s, they will see that she’s been hiding the contagion.

  Even as I try to come up with a plan, they gather around her, exclaiming over the waves in her long blond hair. One brings out curling tongs and begins piling her hair on top of her head.

  “No—” I start to say.

  “Leave it down.” April keeps her voice casual, throwing me a look.

  I study their faces. These girls are young; they may have come from Prospero’s orphanages. And so they might be sympathetic to us. Even, possibly, to Will. I’m not averse to using his striking looks to help get us out of danger.

  “You know what happened to me and my friend in the throne room last night,” I begin.

  They don’t answer, but they all look sidelong at me, and then at one another.

  “Is he alive?” I ask. “Do you know where he is?”

  One girl glances at the red marks around my throat. As she rubs some sort of lotion into my hair, she leans close and whispers, “He is in the cell under the prince’s private chambers. It’s where he keeps the dangerous criminals.”

  One of the girls working on April’s hair gasps and drops the curling tongs. She’s seen the contagion. It was inevitable. The girl adjusts her mask nervously.

  “If anyone sees this,” she says fearfully, “things will get ugly. Even if you are Prospero’s niece.”

  “We need to get her out,” I say. “Back to the city. My friend, Will—he could help.”

  “There might be a way,” the tiny maid who admired April’s dress says. The other girls try to quiet her, but she waves them off. “What does it matter?” she asks. “If the prince kills them, then they’re dead, like everyone else. But if not, they can take us all back to the city. They can save us.”

  The other maids have all stepped away from April. Her hair shines. It’s the shadows under her eyes that worry me. And the oozing contagion.

  “Tell me,” the tiny one says to me. “Did you really attack the orphanage and rescue all of the girls?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “We were all trained there. We know what it’s like. You saved those girls, even though you didn’t have to. Even though you are the richest girls in the city.”

  “It was the right thing to do.” I meet each girl’s eyes. How far can this heroism take me?
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br />   “So can your father cure her?” The small one gestures to the sore that mars April’s neck. “What about the Red Death?” They are as frightened of the city and what’s outside the castle as everyone here. But they may be more frightened by what is inside. Enough to trust me, the scientist’s daughter. I can’t explain to them that it isn’t my father who has promised to help April. That I have to get her to her own father.

  “If we get her away in time, yes, I think she can be cured. And my father is working with April’s brother to find a cure for everyone. I want to get her out tonight. She and Will must return to the city.”

  “Araby?” April says in a whisper. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  “You have to,” I say. “Just a few more hours.”

  The maids help me into my dress. Mother reenters the room, followed by her own maids. She eyes the scandalous way the dress clings to me. The maids pull my hair back from my face and curl it, arranging a few strands to spill down my back.

  One of the girls opens a box and presents a mask. At first I think it’s the ornate one Elliott shoved back into the drawer in my bedroom. But then I realize that though it reaches over the eyes, disguising the wearer, it leaves the mouth terribly, dangerously, exposed. The girls have painted my lips a shocking red.

  The mask is adorned with sequins and feathers. When I put it on, it complements my cheekbones, the contours of my face, while making my eyes look enormous and mysterious.

  “Peacock feathers are unlucky, aren’t they?” Mother asks. I used to say that I was the lucky one, because I lived and Finn died. The rest of this night will prove whether that was true.

  April dusts powder over my shoulders, making my skin glow. “It isn’t so different from all the nights when we went to the Debauchery Club,” she says, her voice falsely bright. We both know how different this is. We controlled our visits to the Debauchery Club, deciding when to arrive and when to leave. Our lives were never at stake.