Nevermore

Isobel pushed the thought out of her mind and passed through the archway, eager to escape the black chamber. Violet walls hugged in close around her in a short, curving, almost tunnel-like passageway. It funneled her into another room of about the same size, this one sharp violet with windows cut to resemble amethyst jewels.

Where the black chamber had been empty, people stood scattered throughout the violet, dressed like peacocks and jesters, demons and queens. There were feather masks and silk masks, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks. Countless golden ornaments hung suspended from the ceiling, filling the space like a gilded solar system. A young woman decked in white ostrich feathers and diamonds lay stretched on a divan. Her ivory slipper hanging from one toe, a glass of wine in each hand, she laughed hysterically as a tiny man in a green and yellow jester’s costume took one false fall after another.

Isobel scanned their masked faces, their forms, looking for anyone—anything—familiar. She pushed through the room and wove her way around groups and couples.

Reaching the archway to the next room, she had to pull herself back to one side to avoid being trampled by a long train of revelers. Hands linked, they rushed past her, screaming and shrieking with laughter. The last person in line, a man wearing a floppy-eared dog mask, reached to grab her hand, to pull her along. Isobel fell away from him, half stumbling into the next room.

This chamber, white as snow and decorated in pastels, opened large and wide around a circular dance floor filled with revolving dancers. Gilt details chased the curved walls and netted the domed ceiling far above. The whole room glistened and sparkled like the inside of a Fabergé egg.

Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sat huddled in one corner. They played their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insects they represented. The rhythm they kept was a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turned like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

Powdered and pale, the women looked like stale pastries. Tall and with garish, pointed masks, the men seemed like predators.

She caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. He turned away, locked in dance with a dark-haired girl in red.

“Varen!” Isobel ran onto the crystal tiled floor, dodging between dancers, ducking below gloved arms and snapping fans. She lost sight of them, then saw the couple again and pressed toward them once more. She was sure it was him. His hair, his height and frame—they matched. And the girl.

Had it been Lacy?

She ran straight for them, shoving to get through. The couple disappeared and reappeared in flashes through the web of costumed courtiers. They twirled in front of her, glided behind her—then just beside. She felt the brush of the red skirts against her leg as they passed, and she fought to follow them, forcing her way through the linked arms of one couple.

Reaching them at last, she grasped his shoulder. He turned. Black eyes stared down at her though the holes of an equally black bird’s mask. The figure smiled, flashing crimson teeth.

“Care to cut in, cheerleader?” Pinfeathers asked. He moved aside from the arms of the girl in red, revealing her dress to be the twin of Lacy’s, complete with the stains that Isobel had caused earlier.

In fact, everything was Lacy. Everything except for the featureless, fleshy space where her face should have been.

Isobel uttered a sound of shock. Pinfeathers took up her hands, pulling her to him.

“What? No!”

He spun her before she could wrench away, and they coiled in a tight circle. The world blended into a mesh of chaos, color, and noise.

“Stop!” she shouted, but he ignored her, throwing her into revolution after revolution, almost swinging her into another pair of masked dancers who scampered aside, laughing.

“Where’s your mask?” he asked. “Everyone is wearing one but you, cheerleader. Are you trying to say you have nothing to hide?” He dragged her through the steps.

“Let go of me!”

“You know, I’ve been chatting with your friend all evening.”

“Varen? Where is he?”

“Really, cheerleader. I’m beginning to think you have a one-track mind.” He pushed her away violently, and Isobel stumbled outward, nearly toppling into a pair of courtiers dressed as what she thought must be a pair of black spray-painted toucans. She stared at them confused, and in return, they glared at her until Pinfeathers yanked her once more into the dance. She crashed flat against him and he spun her again.

“I meant your other friend,” he said. “Then again, you have so many. It’s been hard just to keep them all straight! I wouldn’t exactly say he’s much of a conversationalist, though. Kind of the strong, silent type. At least until he screams. You look beautiful tonight, by the way, have I told you yet?” He smiled.