Masque of the Red Death (10 page)

“What is so important about that book?” I ask.

“It documents the building of the city. A man who memorizes this book will know ways to get around without being seen, will know its secrets. Only four were printed, and my father had one, but it was lost. I’ve searched the city for the others. One of the maids told me that there was a shelf of dusty books on the top floor, but she couldn’t retrieve any of them. The men upstairs have ways of questioning people. They would have discovered that I wanted the book and guessed why. They won’t be able to get to you the same way.”

The gas lamp flickers, casting shadows up into his face.

“It’s reassuring that they may hesitate before torturing me,” I say. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

He ignores the question and starts flipping through the book.

“I love this city and all of its mysteries and depths. I want to save it.” Strange; I’ve never heard anyone speak of the city with such passion. His expression is earnest, and I want to believe him. “And I’d love to see my uncle dead.” He says it so softly that I almost don’t hear him.

He’s found the map he wants, and he dips his quill into a bottle of ink and draws a large red X over the cathedral that we passed on the way here. And another, and then another.

“Why do you suppose they are burning churches?” I ask after a moment’s silence.

He smudges the ink with the side of his hand and curses.

“There’s a new leader trying to organize some sort of revolt. He calls himself Reverend Malcontent.”

He’s said that name before. Malcontent. An unpleasant word, and even more unpleasant as a name. I think of the blasted and burned churches, their beautiful interiors exposed now to the elements.

“Malcontent can’t be his real name,” I say.

“Obviously not. Did you think that my uncle’s name is really Prince Prospero?”

I won’t admit that I never thought about it.

“But why would a minister burn churches?” My mouth is dry. I wish he would offer me something from his ornate sideboard. Even if it’s only water.

“If people get indignant about churches being burned, then they are thinking about the churches. Maybe even regretting not using the churches.”

“They might pray. They might ask God for help, or they might ask Reverend Malcontent.” I tear my eyes away from the decanter.

“Yes, exactly. He’s setting himself up as a prophet. If he’s convincing enough, he could seriously challenge the prince.” Elliott speaks slowly, like he thinks I’m stupid.

I try to curb my irritation, staring at Elliott’s elegant writing quill. Red ink drips from it like blood. “You’re going to need acting lessons if you are going to convince my parents that you’re in love with me,” I say finally.

“You could be less annoying.”

“Possibly.” I flip my hair the way April would if some guy were insulting her. Elliott studies his book, ignoring my irritation. “So Reverent Malcontent is the force you’ve been worried about, the one who will rebel before you have the opportunity?” I ask.

“We’d be no better off with a mad fanatic than we are with Prospero.”

“If Prince Prospero’s not his name, why do
you
call him that?”

Elliott grabs me, pulls me close, and slides my hand under the back of his shirt. His skin is warm, and even as I’m frantically pulling my hand away, my fingers find raised skin. Scars.

“I’m glad you asked,” he says in his most bored and aristocratic voice. “I slipped once and called him by his former name. He had me whipped. His court considered it fine entertainment.” His voice remains conversational. My fingers feel unnaturally warm where they touched his skin.

“It must have hurt dreadfully,” I say, my voice small.

“Yes. But don’t worry; I’m not going to tell you his real name. I wouldn’t want you to slip, like I did. See, I love you so much, I need to protect you.” There’s pain under his sarcasm, but I can’t ignore the ugliness of his tone.

“Like you protected your sister?”

“Ah,” he says. “Accusations. April should have protected herself.”

I know he’s looking at me, daring me to argue, but I won’t. He’s visiting me with flowers, pretending he’s in love with me, and though he says the prince has April, he hasn’t given me any proof. The prince would love some reason to accuse my father of treason. With what I’ve done for Elliott, I could bring the prince’s wrath down on my family. I might never see April again. And this place, the club, my refuge, has become tainted now, with fear.

“Have you copied the plans? Can you return them soon?”

“Soon. And yes, I’ve copied them very carefully. I have a friend who is an inventor. He’s already working on a prototype.”

“Good,” I say. “Very good. I want the first mask. It should be the smallest size.”

“Of course, my love.”

I stand. I need to get some air, something to drink. Elliott is a poor host for not offering me anything. “I’ll be back in a few moments.”

He doesn’t try to stop me. When I’m out of the room, he’ll be free to pore over the pages that truly interest him. The ones that he’s been careful not to show me.

The hallway outside Elliott’s private apartment is empty and dark. I hurry back to areas of the club that are more familiar to me, keeping an eye out, just in case, for the guy April was kissing on the night she disappeared.

As I reach the bar, I’m surprised to see Will. It’s unusual for him to circulate. He usually stays near the entrance, endlessly testing patrons.

“Araby,” he says.

I stop. “I wasn’t sure that you remembered my name,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I do. Of course I do.”

I gesture for the bartender to bring me a drink, because if I don’t have something in my hands, I’ll just stand here uselessly, staring at Will. But the bartender is busy with a girl at the other end of the bar.

“I need some fresh air,” I say.

“Then by all means go outside. If it doesn’t clear your head, it will probably kill you.” Will might be teasing. I can’t tell.

The bartender finally sees me. He pours something into a tall glass and slides it to me, as Will takes my elbow to pull me away.

“You seem different tonight.”

I’m not sure what he means by different. I grab the glass and take a long drink. I’m afraid of his expectations.

“Araby? I’ll take you for some fresh air. I wasn’t serious about it killing you.”

I drain the glass and follow him. He leads me down two flights of carpeted stairs, to a door that I’ve never noticed. I thought I knew the layout of the Debauchery Club, but tonight it feels unfamiliar, as though I only know it from a dream.

“I want to show you something,” he says in a whisper.

We put on our masks and go out into a tiny courtyard. Buildings loom above us, four and five stories high.

The moonlight is directly overhead. I know it’s cold—I can see our breath—but I don’t feel it. We take six steps across the flagstones.

“This is what I wanted to show you.”

I tear my eyes from his face. In the center of the courtyard is an ancient flowerpot, an urn, partially crumbled on one side. A vine climbs out of it.

One white flower blooms on the vine.

“It only opens in the moonlight, and only for a few hours, when the full moon is directly overhead. Maybe someone planted it here before the plague, when the world was hopeful. At the end of the day, after sweeping the floors and cleaning up vomit, I come here. It reminds me that there are still beautiful things.”

“It’s lovely,” I say—but instead of the flower, I look at him, feeling light-headed and odd. Happy. I think this feeling is happiness. I turn to study the flower petals, tremulous with dew. He is still holding my hand, and he is leaning toward me. He’s so close.

More than anything, I want him to kiss me.

But I wiggle my fingers, trying to disentangle my hand politely. He ignores my attempt to keep my distance and pulls me toward him, gently. But I am serious about the vow I made at Finn’s grave. If it doesn’t involve sacrifice, then what is the point? I pull away, hard. It catches him off balance, and I stumble forward. My foot hits the flowerpot.

It teeters for a moment and Will lunges forward, but he isn’t fast enough and it hits the flagstones and crumbles. The vine is broken. Will stares at it.

“I… can’t hold hands with anyone,” I tell him in a rushed whisper.

I’m too embarrassed to look at him, even though I can tell that he’s turned toward me. Tears build up behind my eyes.

“I should take you back to your friend,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

As he leads the way back into the building, I remember the way our arms touched, casually, when he was walking me home, and I long for that quiet sense of companionship.

On our way in from the courtyard, we have a nearly unobstructed view of the bar. A chillingly familiar man stands exactly where I stood when Will approached me, holding a glass that might have been mine. Will makes a disgusted sound and pushes me up the stairwell, out of sight.

“They never come downstairs,” he says. “If you see any of those gentlemen, avoid them. Drawing their attention is … unhealthy.”

Voices, laughter, drift up from the bar. I won’t tell him that I have drawn their attention. That I’m already involved.

“I have to get back to work,” Will says. I nod again. Choked by regret. He takes two steps away, and then waits, as if to see what I will do. I give him a wry smile and head back to the third floor, to Elliott’s private apartment.

“There you are.” Elliott has placed his silver syringe in the center of the table, offering it as some sort of incentive for me to do as he commands. Reminding me how little he thinks of me.

“Have a look at these while I light more lamps.” He pushes some papers toward me, flyers that look like they might be posted on buildings and folded pamphlets. Even with the additional lamps, the light isn’t good enough for reading. The words blur, and all I see are symbols. Red scythes, black.

I put my finger on a black scythe. “I saw these in the lower city.”

His eyebrows go up, wondering, perhaps, what I was doing there. But he doesn’t ask, and I won’t offer him the information.

“The good reverend is using that symbol for
his
rebellion. Have you seen these flyers?”

“No.” I flip through the pages, reading headlines. The Prince Is a Villain. Science Will Save Us. The Disease Is in the Water, Not the Air. Lies and half-truths designed to frighten the reader. I crumple a pamphlet that says the plague is a curse, before I realize what I’m doing and attempt to smooth it out.

“Do the pamphlets follow the mood of the people, or do the pamphlets encourage certain opinions among the masses?” I ask.

“That’s a good question, and not one that I can answer. There was a lull in the anti-science activity for a few years, thanks to your father. His invention gave people hope, and now that hope has been stripped away. My uncle doesn’t realize how bleak… There should have been a sort of renaissance when the masks were created. Not this desperate fight over too few.”

I flip over a pamphlet sketch of the prince and realize how much I despise him. My father wanted to save lives, but the prince has made an industry out of death and disease.

“Violence is about to escalate, Araby,” Elliott says.

My stomach lurches. Violence is mindless. It doesn’t listen to reason. Elliott seems to have men who are trained to fight, but how many? More than the prince?

“But maybe, just maybe, we can use this unrest for the betterment of the city.” His eyes catch mine and hold them.

A clock strikes from the bedroom behind us. It’s the middle of the night, and we’re here, in this private place that belongs solely to him.

Elliott stands, stretches, and walks to the sideboard. He pours drinks into heavy cut-crystal glasses and hands me one.

“To the betterment of the city.”

A light knock interrupts our toast. It’s Will.

“I located your sister’s steam carriage,” he says. “Thieves were tearing the gold leaf from the sides, and one of the doormen moved it to the stables.”

“Stables?” Elliott interrupts.

“Where the horses were housed—”

“I’m familiar with the term. I’ll want to examine the carriage in the morning.”

“It will be morning soon.” Will is looking at me, not Elliott.

I push my chair back from the table. “I need to go home.”

“Driving through the city could be dangerous. We should spend the night here.” Elliott gestures to the bedchamber. “It would be safer.”

“No,” I say. Because Will is listening. Because I touched Elliott when he was struggling with his mask, and then again when I felt his scars. Because of the way he was looking at me when he was pouring the drink.

I hate the mock intimacy in Elliott’s voice, and that Will is hearing it and might think it’s real.

“The streets are no longer safe,” Elliott says.

“My mother worries,” I say. “I can’t stay here.”

I heard the way he spoke to my mother, like she was someone who needed to be protected. So I’m not surprised when he says, “In that case…” He turns to Will, who is making no effort to hide that he is listening to our conversation.

“Have there been any disturbances tonight?”

“It’s been quiet throughout the district,” Will says. He’s looking at the syringe. I had forgotten about it lying there on the table.

Elliott follows his gaze and pockets the syringe. “We don’t want to upset Mrs. Worth. Or the venerable Dr. Worth.” His tone is slightly obnoxious, but he is doing what I want, so I don’t say anything.

We follow Will down the corridor and two flights of stairs. A few people linger in the club, in corners, in the rooms and alcoves.

“Your sister’s steam carriage will be here when you are ready to examine it,” he tells Elliott. “Be safe.”

“She’s always safe with me.” I look back and forth between the two of them. Exhausted, mute. Elliott, never at a loss for words, says, “Come along, my love.” I flush.

Will is paler than usual; his tattoos stand out on his skin. He belongs here so totally that I almost can’t believe that he belongs in other places just as completely. He mouths something, but I’ve never learned how to read lips.