Page 11 of Red Masquerade

I groaned. “Of course.”

“You’re lucky she let you sleep this late.”

I scowled at the maid, a young girl, not much younger than myself, who had only been in the house a couple of months. Due to the nearness of our ages, she seemed to think she could speak so casually to me. And I didn’t correct her, because someone who was willing not to mince their words was refreshing company.

Her dress was ironed so there were no wrinkles, the black fabric starched, the apron over her skirts unstained. Her dark, curly hair was braided into a knot at the base of her neck.

She shrugged at my sour expression. “I only speak the truth, Miss.”

“I know,” I sighed, feeling the ache in my muscles.

I realized I didn’t remember returning home. My memories of the last evening were foggy—no doubt thanks to the gin and champagne—but I knew I danced with a man—almost didmore; Brancato, was it?—and eventually, Flora and Dixon had corralled me back into the Duesenberg.

A line of red, a snake, a dancing woman. Writhing bodies, moving together in tandem, and shouts, and spilt liquor, and a red substance that stained the floor and moved under my shoes, flooding inch by inch until it crawled up the walls.

It was as though the whole evening played in my mind in flashes, over the course of a few seconds. I remembered spinning, the shattering of glass, raucous laughter. The smell of cigarstickled my nose, like I was still there in that grand foyer. The feeling of Brancato’s stare. Frustration.

And the gaze of one of those demons on the ceiling—or, not a demon, a stranger—his stare intense even across the crowd.

I could not remember what was real and what was a dream.

Soon overpowered by the pounding of my skull, I covered my face with a silk pillow to drown out the sunlight. “Tell Mother I’ll be down in twenty minutes,” I told the maid. I didn’t hear a response, but in a few moments, the door clicked, and I was alone.

We sat in tense silence, the sitting room’s air thick enough to sever with one of our serving knives.

I had managed to make myself up, to brush through my hair and pinch some color into my cheeks, before coming down the stairs. My head still pounded, the light still too bright for my poor eyes.

Elbows against the table, I leaned into my fingers. I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Mother sat across from me, gaze piercing and critical.

I forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You look ill.” Her voice was loud and cutting, shrill to my ears.

I winced, but forced the smile to remain. “I’m alright.” Though I would’ve gladly continued to sleep the day away.

She scoffed and shook her head to herself. “Where were you last night?”

“At a dinner club.” The lie came smoothly, as it always did, slipping easily off my tongue. “With Flora and Lord Dixon.”

“Until the early hours?”

I fought an incriminating blush. Mother always went to bed not long after dusk, since Father had passed and Lucas had left, so I never thought to worry about how much she noticed about my comings and goings.

My fingers found a loose thread at my skirt’s hem. “We lost track of time.”

Mother sat embroidering, weaving the needle as though it were an extension of herself, a sixth finger perhaps. She probably didn’t even need to look. Though her gaze was on her task, I knew it was just to look anywhere else but at me. To avoid looking at her daughter. A small voice within me told me she could sense every lie, as though my mind were wide open, hers to read.

I picked at the cucumber sandwiches before us, feigning trying to pick just the right one, though, really, my stomach rolled.

I will never drink again.

“Young women should not be out that late,” she said. “Politeyoung women.”

Smothering the urge to roll my eyes, I plucked a sandwich from the platter. “Everybody goes out at night, Mother. I don’t think anyone would look down upon—”