Page 15 of Red Masquerade

Just how deepwerethose coffers?

I realized I didn’t know how deep—or not—ourcoffers were.

When Father was alive, I’d sometimes join him in his study, probably bothering him more than anything, but he let me do it. I’d ask him questions, though I’d never really understand the answers. We got our money from munitions factories, and we’d done alright before the war. Did even better during and after.

It never felt right, even as a young girl, knowing our money came from weaponry. Of course, I didn’t understand when I was really young, but in adolescence it became clear to me that our staff at the house, our out-of-season fruit, our expensive electric chandelier, was all paid for in death.

We had blood on our hands.

It was on my hands then, as I applied my lipstick, as I donned the sparkling, decadent dress.

As though the weight of all those souls sat on my shoulders.

IfIfelt it, Father and Lucashadto feel it. But only once did I ever suggesting investing our money in other sources to Lucas—after Father’s death, after the rumors circulating that he was found dead on the front lawn of some lady’s house, a lady we’d never met before, bawling her eyes out, like she knew him—and it was met with laughter. How couldI, a woman, know what to do with our money? I didn’t know how the business was run; I didn’t know what our money was tied up in. Lucas laughed in my face, spittle flying.

Lucas continued Father’s legacy and was happy to do it.

The blood must stain Lucas, must drip from his fingers everywhere he went, leaving a trail in his wake, like a cape that spread until it touched everything, stainedeverythingwith which he came into contact.

Beware, for he is the bringer of death.

There was a small part of me that wished Father was still alive, if only to save me from them—my mother and Lucas. He’d at least understand what it took to get me to be agreeable. He was good at that, at talking me down, at being placating, a mediator. Were he alive, he’d screen suitors, know what theyreallywanted—did they actually have an interest in me or our money? Or were they like Brancato, simple opportunists? And despite his faults, he wouldn’t chain me to someone who couldn’t stand me.

Perhaps because he’d done it to himself.

I faced the full-length mirror leaning in the corner, brushing my hands down my hips. The beading felt rough under myfingers, the dress itself smooth like water, rippling as I moved. I slipped my feet into black heels, and my feet instantly twinged, the straps pinching my skin and my heel bruised from the night before.

But once I had some liquor, I wouldn’t even care.

I shut my eyes for a moment, just to feel it. To feel the ache. I had to remind myself, often it seemed, that the pain, the aches, the bruises—they all meant I was alive. A racing heart, pounding against my rib cage; the drowsiness of drunkenness; the tears that came from remembering, the stolen breaths, the crushing weight pushing me down.

They all meant I wasalive.

These nights reminded me I was alive. Kept me from stewing on what would only hurt me more.

I leaned back over my vanity, reaching for a pair of golden earrings, when there was an abrupt knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said. I knew it wouldn’t be Mother. She never left her boudoir after dusk. I clasped one earring.

My maid pushed open the door, carrying a tray with tea. She latched the door behind her, but didn’t walk any further once she saw my getup.

“You’re leaving?” Her brow furrowed, and she added a hasty, “Miss.”

“I am.”

She nodded and moved into the room to set the tray down at my bedside table. Her dress was still immaculate, not a wisp of hair out of place.

“Apologies for wasting your time making tea,” I said, clasping the other earring. I shot her a quick smile. “Are you going to tell Mother?”

She seemed to consider, but there was a flash in her mahogany eyes. “No.”

“Hmm.”

“Though it would be in my best interest to,” she said.

“It would,” I agreed, pulling a long golden chain necklace over my head. The charm rested just between my breasts, a weight swinging right against the spot of my heart. “She’d favor you more.”

“Alas,” the maid smiled, clasping her hands behind her back.