Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) by Bethany Griffin Page A

stake.
    Eventually I start walking again. Leading the way back to Will.
    Ahead of us is a ladder leading upward, much like the one that April and I climbed to escape when the tunnels were flooding. A draft from above blows the candle out.
    “Elliott?”
    “Yes?”
    “Do you think there are crocodiles in these tunnels?”
    He laughs. “No. Why do you ask?”
    I caress the tender area to the left of the wound on my shoulder. “No reason.” I reach up, and Elliott gives me a boost. His hands linger at my waist, and for a brief moment I think that he may try to rekindle whatever just happened between us. I pull away, ready to see sunlight again.
    “Wouldn’t want to keep Will waiting, would we?” he remarks.
    But we have. I’ve lost track of time, but it must have been more than an hour. It feels like we’ve been underground for a very long time.
    At the top of the ladder is a heavy metal cover. Instead of asking Elliott for help raising it, I push with all my might, relying on my left hand, and the metal circle clanks to the side. I like being in the lead. I feel like everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve been following April, or Elliott, occasionally even Will. I’m ready for someone to follow me.
    Once we’re out, I let Elliott put it back in place.
    Will is lounging on the third step of a columned building that must be the library. A small bottle and a brush sit between his feet. His left boot is untied, and the laces are muddy. His eyes travel up my body, from my own muddy shoes, to what’s left of my dress. When he gets to my face, I inadvertently put my hand to my mask, as if he can see through it. As if he can tell how my lips are still throbbing.
    “Your paint.” He holds a bottle out to me.
    “Maybe it’s stupid, to try to leave a message,” I falter, but then I catch sight of a wall unmarred by graffiti, and my resolve returns.
    I uncork the paint and test my brush strokes. They are messy and the surface of the building is uneven, but it will do.
    FIND ME, I write. IF YOU REMEMBER FINN.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    I HATE WRITING MY BROTHER’S NAME. IN ALL these years, it was never said aloud in our home. But if Father sees this, he’ll know it’s from me.
    “How can I tell him we’ll be at the club?”
    Elliott grabs my wrist to stop me from writing. “We don’t want to announce that. Not yet.” He takes the paintbrush and draws an eye.
    “I’m not sure Father knows about your—” I begin.
    “He will,” Elliott says. The meeting with the clockmaker certainly didn’t affect his arrogance for long.
    I scrawl messages wherever there is room, desecrating every wall with any proximity to the science building. Elliott paces, checking alleys and scanning balconies. Whenever I need more paint, Will is next to me, holding the bottle.
    “He’s manipulating you,” Will says finally, in an undertone, eyeing Elliott.
    I answer him while still painting my message. “From the stories April tells me, and from my only experience . . .” I flash him a look. “That’s what guys do.”
    “You deserve better.” His hand hovers near the side of my skirt, where the seams are nearly destroyed and the green satin is stained from my time in the tunnel with Elliott.
    We’ve circled behind the building once more. Evening has fallen, and the quiet of this area has become ominous. Once the university had the most well-preserved buildings in the city. Now it feels haunted.
    “Time to go,” Elliott says, surveying the area. “We need information. The best way to collect it is to buy some drinks, and to listen.”
    Will and I fall into line behind him as he winds his way off the university campus. Dropping beside me, he opens his pack and removes the terrible flowered dress that the innkeeper’s wife gave me.
    “You should change. Yours is in extremely poor condition, and we’re trying to avoid undue attention.” As if he has any right to complain about the condition of my dress. Especially when his hand strokes down