Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) by Bethany Griffin Page B
Authors: Bethany Griffin
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my side, lingering where my skin shows.
“This was a nice dress,” I mutter, taking the cotton one from him. Elliott leads us into a narrow alley, thankfully free of corpses, through a back door, and into a dimly lit room.
Low tables, sofas, and chairs are scattered through a series of interconnected rooms. A makeshift bar has been set up on a table, with an array of bottles and glasses. Though I can’t see into the darkest corners, I think I see a door opened to a bedroom or sleeping chamber of some kind.
“This place was popular with university students,” Elliott says, “when the university was still open.” He points to the back. “The washroom is back there.”
I can already tell this is not the sort of place where one wants to linger in the washroom. And I’m right. Though a mural has been painted on the wall, an alfresco painting of flowers and a scene that I think is supposed to be Venice, the room smells of mold and something even worse. A wide mirror is flanked by several candles, so at least there is some light as I attempt to make myself presentable.
I pull off my dress and fold it, then hold the new one in front of my body. It has a wide lace collar, and the hem falls almost to my ankles. Once I slip it over my head, I no longer look like a girl who spends her evenings at the Debauchery Club. I look sallow and lumpy in places where I am not. I know it’s silly to care—at least I am alive—but . . .
At least by candlelight my hair still looks lustrous. April always said that candlelight was flattering to almost anyone.
I step out of the washroom and retrace my steps to where Elliott leans against the bar. Will stands next to him.
“You’re good at this,” Elliott is saying to him. “People talk to you. Circulate and listen. We need any rumor, no matter how ridiculous, about Araby’s father. Everything people are saying about our enemies.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.” As Will disappears into the shadows of an adjoining room, the way he walks takes me back to the days before I knew his name, when he was just the tattooed guy who worked in the Debauchery Club. The one whose voice made shivers run up and down my spine.
Elliott gestures to the barmaid, who shakes her head. “You can’t afford the price,” she says, taking in his muddy shoes and the poor condition of his clothing.
“You’re new here.” He throws several coins on the bar. Within moments she’s brought us a chilled bottle and two glasses.
“We won’t be drinking the water in the city,” he says. “So this will have to do.”
Elliott strikes up a conversation with her and several men sitting around us. I listen closely but don’t say anything. Voices rise and fall. The anger and fear are practically palpable. This place is dangerous, but I suppose it’s no more so than the city itself.
The people gathered at the tables are near our age, a few older, some younger. They are dirty and patched and ragged, and are constantly gesturing. They drink hard liquor. Mostly they are boys and young men, though there are a few girls who are as loud and vehement as anyone.
Everyone knows about Prospero’s ball. They hate him for it. They despise him for his indifference while people are dying. Malcontent, however, is a more immediate threat. People speak of him in hushed voices. They speculate about what he looks like, whether any of them have walked past him on the street. Whether he could be here in this room.
They don’t seem to know about the scar, where Prospero slit his throat while Elliott and April hid behind the curtains. They don’t know who he truly is. I can’t keep this to myself much longer.
Malcontent’s people have been seen in the streets, but not en masse, the way we saw them, their feet pounding in unison through the tunnels beneath the city, the night that we escaped. They show up in groups of two or three, telling people their weird beliefs about the plague being sent from God.
Hours pass, and
“This was a nice dress,” I mutter, taking the cotton one from him. Elliott leads us into a narrow alley, thankfully free of corpses, through a back door, and into a dimly lit room.
Low tables, sofas, and chairs are scattered through a series of interconnected rooms. A makeshift bar has been set up on a table, with an array of bottles and glasses. Though I can’t see into the darkest corners, I think I see a door opened to a bedroom or sleeping chamber of some kind.
“This place was popular with university students,” Elliott says, “when the university was still open.” He points to the back. “The washroom is back there.”
I can already tell this is not the sort of place where one wants to linger in the washroom. And I’m right. Though a mural has been painted on the wall, an alfresco painting of flowers and a scene that I think is supposed to be Venice, the room smells of mold and something even worse. A wide mirror is flanked by several candles, so at least there is some light as I attempt to make myself presentable.
I pull off my dress and fold it, then hold the new one in front of my body. It has a wide lace collar, and the hem falls almost to my ankles. Once I slip it over my head, I no longer look like a girl who spends her evenings at the Debauchery Club. I look sallow and lumpy in places where I am not. I know it’s silly to care—at least I am alive—but . . .
At least by candlelight my hair still looks lustrous. April always said that candlelight was flattering to almost anyone.
I step out of the washroom and retrace my steps to where Elliott leans against the bar. Will stands next to him.
“You’re good at this,” Elliott is saying to him. “People talk to you. Circulate and listen. We need any rumor, no matter how ridiculous, about Araby’s father. Everything people are saying about our enemies.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.” As Will disappears into the shadows of an adjoining room, the way he walks takes me back to the days before I knew his name, when he was just the tattooed guy who worked in the Debauchery Club. The one whose voice made shivers run up and down my spine.
Elliott gestures to the barmaid, who shakes her head. “You can’t afford the price,” she says, taking in his muddy shoes and the poor condition of his clothing.
“You’re new here.” He throws several coins on the bar. Within moments she’s brought us a chilled bottle and two glasses.
“We won’t be drinking the water in the city,” he says. “So this will have to do.”
Elliott strikes up a conversation with her and several men sitting around us. I listen closely but don’t say anything. Voices rise and fall. The anger and fear are practically palpable. This place is dangerous, but I suppose it’s no more so than the city itself.
The people gathered at the tables are near our age, a few older, some younger. They are dirty and patched and ragged, and are constantly gesturing. They drink hard liquor. Mostly they are boys and young men, though there are a few girls who are as loud and vehement as anyone.
Everyone knows about Prospero’s ball. They hate him for it. They despise him for his indifference while people are dying. Malcontent, however, is a more immediate threat. People speak of him in hushed voices. They speculate about what he looks like, whether any of them have walked past him on the street. Whether he could be here in this room.
They don’t seem to know about the scar, where Prospero slit his throat while Elliott and April hid behind the curtains. They don’t know who he truly is. I can’t keep this to myself much longer.
Malcontent’s people have been seen in the streets, but not en masse, the way we saw them, their feet pounding in unison through the tunnels beneath the city, the night that we escaped. They show up in groups of two or three, telling people their weird beliefs about the plague being sent from God.
Hours pass, and
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