The day of the masquerade dawned grey and breathless. A thick, wet fog pressed against the windows of Blackwood Hall, blurring the world outside into a smear of indistinct shapes and shadows. It was a day for ghosts.
Julia had not seen Silas since he'd slipped from her bed before dawn. She knew he was avoiding the inevitable, avoiding the sight of her in her sacrificial costume. She couldn't blame him. She was avoiding it herself.
The respite did not last. Just after midday, Miss Thorne appeared at her door. She was not alone. Two maids followed her, bearing a long, shrouded garment bag, held between them with the funereal reverence of a pall.
"For tonight, miss," Miss Thorne said, her voice devoid of all inflection. Her pale lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
She nodded for the maids to unveil it. They unfastened the clasps, and the canvas fell away to reveal the gown.
Julia's breath caught in her throat.
It was a column of midnight-blue silk, so dark it seemed to drink the light from the room. The fabric shimmered, embroidered with tiny, glittering silver threads that mapped out constellations of forgotten stars. It was beautiful. Exquisite. And she hated it with every fiber of her being.
It was Marian's soul, woven into fabric.
"Lady Marian adored this gown," Miss Thorne intoned, her eyes fixed on some distant, hallowed memory. "She said it made her feel like a queen in a tragedy."
The words were meant to be a tribute. To Julia, they sounded like a curse.
Behind the housekeeper, Elsie stood clutching a velvet box. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide with a fear so profound it was almost worshipful. She wouldn't meet Julia's gaze. She just stared at the dress as if it were alive.
"The mask, miss," Elsie whispered, holding out the box with a trembling hand.
Julia took it. Inside, resting on a bed of satin, was a mask of silver filigree, shaped like the delicate, overlapping wings of a moth. It was studded with tiny, glittering sapphires that matched the deep blue of the gown. It would cover the top half of her face, leaving only her mouth and jaw exposed. A mask to hide behind. A mask to become someone else.
"Lord Blackwood requests you be ready by dusk," Miss Thorne said, her duty done. She turned and swept from the room, leaving the gown to hang in the oppressive silence, a beautiful, headless ghost.
Elsie lingered. "Miss Julia…" she began, her voice barely audible.
"It's alright, Elsie," Julia said, her own voice sounding distant. She felt a strange detachment, as if she were watching this happen to someone else.
"No, it's not," the girl insisted, finally looking up, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. "This house… it's not right. What he's doing is not right." She took a step closer, her hand fluttering as if she wanted to touch Julia's arm, but didn't dare. "Be careful tonight. Please."
The girl's genuine terror was more alarming than Miss Thorne's cold piety. Before Julia could ask what she meant, Elsie curtsied and practically fled from the room, leaving Julia alone with the ghost in the silk dress.
***
Putting it on felt like a violation.
The silk was cold against her skin, impossibly smooth, like a second, alien skin being grafted onto her own. It fit her perfectly. Of course it did. She and Marian had shared the same slender frame, the same height. Another convenient similarity.
As she stared at her reflection in the cheval glass, a wave of nausea rolled through her. The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Her dark hair was swept up, leaving her neck bare and vulnerable. Her skin looked unnaturally pale against the deep, star-dusted blue. It was Marian's silhouette, Marian's elegance.
She was becoming a portrait, brought to life.
The door opened and Silas walked in. He stopped dead just inside the room, his eyes raking over her. The breath left his body in a harsh, audible rush. His face, which had been tight with worry, hardened into a mask of pure fury.
"No," he said, the word a low growl. "Absolutely not."
He crossed the room in three long strides, his hands coming up to grip her bare arms. His touch was hot, branding her through the cold silk.
"Take it off," he commanded, his voice shaking with a rage so potent she could feel it vibrating through him. "He will not do this. He will not parade you in her skin."
"Silas, I have to," she pleaded, her resolve wavering under the force of his anger. "If I defy him now, in front of everyone…"
"Let them see!" he snarled, his eyes blazing. "Let them see him for the ghoul he is! This is not an homage, Julia, it's a desecration. It's for him. To show everyone that he has replaced her. That he has replaced me."
The raw jealousy in his voice startled her. This was not just about her safety. It was about Marian. About the past that still had its claws in him. In all of them.
"This isn't about you and him," she said softly.
"Isn't it?" he shot back, his grip tightening almost painfully. "He took her from me once. Now he thinks he can take you. He watches us. I see the way he looks at you when you are with me. It's the same way he looked at her." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "He wants to possess everything I have ever loved. And then he wants to break it."
She saw the truth of it in his eyes. The old wounds, torn open and bleeding anew. Alistair wasn't just trying to drive her mad; he was tormenting Silas, twisting the knife of a rivalry that had never ended.
She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek. "He will not break me," she said, her voice firm. "And he will not have me."
He searched her face, his anger warring with his fear for her. Finally, with a sigh of defeat, he let his hands fall from her arms. He looked at the gown, at the woman she had become, and a profound sadness settled over his features.
"Then wear your armor, Julia," he said quietly. "But know that I will be beside you. And if he so much as lays a hand on you…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. The promise of violence was plain on his face.
He picked up the silver mask from her dressing table. His movements were gentle now as he lifted it to her face. He tied the silk ribbons at the back of her head, his fingers brushing against her neck. For a moment, she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, the last moment of genuine warmth she felt she might have all night.
When she opened them, the transformation was complete. The woman in the mirror was beautiful, mysterious, and utterly unreal. She was a tragic queen, ready for the ball.
***
To descend the grand staircase was to step into a fever dream.
The hall below was crowded with bodies, all clad in opulent costumes, their faces hidden behind masks of velvet, porcelain, and gold. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of perfume and the sharp, herbal scent of anise. Music from a string quartet drifted from the ballroom, a melancholy waltz that seemed to pull the very shadows into a slow, swaying dance.
Waiters moved through the throng with trays of champagne, but the true heart of the celebration was a large, ornate fountain in the center of the hall. Instead of water, a luminous, pale green liquid cascaded down its tiers.
Absinthe.
The Green Fairy, as the poets called it. A drink known for inducing visions, for blurring the line between the real and the imagined. Alistair wasn't just hosting a party; he was orchestrating a mass hallucination.
Julia's stomach twisted. He was drugging them all.
She saw Cordelia by the fountain, her laugh a shrill shriek behind a jeweled cat mask. She held a glass of the green liquid aloft, her eyes already glazed and manic. Lucien was beside her, his hand possessively on her waist, a horned devil mask doing little to hide the cruel smirk on his face. They looked like creatures from a nightmare.
Julia's hand instinctively found Silas's at her side. He squeezed it, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor in the sea of masked grotesques. He wore a simple, unadorned black domino mask that did nothing to conceal the simmering rage in his eyes.
Then, she saw him.
Alistair stood near the entrance to the ballroom, a king surveying his court. He wore no flamboyant costume, only immaculate evening attire. His mask was like Silas's, a stark black domino, but on him, it looked less like a disguise and more like an extension of the shadows that always seemed to cling to him. It only served to emphasize the piercing, inhuman blue of his eyes and the sharp, predatory curve of his smile.
He saw her on the stairs, and the low hum of conversation in the hall seemed to falter. A path cleared for her as if by an unseen command. She was the guest of honor. The ghost at the feast.
She felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her, their gazes like insects crawling over her skin. Whispers followed her like the rustle of dry leaves.
"Is that her? The cousin?"
"Looks just like Marian, doesn't she?"
"The spitting image… how strange."
"Poor Alistair. It must be like seeing a ghost."
She kept her head high, her eyes fixed on Alistair as she and Silas reached the bottom of the staircase. He moved toward them, his grace effortless, predatory. He ignored Silas completely, his entire focus consumed by Julia.
His eyes drank her in, from the silver moth on her face to the hem of the midnight-blue gown. A look of profound, chilling satisfaction crossed his face.
"Julia," he breathed, his voice a low purr of approval. "Magnificent. Marian herself could not have looked more beautiful." He held out his hand. "The first dance belongs to the host. And his family."
It was another command disguised as a courtesy. Silas's hand tightened on hers, a silent protest. But she knew she couldn't refuse. This was part of the performance.
She gave Silas's hand a slight, reassuring squeeze before letting it go. She placed her trembling fingers into Alistair's outstretched hand. His skin was cold, his grip firm, proprietary.
He led her into the ballroom, into the center of the floor, as the quartet seamlessly transitioned into a new waltz. He placed one hand on the small of her back, the pressure a firm, undeniable claim, and drew her into the dance.
They moved together as if they had done so a hundred times before. He was an expert leader, guiding her effortlessly through the turns. The world outside of his arms dissolved into a blur of masked faces and flickering candlelight. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.