Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Page 2

  I’m still wearing my green party dress, though it’s inches shorter than it was when I put it on. April cut away everything that was ruined during our escape, leaving me with something close to indecent. One of the ragged edges catches on the doorframe, and there’s a rustle of paper from one of my pockets as the journal in it bumps against my leg.

  Father’s journal has traveled with me across the city and out of it, through ruin and fire and flood. And I’m grateful that no one has taken it from me. Whatever revelations are in this book, I want to know them first. In private, not the middle of a crowd—the way I learned about Father and the plague. I never want to learn something so earth-shattering so publicly again. And today is the first time I’ve felt clear-headed enough to read it.

  “Someone should watch the swamp,” I say as I lie down. “Malcontent’s men could be out there.” Elliott pulls the blanket to my chin and pats my good shoulder. He isn’t listening, but I know he isn’t blind to the danger we face from the swamp. He’ll have someone on watch.

  I keep my eyes closed until he shuts the door, and then I pull the journal from my pocket. The pamphlet that calls my father a murderer sticks out from where I tucked it inside.

  The journal’s paper is wavy from water damage, and it falls open to the first passage I ever read. The ink is still clear. Everything is my fault. My heart stutters.

  But that is near the end, and I need to start from the beginning. Some of the pages stick together. Father is careful, though, and he’d never use an ink that bled, not for his research. I turn the page.

  Spent the morning showing Finn how to use the microscope. Catherine dressed the twins in ridiculous matching outfits. She wants us to have their portraits painted. It’s amazing how alike they are. I don’t blame her for wanting to capture this stage. Already we’ve seen how fast they grow and change.

  She doesn’t know that all of our savings have been spent. The things she wants are reasonable. But my research is expensive.

  There was never enough money when we were young. Not until after the plague.

  Have been hired for a new project, trying to locate a defect in local cattle. A quandary about local breeding. I’ve put my personal research on hold.

  The next five pages detail the vagaries of cattle breeding. On the seventh page it says:

  Araby dressed up in white lace and ribbons. Catherine planned to take her to visit relatives. She is a beautiful child. Finn spilled a cup of grape juice on her, and the excursion was canceled. Catherine went to bed with a headache. Entire day of research wasted.

  Is that all we ever were, all I ever was? A distraction from Father’s work? But I push that aside. I’m not looking for clues as to whether Father loved me. I need information about the disease that destroyed our way of life.

  Pages later, my father writes about working with Prospero, before he was prince. I nearly drop the journal. I try to think. Did Father ever speak of knowing Prospero, before? I force myself to keep reading, to learn all I can about the disease. It was originally supposed to kill rats. Only rats. But it did so much more.

  This is confirmation of my worst fears. Whoever wrote the horrible pamphlet was right. My father created the Weeping Sickness. The last shred of hope that he was innocent shrivels.

  My best friend is dying. My brother is dead. Because of my father.

  But the one thing I can hold on to is that if he created it, he could also know how to cure it. The rumors Kent heard—that Father discovered something after Finn died—could be true. So it may not be too late for April. I read on until the words begin to swim on the page.

  When I wake, the room is dim. Elliott is lying beside me, though there is another bed and the one we’re in is narrow. He’s propped on one arm, looking down at me. His eyebrows go up as I meet his eyes. The look on his face is gentle, and I have a distinct suspicion that he was stroking my hair. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks calm.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  Crumpled. Dazed. The pain in my shoulder is a dull burn.

  “Why am I so groggy?” This room is like being enclosed in a box. “Did you give me something after I fell asleep?”

  He doesn’t have to answer. His silver syringe is on the table, beside the makeup bag that April keeps saving and returning to me.

  “You were crying out in your sleep. You needed it.”

  “I told you I didn’t want anything.” I shove away from him. How dare he? As I sit up, my hair falls against my mouth.

  I put my hand to my face, hoping to touch cool porcelain, but my fingers find only skin. My mask is gone. Elliott isn’t wearing his, but then he rarely does.

  My father’s last warning was not to take my mask off. And I know he wouldn’t give idle warnings.

  “Elliott, where is it?” My voice is angry.

  He tries to take my hand, but I pull it back. “Don’t worry, it’s here.” He reaches under the bed and holds up a black velvet bag with a drawstring. The same sort of bag we used to store our masks at the Debauchery Club.

  I lean forward to take the bag from his him, and as I do, something rustles beneath the light coverlet. I fell asleep reading Father’s journal, never expecting that I would wake to find Elliott in bed beside me.

  Elliott isn’t one to wait. What if he drugged me so that he could take the journal? Would he have returned it? I shift, sliding my leg over the book to keep it from rustling. I’ll show it to him, but not yet. Not until I’ve read everything. I open the velvet bag, extracting my mask. Dirt stains the line of the ugly crack, like a scar, but it won’t make the filter less functional.

  Elliott stretches as I slide the mask on.

  “They put us in here so that we could have some privacy,” he says with a smirk.

  I look away, pretending to examine the oil painting of the sea on the far wall, determined not to let Elliott know that it makes me nervous, being so near to him. Determined to ignore his innuendos. To hold on to my anger at him.

  “Privacy while we recover,” he adds, this time without the mocking tone. And now I do look at him. His shirt is open, and the side of his neck is pink and shiny.

  I reach out but stop short of touching the painful-looking burn. “But you were working on the repairs with Kent.” I had assumed he had recovered from the injuries he sustained when the ship he was on exploded.

  “I did what I can. Will is helping Kent finish. I asked April to watch the swamp, since you were so worried. You and I both need to regain our strength. We have a struggle ahead.”

  “A struggle ahead,” I repeat. Now his eyes have that fevered look, and I am drawn to it despite myself. Before I met him, I didn’t know how to fight. But now I know what it feels like to have that power. And when he looks at me with the fervent expression that he usually uses for his revolution, something inside me melts.

  He smells of soap, despite our flight from the burning city and our days in the swamp. When we were fleeing the city, I kissed him as if our very lives depended on it. The city was on fire below us, and I wrapped my arms around him and lost myself. The memory makes me blush.

  But he drugged me, though I told him not to. Can I trust him?

  He’s ruthless.

  But I like that about him. Perhaps my goal should be to become more like Elliott. A fighter. A revolutionary. Both of our fathers are murderers. Maybe we deserve each other. Maybe he can’t trust me either.

  “Araby?” Elliott is holding out a jar of salve, while fumbling to unfasten the last button on his shirt. “Since you’re here . . .” His shirt falls to the floor.

  Even in the dimness of the cabin, I can tell that some of his wounds are bad. Elliott’s back is crisscrossed with fresh bruises and burns over the scars that have already healed. There’s a long scrape where some part of the steamship must have hit him when it exploded. He’s lucky to be alive. We all are.

  When I dip my fingers into the ointment, they tingle immediately. Elliott gasps as I touch him, and then
relaxes. I let my fingertips linger on his skin. The mocking smile has disappeared when he turns toward me. His eyes are wide, and the look in them might seem guileless if I didn’t know better. In the semidarkness his hair is a dark burnished gold.

  I go completely still, focused on our nearness.

  My heart speeds up.

  Flustered, I dip my fingers back into the salve and tear my eyes away from his face, searching for burns that need soothing. My fingers catch on a gash, and we both jump a little bit.

  “You have so many scars,” I say softly.

  His muscles tense. I know what I’ve done. Once before he made me feel the scars from Prospero’s torture. But I’ve never seen the extent of them. He was just a boy when he endured this. No wonder he hates Prospero so viciously.

  “Your fists are clenched,” I say, in something close to a whisper. I take one of his hands and gently pry the fingers apart, forcing him to relax, threading his fingers through my own. “I’m sorry.”

  He closes his eyes, and when he opens them he’s back with me. Not just with me, but focused on me. His attention sends chills through me.

  The air in the cabin is unnaturally still. In this moment, Elliott and I are the only people in the world.

  He shifts forward, all lithe grace and strength, like a big cat. Something dangerous. But I don’t feel like prey. Not exactly.

  We stare at each other. I can’t trust him, but for all his ulterior motives, he’s never abandoned me. His free hand is at my waist, snaking around me, pulling me close, then even closer.

  The door creaks open.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Will says. He stays in the doorway, and his shadow is elongated by the candles in the room behind him. Will is tall, but never insubstantial, like the shadow that falls across me and Elliott. Across the bed. When Will steps into the cabin, his dark hair falls forward, but it can’t hide that his cheeks are flushed, as if he is embarrassed—or upset.

  I pull away from Elliott, my own face heating up. Of all the people to see me here, with Elliott, Will is by far the worst.

  “For whatever reason, I’ve been put in charge of medical duty,” Will says.

  “No,” I say, looking up into his eyes. His very dark eyes. “No more sleeping medicine.”

  Whatever Elliott gave me is finally wearing off, and I’m beginning to feel more like myself, more aware. The burning pain of my wound is growing, too, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to be alert.

  Will’s voice is soft. “Lie on your stomach, sweetheart. I want to get a good look at the stitches.”

  The throwaway endearment takes me back to the Debauchery Club. A simpler time when I didn’t know dark secrets and wasn’t trying to help save the world. But it doesn’t wipe away his betrayal. He touches my good shoulder to try to help me, and I brush him off.

  Elliott sits up, scooting down to the foot of the bed. He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk from Will.

  I lie down gingerly, trying to pretend that nothing hurts. I won’t give either of them a reason to medicate me. My shoulder stings as Will peels the bandage from the gash. He’s gentle, but my eyes still fill with tears.

  “It’s better,” he says, sounding more genuinely relieved than a person who gave me to a madman, who left me to die, has any right to be. “The stitches are holding, and it doesn’t look infected.”

  “Thank you,” Elliott says in the voice he uses for servants.

  Will’s hands still for just a fraction of a second. “You’re welcome, sir,” he says, his tone remote. He won’t let Elliott think it bothers him. But I know it does.

  “I have to cook dinner now.” Will rolls up the unused bandages, not looking at either of us. “No one else seems to know how. The rich have so few useful skills.”

  He lets the door slam behind him.

  “I have some useful skills,” Elliott calls.

  My face burns at the suggestive tone of Elliott’s comment. Here we are, sharing this narrow bed, and Elliott still hasn’t put his shirt back on. But April’s unmistakable laugh is the only response.

  April is supposed to be watching the swamp for intruders. Why is she outside the door to this cabin?

  Bedsprings squeal as I try to sit up, and I can’t hold back a gasp at the sudden pain in my shoulder. Elliott reaches to help me, but my elbow hits the burn above his ribs and he groans. I grit my teeth.

  “Try to hold it down, you two,” April calls. “There are children on this ship.”

  “There’s nothing to hold down,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing. I leave the journal hidden under the blanket and then pick up Elliott’s shirt. He hesitates, as if wanting to say something, but finally takes it.

  “Promise not to drug me again,” I say, looking into his very blue eyes.

  “I promise,” he begins, but I can tell he doesn’t know how serious I am.

  “I don’t need it,” I tell him. “I’m stronger than I was before. We have to get back to the city as soon as we can.” I try to imagine what it will be like returning to a city that flooded and burned at the same time, with the Red Death striking people dead in the streets. I have to prepare myself. To be brave.

  “Araby,” Elliott says. “I know you’re worried about your parents. Your mother . . .”

  Mother. I’ve been so focused on Father and his secrets, but she is trapped in the prince’s castle. And Elliott wouldn’t have mentioned her without a reason. I narrow my eyes.

  “While you were sleeping we decided not to go back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN WE LEFT THE CITY, IT WAS TO REGROUP—to pull ourselves together before returning to face Malcontent’s rebel army and the plague. To find my father, the only man who could tell us how to stop the death around us.

  “We’ll be going to Prospero’s palace instead,” Elliott says. “For weapons. I know where the storeroom is. Kent and I have discussed this for hours. We can get in quickly, surprise the guards, load the airship, and then rejoin my men to fight Malcontent.”

  “Not going back to the city?” This is wrong. We have to go back and find Father. We have to save April. Weapons won’t cure her.

  And I’ve been to Prospero’s palace. Even with the airship, how can we slip in and out with even a few weapons? More likely Prospero will capture us all and torture us for fun.

  I put a hand to my mask, drawing a deep breath. But Elliott isn’t finished.

  “We’ll still be returning to the city eventually, just—” He stands, placing one foot behind him, as if he’s bracing for an attack. “The way we fled, I can’t go back empty-handed.”

  Prospero is hiding from the plague, far from the city, in the fortress where he has complete and total control. Going there is a suicide mission. Elliott and I barely made it out last time we visited.

  “Elliott—”

  “We had to leave the city.” He cuts me off. “But we are no better off now than when we left. What can we expect to accomplish when we walk back in? We have Prospero on one side, Malcontent on the other. But Prospero doesn’t care anymore, not with the Red Death raging. With his weapons—”

  “Weapons that he’s likely to just give us?” My voice is rising.

  “He won’t be expecting an attack from the air. We can land right above the armory.”

  “But he’ll see us coming. The ship is rather conspicuous.”

  “Not at night. Not during one of his parties. I’ll sneak into Prospero’s lair to steal what I need, but I don’t want to sneak back into the city. I want to return victorious.”

  Of course he does. We all have our fantasies. I could tell him that I want things to go back to the way they were, that I want my father to be a hero, that I want my mother to be safe, that I want my biggest decision to be what to wear to the Debauchery Club. But life isn’t that simple. And I can see that he won’t listen, not now, but this discussion is far from over.

  I gather my shredded skirts and sweep out of the room into the main cabin.
A heavy wooden table sits in the center of the room. Maps and navigational instruments have been scattered across it. April is standing at the opposite side of the room, and Kent is sitting at the table.

  “There you are. I thought maybe you’d died in there,” April says lightly, and then her eyes go wide, as if she’s shocked herself.

  It isn’t like her to joke about death. April has always tried to ignore death, making her driver go out of his way to avoid the corpses in the street—but ignoring the contagion is impossible for her now. Maybe it is for me too. I suddenly realize I have an open wound, in the swamp, with two plagues raging. Sometimes I feel like the world is waiting for all of us to fall ill. For all of us to fade and die.

  Despite the humidity, April is wearing long sleeves. A finger of contagion climbs the back of her neck. She sees that I am looking and shakes her hair back to cover it.

  “April . . . ,” I begin. We should start over.

  “I’d hug you,” she says. “But, you know . . .”

  I nod. There are many reasons for us not to hug—her illness, my wound—even if we were the sort of friends who usually embrace. Which we aren’t.

  At the table in the middle of the cabin, Kent is examining some mechanical bits and pieces that I assume are for repairing the ship. He has somehow managed to be on everyone’s side at once. I first saw him with my father, but he’s also friends with both Elliott and Will. And here in the cabin of the airship that he designed, April is sitting very close to him. So close that Elliott’s eyebrows go up. He may be April’s older brother, but he should know it’s too late to worry much about her virtue. Elliott was the one who sponsored us so that we could be members of the Debauchery Club, though Kent is far from the sort of boy who she pursued there. Those were frivolous boys in velvet jackets and eye shadow. Kent is overly serious, with messy brown hair and thick spectacles.