Let The Fun Begin; A Masquerade

Part One: The Letter

"Hello, Emory.

I (T.S. Lux) am throwing a masquerade ball today at the address listed, and you are invited. It's exclusive to a few carefully chosen participants only, but you may bring a plus one if you choose. It starts at twelve and ends whenever it feels right. The theme is Victorian, please dress accordingly. Be here by midnight, or we're starting the fun without you.

-Your Friend, T.S. Lux.

PS. Don't forget your mask, it is a masquerade after all."

They stare at the letter, running their hands against the cream cardstock, stained with the smell of coffee and ink. They walk away from the door where the invite was slipped under, staring at the thin curvature of the script on paper. Their feet thud against the floor, the old wood creaking with every step. They reach their desk and sit, pushing many rogue papers and trinkets off the desk, as to take a closer look at the invite. They flip the paper over and stare at the thick calligraphy, spelling out three words.

"Don't Be Late" Another piece of writing follows, one so small they didn't notice, they'd cracked their glasses the night before. Once they can make it out they see it reads: "The Fun Begins At Midnight".

They guide their eyes away from the letter and look behind them, their eyes moving around the cluttered nature of the paintings on their walls. The clock reads 10:58pm. 10:59. They turn back towards their desk, and move the invite aside, taking one of the blank pieces of paper lying on their desk, and with a pen dripping and ink in hand, they start writing.

"Dear Lux,

I will most definitely be at your ball, and I am rather looking forward to midnight. Save a dance for me.

-Best wishes, Emory"

"Perfect." They quickly scan the letter for any errors, their eyes moving quickly across the page. Once they've finished, they reach their arm across their desk. They close to an empty jar of ink. It's been sitting open on their desk for days. Before they can continue with what they were planning to, they catch a glimpse of their sleeve. Black ink spreads from their hand to their forearm, their shirt ruined.

They sigh in frustration, staring at their letter, now smudged. They don't pay it much mind after the initial annoyance they felt, and go back to the letter, folding it neatly in half, creating an illusion of cleanliness, and orderly-ness(? Never knew if that was a real word anyway.) hoping the ink has dried enough to do so. Anyway I would not like to ramble, I'm guessing you'd be bored if I continued on.