The Masque of Gilded Gold

⊱≼≽⊰The Masque of Gilded Gold: Chapter 4⊱≼≽⊰

I tried desperately to follow him, carefully weaving my way through the crowd, but my foot snagged on a root. I tripped and fell, landing on the floor, face-to-face with a man in a green masquerade mask, who was watering the plants by the entrance way. I desperately pulled my head off the floor and scanned the room for Luchesi, but to no avail. He had taken the opportunity to disappear out of sight.

"Oops! Sorry. Are you alright?" The man in the green masquerade mask asked.

"I am quite fine, thank you. I'm sorry for getting in your way."

The man gave a polite smile and helped pick me up from the floor, his eyes gleaming with a compassion that felt too honest to be true. "It's no problem, really. It'd be silly to get angry or annoyed at people tripping when you're the one working on the floor. Besides," He dusted the soil off his overalls and placed a brown newsboy cap on top of his golden-blonde hair. "I was in your way. I should be the one apologizing."

"Ah, no. Really, there's no need. These flowers...they really are quite wonderful."

'Mhm. Real beauties, aren't they?' Steinbeck perked up. 'I'm real proud of how they turned out. Burgundy dahlias are a species that require a lot of light, so to do that in this environment...' He drew the corner of his eyes into a shifty-looking expression. "'Ah! It seems I forgot to remind you. There will be no windows. I trust in your ability to make it work.' That's what the boss said.' He placed his hands on hips and sighed. 'I certainly admire his confidence.'

If you asked a person who knew him to describe Steinbeck in one word, a multitude of descriptions could come out. Perhaps one would focus on his floral aspect, his tenacity, his pleasant demeanor or his loyalty, but I had chosen to characterize him in a different way. He was an incredibly guarded man, albeit very good at hiding his edge. He kept to himself and, when talking to the other Guild members, portrayed himself as humble and agreeable. There were times when his sarcasm and dry wit got the better of him, and he added on a sly comment here or there, but it was never enough to irritate anyone other than Mitchell; she happened to be the sensitive type. The only exception I could recall him truly opening up to was Lovecraft, but he wasn't exactly the most attentive of listeners, nor did he care to understand what a "famine" was or what an "economic downturn" entailed. Despite all this, when it came to things he cared about: his plants, his family–Steinbeck had a tendency to...not stop talking, much to the chagrin of many Guild employees. However, I found his rants and lectures to be calming, and a nice source of inspiration. Plants and their symbolism happen to be a recurring clue in my mysteries–they're a simple and beautiful way to decorate an environment while still providing some semblance of meaning–so it was lovely to have a certified encyclopedia ready on hand who enjoyed talking about that sort of thing. It would be wrong to say that I haven't been convinced to start a garden of my own based on how much joy shone on his face when he described the process. And while Steinbeck claimed he wasn't a very big reader, he was always happy to help share a fable or a fact or two: all so he could have the opportunity to gush about his family or his farm, things he missed very much. I never really understood the sentiment—my familial experience was certainly not something one would or should envy—but I suppose I could empathize with that want: a burning desire to have something that will never come.

'You managed to grow these without light?' I had murmured to myself, hovering a hand over the dahlias' perfectly bloomed petals. 'That's quite amazing. Usually plants of this species end up looking green without sunlight...for them to be this vibrant, well...' To say all this was merely the work of his ability would be an understatement—it was a combination of that, hard work, and genuine natural talent. A green thumb, if you will, though taken a bit more literally. Steinbeck stood silently, hand on his hips, observing carefully.

'Have we met before?" he finally asked. "The way you talk and the way you look...they're all pretty familiar. Can't put my finger on it though.'

I took a small bow and introduced myself to him, but got no reaction in return. He simply said: 'Ah, so it was you, Poe," before turning back to his flowers. 'I thought it was strange that someone was so invested in the flowers, and not the ball.' He mused. 'I'm surprised to see you here. Thought you said you didn't enjoy parties that much.'

'Yes, that would be correct, but, well, I suppose it would be the same for you, isn't it?'

'You're right on the money.' He replied, focused primarily on snipping a couple of thorns off the stems of the plants. 'Someone's gotta take care of the plants, and I reckon I'm the only one in the Guild who could. Fitzgerald must've reckoned the same.'

"So it was by his invitation? Well I'm shocked he didn't try to convince you to wear something other than your work uniform. He seemed like the type."

Steinbeck gazed off with a reluctant grimace. "Oh, trust me, he did. Got out of that one as quickly as I could. If you're in the market for a gaudy old thing I have plenty to spare. Been thinking of pawning them off. They look expensive."

I nodded my head. "And Lovecraft...?"

"Oh, him?" Steinbeck put his hand on his chin in thought. "He was tired from last week's mission. I had to stop by a beach on the way here." He said in an unusually casual matter, as if it was only a minor inconvenience. In consideration, that was how Steinbeck treated most of the things that entered his life: notably Lovecraft, who was one of the greatest mysteries of the Guild. I had, on occasion, found myself in a haze of hyperfixation where I vowed to find out everything I could about him, and yet with each new discovery the more complicated and terrifying Fitzgerald's favorite employee from Dunwich—that is, his only employee from Dunwich—became. Steinbeck, however, seemed almost unaware of this. Was he simply used to dealing with strange people? In any case it seemed bizarre at the very least. The Guild had its own fair share of theories that had circled around: perhaps he simply thought that Lovecraft was your typical plastic surgery mishap; he was from California, after all, or that—and this one was Mark's idea—that Steinbeck himself was an eldritch being, though that theory was quickly dismissed.

'Looks like I'm finally done with this room.' He said, taking off his gloves and putting on a long black overcoat. 'I've only got one more thing before I go home. Hope you enjoy the party, Poe.'

'Ah. The same to you as well.' I replied, watching him leave.

'Hey...hey...!' A voice murmured from right behind my ear. 'Wake up, dummy! Wake up-' Hm? Wait, I don't recall those words...they...why do they sound like...like..."

Poe snapped out of his trance. The walls, as blood red as he had described, expanded far beyond the borders of the Agency's detective office. This was, evidently, not the Armed Detective Agency any more.