Nocte Yin

Chapter Nine

For the weeks following her birthday, the majority of Nocte’s time was spent on studying for midterms, reviewing notes, finishing assignments (or starting several), and escaping from Combat virtually intact and unharmed (except for the occasional bruise or scratch). Naturally, she could not forget about the Halloween Dance (as everyone was talking about it and Occult liked to remind her every other day with a letter — not even in person, but with a letter while they lived within walking distance of each other!), but Nocte had been so incredibly occupied by schoolwork that she’d somehow forgot to go over the outfit she’d wear for the dance.

Because everyone knew that the Halloween Dance would be a masquerade.

“I did not know it’d be a masquerade!” Nocte panicked, pacing the dorm in a mildly frustrated manner.

Savvy attempted to resolve some of her friend’s anxiety by offering, “Y-You still have the d-dresses.”

Nocte turned to the rack of elaborate costumes her mother and father had given her for her birthday. She hadn’t had the heart to throw or give them away, for the girl part of her had squealed at the sight of them. A traditional Xonese hanfu made of red silk and embroidered with pink and white peonies. A Zyrith ball gown spun of floating tulle. An ancient Yhaekail dress that draped from one shoulder, a delicate white linen. A translucent white chiffon robe detailed in gold hailing from one of the Iavindat countries. They were all so gorgeous and luxurious, with all the trappings of diamonds, rubies and emeralds, that Nocte sighed at the sight of them.

Any one of the dresses would do for the upcoming event, save for one irksome problem.

“I need a mask,” Nocte said.

Savvy’s face went apologetic.

Nocte flailed her arms in frustration. “What am I going to do?”

“Maybe someone can lend you one?” Savvy suggested.

“Who would be willing to lend me a mask that’s not spelled?” she whined.

Then the strawberry blonde spoke the name of the one person Nocte had been avoiding for the past three weeks.

“Me-Melissa Witley?”

#

She found herself on the seventh floor of Wrath, staring (rather dreadfully) at the door: IV. Savvy, of course, had opted out from this delicate (and intimidating) mission, leaving Nocte to brave her quest alone (and to fend for herself). But as Nocte stood there in the corridor, a corridor that was eerily empty and quiet for the afternoon, she didn’t know whether to run, or to knock herself out with the door.

In the end, she did none of those things, because before she could run or even hit her head hard enough to render her unconscious, the door opened by its own accord to reveal Melissa Witley with her pricy hair extensions. The first thing Nocte noticed, strangely enough, was that Witley’s clothes were worth enough to feed a family of four for a month… and then she noticed Witley’s lack of surprise at finding her at the door. Witley had been expecting her.

Truth be told, it unsettled Nocte a bit.

“Come in,” Witley said and peeled back the door.

Thinking confidence, Nocte walked in and almost started when the door closed behind her. She turned to face Witley, only to pause when she spotted the masks on the desk. For a moment, she couldn’t register what she was seeing, and then it dawned on her: Witley knew why she was there. Full masks, half masks, quarter masks. Gold trimmed with rubies, white lined with silver, black adorned with peacock feathers. All the masks were carefully seated in a line of pillows, awaiting her inspection.