Masquerade

1

The string music carries through the white hallway. Lying sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the staircase leading to the ballroom is a girl. Her blonde hair fanned out around her like a halo. Covering her face is a mask tied around her head by two ribbons.

  The uptempo of the music rouses the slumbering girl. Her long lashes open up to reveal the green irises beneath. She braces her palm against the cold tile and pushes herself into a sitting position. She glances down to find herself clothed in a lavish ballgown.

  "What the hell?" She breathes.

  The girl forces herself to her feet, nearly falling over her dress in the progress. She wraps her fingers around the ruffles and pulls her dress up to reveal her feet clad in emerald green, strapped heels. She glances down at her wrist to see her prized charm bracelet. She fingers one of the charms. The action soothes her.

  The music's tempo quickens and through the door she can hear murmuring. She glances around, taking in her surroundings. She may not know where she is, but wherever it is, is beautiful and rich. There is a single rising staircase that leads to the double doors of the ballroom. Covering the middle of the stairs is a dark blue carpet that ends behind her. The life beyond the doors seems to beckon her. Grecian columns line either side of the stairs.

  Tentatively, she sets foot on the first step. When it doesn't vanish or set off an alarm, she lets out a relieved sigh. She ascends the stairway, pausing after each step to check her surroundings. She halts at the top of the stairway admiring the extravagant doors that stand before her. She inhales. If the richness of this place isn't intimidating enough, its size is. The stone arch above the door is carved with images of winged males and females surrounded by clouds and gates of horn and ivory. Her eyes fall to the silver door handles that have been wrought to wings.

  She takes another deep breath before wrapping her hands around the touching handles. The coldness of the metal chills her to the bone. She turns and pulls. The doors gasp open, revealing to her the extend of the life that lies beyond. A staircase mirroring the one she climbed minutes ago is all that stands between her and the ballroom floor. She grips her dress tighter in an effort to still her trembling hands. She has never flourished under attention instead preferring the solitude.

  A few of the guests turn to look at the new arrival. She feels her face heat up beneath their observant gazes. They could be picking apart her flaws as she stands here. A mask and gown does not hide everything. She surrenders to her body's will and allows her feet to carry her down the stone stairs. The carpet mutes her footsteps.

  The ballroom-not including the stairs-is larger than her home, she would guess it is larger than the gym and cafeteria at her school combined. The floor is composed of white, stone tiles with grey vines running through them. Above her head is a mural that extends the length of the roof. It appears to depict a series of events beginning with a creation, followed by a rebellion and finally the rise of a new age. The mural looks like the ones painted on the walls of the Vatican. Silver runs up and across the white, stone walls, lining the arches and flowing in and out of the curves. The only natural light is the full moon streaming in through the near constant windows lining the back of the ballroom. Thousands of multicolored lights the size of fireflies float through the room. She reaches up to touch one. Her fingers pass right through the soft light.

  She runs her eyes up the back wall, following the bulge of white stone. It wraps around to form a semi-circular balcony. Adorning the top is a silver railing twisted into intertwining curves. Seated behind the wall on an elaborate throne is a male around her age wearing a crown. Two shadows seem to spill from over either side of the throne. Even from the ground she can see how handsome he is. As if he can sense her gaze he turns his eyes to her. She blushes and diverts her gaze, finding sudden fascination with those around her.

  All of the guests are dressed in elaborate costumes to which her dress pales in comparison. Their faces are shielded by masks, some full face, some partial. Some of the attendees are wearing gaudy jewelry or silken gloves. She almost questions if they are real or figments of her overexcited imagination. She couldn't be anymore out of place if she was wearing a cashmere sweater and jeans.

  The soft, swinging music becomes louder, sharper calling her attention. She looks past the mingling crowd to the group of masked musicians set up in front of the left wall. Couples begin pairing off and sweeping onto the dance floor. She shuffles off the dance floor into the nearest empty corner.

  Gasps and whispers fill the room. She raises her head to find the crowned male gliding down the center of the room. The crowd parts for him, a mixture of awe and fear filling their features. She gasps as she realizes what she thought was shadows is actually two dark blue, angel-like wings dotted with small white lights that resemble stars. The music ceases as does the whispers. All eyes are locked on his moving figure. He either is pretending not to notice or doesn't.

  She raises her head to find his gaze locked on her. Something about him makes her feel like a mouse in the sights of a cat. The prey about to fall victim to the predator. The wicked curve of his smirk, the self-assured way his body moves when he walks, and the essence surrounding him is a warning itself. Yet, she cannot bring herself to look away.

  He stops in front of her. The smirk fades. "My lady," he extends a hand to her. His voice alone is a symphony, as sweet as honey and as alluring as a lullaby. The room around her seems to spin. He is overwhelming. "May I know your name?"

  For a moment, she doesn't respond only stares dumbly at his hand. Amusement crosses his face. She snaps herself from her trance. "Crescent. My name is Crescent." A true smile takes ahold of his face.

  "A divine name." She notices for the first time an accent she can't place. "May I have this dance?"

  Crescent glances up, behind the form of the mysterious winged man she can see all the guests staring at her, holding their breath, anticipating her answer. The male is as observant as he is handsome.

  "Pay them no mind. They are as insignificant as the lights dancing around us." Those words could make the coldest of hearts melt.

  "I can't dance." She admits, glancing down at her ballgown.

  "Then allow me the honor of leading you through this." She meets his eyes. There is something in them, in his voice urging her to accept.

  Finally, she slides her hand into his. "I would be honored." She accepts with slight curtsy.