The Masquerade

The Dance

"May I have this dance?" He repeated, moving his confident hand to my wrist, gripping tightly, claiming me.

"Y-Yes," I stuttered, moving my hand to connect with his, becoming entwined with him.

As we made our way to the center of the ballroom, where everyone parted ways with their partners and moved against the golden walls, a thought swarmed in the back of my head, The Butterfly meets her Blue Flower at last, and they shall dance the night away.

We made it to the center, atop of the maroon marble floor that looked like blood leaking from some poor unfortunate soul's veins. I looked above at the grand chandelier—the centerpiece of the ball—and noticed the fine details that I swear weren't there before. When I entered the ballroom with amazement, the chandelier was in hues of gold, like rays of sunshine that graced the town in the summer. But, now that I'm closer, the chandelier was just a reflection of the walls surrounding it. The chandelier was built from mirrors—the exact same mirrors that were the ceiling in the entry hallway. I looked up and saw and a puzzle of my partner and me, getting ready for the dance that everyone was waiting for, in the pieces of mirror that made up the chandelier.

So we began.

It was slow, hesitant steps at first; he was leading me, getting me used to the strange beat that would soon follow my current shyness. And, almost synchronized, the music got bolder, my partner pulled me in. We were now intimate with each other, my chest touching his; our faces sharing the same air. And we danced.

As we danced, my partner kept staring at me, like he knew something I didn't. He got closer, making our noses touch. He asked, " Are you okay? You look like you're about to fall over."

I met his stare as the melody of the music got softer again, as it was before. We were now dancing slow, graceful steps across the marble floor. We stayed under and around the chandelier so we wouldn't destroy the ring of gossip that was happening around us, under our little, private bubble that began and ended where we once stepped. I took a hesitant breath, inhaling and exhaling, taking my time. " I'm fine, it's just—it's just everyone is staring at us. Like they're expecting something big and grand to happen so the can later gossip about at tea tomorrow."

"Well . . . You're not wrong about them staring, Darling. But, I think you got the what they're staring at wrong."

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, hesitantly. We were now branching away from the safe light of the chandelier and danced closer to the people surrounding us, trapping us in a never-ending dance. The swaying music sounded like it was finally finishing after what felt like hours, but it began anew, more joyful than the last piece played, which had more of a dark, rushing beauty to it.

"Darling," He purred, matching eyes at the people currently next to us. "They're staring at you." He turned me around so that my back was against his chest and he spun me around, twirling my dress, forcing the women and gentlemen near us to back away. He finished the move by dipping me, and when he did, the candlelight reflected off of his black mask. It was in that moment, that I got a detailed look into his eyes. They were like—no, they were—sapphires. The circle around his pupil was a ring of lapis, matching perfectly to the ocean of blue that made up the multitude of colors in his eyes. I noticed as I kept gapping at him, that he started smirking, expecting me to answer him.

I gathered myself hurriedly. I shook my head, making my heavy mask sway from my nervous face and said, "I-I don't know what you mean. They couldn't possibly be staring at me. They-they're staring at you."

"See, that's where you're wrong." He lifted me up, my chest touching his once again. He situated my body again, placing his hand on my hip, and holding my hand to lift it up toward the grand ceiling once again. "They are staring at you, not us. And by the confused look on your face, you don't know the full story, or what's really going on."

"What do you mean the full story? What else could possibly be going on?" I stammered over the words, trying to find my way back into our dancing routine.

"You really have no idea no idea what's going, do you? You don't know why you've been invited here tonight. I thought you would know more." He whispered those words into my ear as the tempo started slowing down; our dance finally coming to an end.

As we danced slower and slower, I said, "Then please tell me. Tell me the whole story. Getting that invitation today was a complete surprise. I don't know why I got it, but I did." I stopped to catch a breath. "These things don't happen to someone like me. So, please tell me why I'm here tonight." I whispered the last part at the music slowed down and the temp stopped completely. The silence of the room was filled with the clapping of women and the whistling of men. I overhead some men say that would like a turn with me. My partner also heard those remarks and grabbed my hip and growled. And, as if nothing happened, the golden-masked musicians started playing the dark, beautiful music that they playing before, and the couples found each other and started up dancing again as if what just happened never did.

My partner led me over to a dark, secluded corner of the ballroom, where even the soft candlelight dared not touch. There were velvet couches—made of the same material as my safe chair back at home—sitting couples who decided that they had enough dancing and needed time to get to know each other, specifically, their lips.

We sat down on a couch opposite of a couple, who appeared to be intoxicated and enjoying themselves. But, once they saw us sitting down, they got up and moved away, probably to find another corner. I leaned back against the cool, red velvet that made up the comfy couch. My partner did the same, also lifting his legs to rest his feet on the painted oak table in front of us. He turned to me and said, "Before I tell you anything, I want to get to know you. Pray, tell me your name, my dear Butterfly."

I turned my upper body toward him and answered his question. "Well, if you must know. My name is Victoria. Now, you must tell me yours."

He licked his lips before he smirked at me. "My name is Hugo, my dear Butterfly."

I stared at him, pupils widening because, for some odd reason, it wasn't the name I was expecting. I voiced my thoughts. "Interesting. Wasn't what I was expecting." I stared him up and down, waiting for a reaction of some sort, but all I got was a shrug of his shoulders and that classic smirk of his that would, in time, be permanently engraved on his face if I kept saying stuff like that.

"Really? Not what you were expecting at all. Were you expecting something more . . . regal perhaps?" He asked, clearing poking fun at me.

"Would you stop it? You said you would tell me why I'm here. Why someone like me is here. At the Royal's Annual Masquerade." I pleaded with him, making a face that begging him to finally breaking the small talk that he created to calm down and get my anxiety in check.

He lifted his feet off the table and rested them firmly against the marble floor—which, in the corner of the ballroom, was covered by a rich, silk carpet imported from who knows where. He stood up and turned toward me and walked a few steps; his knees now touching my shaking ones. He—Hugo—extended his hand and facing his palm up, waiting for me to take it. "Victoria, follow me, dear Butterfly."

I clasped my hand with him, our fingers entwining together. He pulled me up; I was equal to his broad shoulders. He dragged me to the curtained wall, which I didn't see before, and he pulled the lush, red curtain aside, uncovering an antique mirror, which looked exactly like the mirrors that made up the entryway and the grand chandelier. He let go of my hand as he placed the curtain on a golden hook of sorts to fully expose the mirror. He turned around and looked me and said, "The conversation that we're about to have should not be heard by other ears. Which is why I'm leading you to where the story—our story—begins." He placed his left hand on the center of the mirror and pushed, revealing that the mirror isn't just a mirror, but passageway . . . toward a garden.

He moved back, his hand still on the door and said: " Ladies first."

I took and hesitant step in and turned around an looked at him, his face said it all. We're about to have a serious conversation. I turned back, to the unlit passageway and stepped fully in; Hugo quickly following me in, probably to get fellow watching eyes away from us.