24
June 1746
Paris, France
A masquerade ballat the Paris Opera! She had never been to one—in fact, Marguerite had never even dreamed of attending such an event. Who was she to grace the halls amongst such finery and nobility? Nothing but a pauper, a poor waif who had caught the eye of a dashing doctor with pity in his heart for her strange tale.
However, never in a million years would she turn down the opportunity. Even if it was all just pretend. Wasn’t that the beauty of a masquerade ball? Behind her mask, no one would know who she was, nor would she know them. For one brief evening, everyone was as much of a mystery to each other as she was to herself.
Not to mention…the dress. It had taken her some time to get into it on her own. Dr. Raithe kept only a few servants, and all of them men. They were ill-suited for assisting her with her clothing. Luckily, she was quite adept at lacing her own bodices and cinching them suitably tight enough.
The dress he had chosen for her was stunning. It was emerald to match her eyes, and it flowed around her in shades of green silk and embroidery. It was easily the most elegant thing she had ever worn by far. Sitting before the mirror to do her hair, she could not keep the smile from her face.
There would be dancing. There would be fine food and fine drink.
A real gala. Perhaps there would be royalty attending—how grand would that be? To think that she might be in the same room, or brush elbows on the dance floor with lords and ladies. Perhaps even a prince.
Her excitement was making it hard to focus on her hair, but after a long and concerted effort, she finally pinned and curled it up in a way that satisfied her. A hat made of dark green velvet with a swath of peacock feathers completed her ensemble, along with some modest jewelry, light makeup, and a pair of silk gloves.
And then she was ready. Letting out a breath, she went for the door before she stopped. Oh! How could she have nearly forgotten?
Fetching the emerald mask from the top of her vanity, she smiled down at it. It was all curls and beautiful leaves, accented with red painted roses along the cheek. She adored it. It was meant to tie on with a ribbon at the back, and she placed it over her face and secured it with a bow.
It covered only the upper half of her face, leaving her free to drink and eat and laugh. Perfect. As the clock struck six, she left her room, now in a bit of a hurry. When she rounded the top of the stairs, she froze and looked down at the man waiting for her at the bottom.
Wearing an elaborate, all black outfit, accented only with a shining white cravat at his throat, he turned to smile up at her from underneath the masked visage of a skull missing its lower jaw.
“Marguerite, my princess…” He shook his head, as if awestruck. “You are stunning.”
She was glad the mask hid her face as her cheeks seemingly burst into flame by their heat. “I—you look quite fetching yourself, doctor.”
He bowed at the waist, holding his walking cane out to the side. He was an elegant, eccentric creature. His long, embroidered black coat shifted as he moved, and she could see the detailed pattern placed on the surface in black thread, only giving it the sense of texture in the light without any color to go along with it.
“A bit ghoulish, perhaps.” Gathering up her skirt in front of her, she descended the stairs to stand before him. He certainly made an imposing sight, with his odd white hair that she had learned was not a wig like so many others, and his porcelain skull mask. He had even blacked out his eyes and his cheeks with soot to aid the illusion, carefully detailing the missing jaw that he wore as flesh instead.
“Oh?”
“It suits you I think.” With a faint smile, she nodded. “Yes. It suits you quite nicely.”
“Are you calling me a lowly ghoul, Mademoiselle Marguerite?” He placed his palm to his chest in mock insult. “Do you think so little of me?” He extended his arm to her as they headed for the door, one of his servants opening it for them to exit the house and board the carriage that waited for him.
“I fear I know not the rankings of the dead.” She chuckled at their silly game. “Perhaps you could enlighten me. What are you, then, if not a ghoul?”
“Hmm…” He helped her into the carriage then climbed in opposite from her. The door shut and, with a rap on the wall, they were off to the Salle des Tuileries. “Let us see. I am not a ghost.”
“No, you are far too tangible for that.” She poked him once in the knee to prove her point.
“Indeed! How terribly inconvenient to be a simple specter, drifting through walls, moaning in grief for a lost life.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I am a wight, a living body robbed of its soul.”
“I think you have more soul than most. It is in your eyes. No, you are no wight.”
“You are so certain?” He leaned forward. “My princess can see souls, now?”
She didn’t know why he insisted on calling her such a scandalous pet name, but she could not say that she disliked it. It made her cheeks warm each time. “No. I am no witch. But I ponder that perhaps a soulless creature would be far less amiable in conversation.”
“Ah, a vampire, then?” He hissed dramatically. “Come to seduce you and devour you whole?”
She laughed. “If you were such, you would have done so by now, I think.”