Trust in a Masquerade

Mira moves carefully in and among the dancers. They move in buoyant masses from one room to another, swirling in gold and black and crimson taffeta. She wanders, with Valentine at her side, back to the lounge, where the gold-bedecked band has not ceased their music, despite the minutes passing. The one with startlingly green eyes afixes his gaze on Mira, and a warmth creeps up her spine, like a soft carress. Valentine raises an eyebrow when she pauses before a crowd, eyes still caught on the musician.
The green-eyed gentleman closes his eyes as the tune changes from danceable to something dischordant and eerie, with a sweet undertone, like a goodbye with the promise of a reunion too far away.
Mira turns to Valentine, stumbling back at the sight of his wings, in full light and still wide enough to span half the room, despite being tucked into his sides.
"Valentine," she says.
"Yes?"
"What's beyond the house?"
Valentine does not answer immediately. He clasps his hands behind his back as a group of women in violet garb with darkened lips glides past. "What do you mean? The gardens?"
Mira shakes her head as the music resumes its previously quick tempo. "No, I mean the world out there," she throws a hand to the black windows, the landscape beyond obscured by golden reflections and musty velvet curtains. In the wavering candlelight dust motes flicker around them like fairy dust. "Are there streets? Other houses?"
Valentine takes Mira's arm in his, resting a gloved hand on her wrist. He leans down, his chest pressed to her side as he whispers, "You are awfully inquisitive tonight."
Valentine stears Mira out of the way of a group of wayward, giggling and swaying with rainbow tinted glasses of sparkling champagne. "Do you trust me?" he asks.
Mira nods. There is no doubt in her mind. In this world trust encompasses only Valentine and herself. The others guests, however friendly, make her weary. They have cold beauty, even in the vivid amber and scarlet light of the party. They sparkle like diamonds, hard and clear-cut, though their intentions are anything but clear.
"Here," Valentine's voice brings her attention to a pretty lady in a cat mask holding an assortment of venetian masks upon a golden tray.
"For the pretty girl," she says with a nod toward Mira. Her accent is odd and lilting as she holds the tray up higher for Mira to inspect.
There are masks covered in spangles and sequins, woven with ribbons and embroidered with oriental patterns. Some have crystals, others lace or painted pieces of sheet music. One is a mosaic ceramic mask emblazoned with a sun in one corner and a moon in the other. Mira selects a mask at randon. It has a spray of jet black feathers, silky as a panther pelt that tickle her skin as she slides it over her face, securing it behind her with ribbons.
"Thank you," she tells the girl at her elbow. The mask-girl bobs a curtsey, striding away, her hungry eyes only leaving Mira when she turns into a shadowy alcove.
"What is this for?" Mira questions, turning to Valentine who remains maskless, though his hair has fallen over his eyes and she cannot see the pupil of one of them.
"It is festive, and traditional, for this night."

Text by Lucie MacAulay