The mask doesn’t help. It’s creamy white lace, delicate pink nose, and tall white ears land somewhere between decadent and ridiculous.
I’d joked about being a raccoon, since I’m usually scrounging for dinner last-minute on campus. Kat hadn’t laughed.
Her arm links through mine, all performative sisterly affection, and she steers me inside. “Try to smile,” she murmurs. “You look terrified.”
“Iamterrified,” I whisper back. “Of suffocating under all this self-importance.”
Her eyes through the fox mask are sharp and cutting. “Don’t embarrass me, Roxy. This isimportant. People here know me.”
The marble foyer is dimly lit by a chandelier. What I thought was the whole venue—the pretty little bank aboveground—is just a façade.
The real party is below.
A woman in black silk gloves greets us and gestures toward an open steel door in the wall.
The vault.
My brows raise as we step inside toward a huge marble slab in the room that is propped up among security deposit boxes and what can only be cases of cash. Amber light pools out of a hole in the ground.
Kat disappears down it, never hesitating.
I teeter at the top, unbalanced in my heels. At twenty-two, I’ve had absolutely no need to ever wear heels like this. At least if I snap an ankle, I’ll have the summer to recover.
The sound of strings filters up—slow, lush, indulgent. From the shadows below, Kat whispers: “Remember what I said. You’re representing me tonight.”
“Because nothing says ‘representation’ like a bunny mask,” I mutter, and struggle down one step at a time, already feeling sweat prickling at my lower back.
The fur at each shoulder tickles my chin as I finally reach the bottom and take in the masquerade.
The space opens into a world I could never have imagined: an underground ballroom carved from stone, transformed into something between a forest and a fever dream.
Golden vines wind up marble pillars. Moss glows faintly all along various surfaces—is itreal? Beetles look like jewels climbing over the decadent green surfaces, protected by glass cases. The chandeliers look like cages dripping with light.
Guests prowl in silk and velvet, each masked as some animal of myth.
There are several other foxes (which Kat doesn’t look happy about), wolves, stags, a woman dressed in leopard print whose gown trails like smoke.
The scent of money and musk clings to the air.
“The Gilded Range,” Kat murmurs proudly. “It’s legendary.”
I don’t doubt it. It feels like the kind of place where legends are made—and sold.
Kat and I aren’t exactly close.
She has six years on me and got married right out of high school, only months after we learned Dad was sick.
We live completely separate lives, and that’s never been more apparent than in this moment.
We pass waiters carrying trays of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres shaped like tiny gold leaves. I reach for one automatically, something creamy and perfect balanced on a wafer.
But Kat’s hand shoots out.
“Careful,” she hisses. “They’re watching.”
I look up and meet the painted eyes of a weasel mask across the room.
The man wearing it is older, expensive-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of posture that says,mine.
