“I should go,” I say, sidestepping the raven.
He steps before me, blocking my progress. “Wait, please don’t go. I’m deeply sorry for interrupting your song. I was just…drawn to it. Announcing myself would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, I’m sure. Even more gentlemanly would have been to leave you in peace, but I couldn’t resist a closer listen.”
I pause at how flustered he sounds. There’s something about his voice that has my brow furrowed as I stare at that ridiculous glamoured raven head. Is it familiarity? Kindness? Eccentricity? Whatever it is, my fear begins to settle.
He extends his arms. “So…do you like my glamour?”
I glance over him once again, taking in the plain feathers, the clawed feet, the comically large belly. Without my permission, the corners of my lips begin to lift.
“Youdolike it. I think you’re the first who does.”
“Well, Mr. Raven,” I say quietly, “everyone else seems to honor the prince in subtler ways. You know, dainty beaks and feathered headdresses.”
“Meanwhile, here I am in all my spectacular glory and nobody cares. I’m one of the very few people dressed in a full-body glamour. I was certain there would be more. What’s the point of a glamoured ball if one is only partially glamoured? Isn’t the goal to be unrecognizable?”
“You should ask the prince.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could stuff them back in. Surely, he heard the scorn laced within them.
He snorts a laugh. “You aren’t fond of Prince Franco?”
“I said no such thing.” I try to sidestep him again, my eyes fixed on the door, but again the raven intercepts me.
“Do tell. I love a juicy piece of disdain about the prince. Have you met him?”
I’m about to cross my arms but think better of it. I may be in hiding, but I’m still at a formal ball. Instead, I fold my hands neatly at my waist. “I’ve met the prince but once and have nothing to say on the matter.”
“Oh, come on. You must share something.”
I lift my chin. “You are reading too far into this. I simply brought up the prince in response to your statement that glamoured balls are events in which one should be unrecognized.”
He flourishes his hand in an encouraging gesture. “Because…”
“Because he’s the only person at the ballnotin a glamour.”
The raven snaps his fingers and points at me. “Exactly! You’re literally the only person who’s noticed. I’m astonished by the density of these ballgoers.”
“Are you not a ballgoer yourself?”
He shrugs. “I prefer to lurk in corners and make fun of people while getting thoroughly drunk on wine. When I’m not hiding from them, that is.”
“Is that what you’re doing in here then?”
He taps the underside of his overlarge beak as if it were his chin. “I could ask you the same.”
I give him a small smile. “If you care to recall, I was just leaving.” I skirt around him, and this time he doesn’t try to stop me. Not until I reach the door, that is.
“Wait.” I pause and turn back to face him, suppressing a chuckle as I take in his wonderfully hideous costume yet again. He closes the distance between us, his tone suddenly tenuous. “What about you? Do you wear a glamour? Or is this your real face behind that mask?”
I say nothing, suddenly aware of my proximity to a stranger, a man I’m unfamiliar with, whose name and appearance I don’t know. It should unsettle me. I should find it vulgar to be alone in a room with an unknown male, I should fear for my honor. But I don’t. The impropriety paired with mystery reminds me so much of my violinist lover, of our temporary, meaningless tryst, that it brings a rush of exhilaration instead.
The raven studies me with his glassy, sightless eyes, but I can sense his true gaze burning behind the glamour. It’s a rare thing that I’m seen, noticed, and studied. Even rarer when the sight of me is enjoyed. It happens so seldom that it’s easy to recognize how it feels when it occurs. Like now.
He lifts a hand toward my face, gloved fingers lighting on a strand of loose hair, just like Brother Marus had done. But where I felt disgusted with Marus, I feel bold with the raven. I stand tall, feet rooted in place as he runs a finger along the strand without grasping it, and then slowly lowers his hand.
“Is this its true color?” he asks, voice far quieter than before.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” he says, and I can still feel his stare drinking me in. “I want to know who you are. Your true face. Your name.”
