1
NORA
The Masquerade Ball
Masquerade Ball, Haversham Museum of Arts & Antiquities
The marble nymph shielding me from the crush of sequins and swagger looks as uncomfortable as I feel. Her stone hip juts forward in eternal confidence, while mine trembles inside a pair of ruthlessly high stilettos that were never designed for a librarian’s arches. A gilded program flaps in my hand, a makeshift fan whisking at the anxious sheen on my forehead. Breathe, Nora. One night. One reckless night and then back to sensible shoes and card-catalog serenity.
I chance a peek around the statue’s outstretched arm. The ballroom beyond is a riot of chandeliers and velvet masks, of laughter tuned to the key of old money. Violins skate over the marble floor; champagne flutes clink like distant wind chimes. Everyone moves as though spotlights follow their personal orbits.
My phone vibrates inside my clutch. It’s Emily—queen of pep talks, currently marooned in bed with a thirty-hour flu that struck a few hours before tonight’s masquerade. She’d spent a monthbragging about the charity ball she was finallyinvitedto, then pressed the e-ticket into my inbox with dramatic death-bed theatrics:
“Take my place, Nora. Live a little. Report back with tales of scandal.”
Now her messages light up the screen in rapid fire:
Em:
Stop lurking, mingle!
Em:
I may be dying but my FOMO is immortal.
Em:
Remember—no nerd speak. Go kiss a stranger for me.
I huff a laugh—the sound halfway between nerves and affection—and tuck the phone away. If she thinks I can handle one glitter-soaked night, maybe she’s right.
The gown Emily found for me is a deep-blue satin that puddles at my feet like midnight ink, fitted through the bodice before flaring out in a sweep I keep forgetting is mine. Every time I move, the fabric catches chandelier light and throws back indigo flashes, as if the dress has a pulse.
A half-mask of black lace—threaded with tiny gold feathers—rests over my eyes; it’s secured by silk ribbons that disappear into my hair, which for once are coaxed into soft, tumbling waves instead of the librarian bun I wear like armor.
A slender string of pearls drapes my collarbone, and the stilettos—wicked, shimmering things—add three inches of height and a foreign tilt to my hips.
For once, I don’t feel like a background extra in my own story. I feel luminous, novel-cover beautiful, the kind of heroine who might actually step out of the margins and intoher own plot. The realization hums under my skin, warm and effervescent, and I and push away from the nymph’s cool shoulder.
“Mingle,” I mutter, stepping into the currents of silk gowns and bespoke tuxedos. Easy for Emily to say.
Still, I’ll try. I square my shoulders and drink in the scene, labeling strangers the way I label stacks at the library. Categories are my comfort, and order is the quickest antidote to panic.
That brooding man in impeccable tails?Mr. Darcy. The woman in the white-and-black fur cape, cigarette holder aloft?Cruella de Vil’smodern reincarnation—file under Villains, v. 2. The giggling cluster awash in iridescent aqua? An entiresiren choruslifted from some half-forgotten Greek myth.
With each mental sticker my pulse steadies; the roar of chandelier light and champagne laughter shrinks to something I can alphabetize. Naming things is how I keep the chaos from shelving me instead.
A waiter glides by with a silver tray. I snag a fresh flute of champagne, the bubbles leaping like exclamation points. Sip, catalog, breathe.
A man approaches.
Tall, well-dressed, smile like a shark.
He’s older than me, probably mid-forties. Slicked-back hair, expensive watch, the kind of guy who’s probably used to being listened to. Or at leastobeyed.
“Now that’s a pretty little thing to be standing all alone,” he drawls, voice thick with bourbon and unearned confidence. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I tighten my grip on my champagne flute. “Just taking a breather.”
