With his still-rough fingers—one of the few things the surprisingly resourceful woman couldn’t polish and disguise—he rubbed the back of his newly trimmed hair and adjusted the black mask over his eyes. There was a fluttering in his stomach, but not the butterflies that performers talked about. No, these were giant creatures, beating to the rhythm of Isabelle’s name. Despite everything.
“Sir?” A shorter man in a dark coat tugged at his arm as the group in front of him traveled down the stairs into the gold-hued fairyland that was the Lira ballroom, this night glittering with crystals and beads dripping from the ceiling.
Aaron blinked at him. “Pardon?”
The man cleared his throat. “Your name, so you can be announced.”
“Oh, right.” Aaron tugged at his cravat. He wanted to be a big macher, so he’d better learn to play the part. “Um, I’m . . . Aaron Ellenberg.”
“Very good,” the man said. “Mr. Aaron Ellenberg,” he called out into the air, and the crowd fell silent for a moment, all heads turning toward him.
And they were . . . nodding. And bending in respect as he started down the staircase.
“Aaron.” The voice—her voice—crisp and clear, echoed through the ballroom, over the heads of the milling guests. Even the actors making their ways to their positions on the stage that had somehow been built overnight paused their work to stare.
Well, Miriam was right. Apparently, he could truly make an entrance. Murmurs swelled as the sea of well-dressed bodies parted, clearing a path to her. And all of a sudden, his feet would not move—and not due to the too-tight velvet-covered shoes. Well, not just due to them. He really should’ve worn his own, but the consensus among his helpers had been beauty over practicality. Something he was beginning to regret.
The chandelier above her acted as a spotlight. Dressed in deep red, a perfect contrast to her shimmery black hair, her cheeks flushed below her jeweled half mask, she was something out of a fairy story. Bold and bright and beautiful and commanding, ready to do and be anything. Breathtaking.
We need to talk.She mouthed the words before biting her lip.Please?she added, her eyes nearly pleading.
It took everything in him not to run to her and fall to his knees and beg her to—well, just let him be with her, to love him. Because he couldn’t. They’d said all they had to say already. Miriam was wrong, no matter how much he wanted her to be right.
He wasn’t enough for Isabelle. His love wasn’t enough. Not to make her love him in return.
But the way she stared back at him, even from behind the mask, the way her chest rose and fell, that was everything. The way that one word cut into him.Please.He would carry it and the tiny bit of hope it sparked inside him, the hope that should rightly be dead, forever.
With as much grace and dignity as he could, he nodded to her before moving over the golden runner to the edge of the ballroom, head held high, as if he belonged. And it appeared he did, because the moment he stepped down, whatever spell had taken the other guests’ tongues broke.
The chatter began once more, and a throng approached him with more bows and curtsies and introductions. A flurry of words rushed at him—from compliments regarding how he looked and carried himself to thank-yous for small things he’d done in the past that he’d believed no one noticed. Returning Mr. Feld’s lost tallis bag in the snow, slipping the Herzogs an extra parcel of matzahs the Passover the creditors had been calling but they’d been too embarrassed to say, adding an extra cushion to Mr. Millstein’s seat when it rained and his hip was acting up. Normally he’d have flushed with pleasure. And while an odd aching filled his gut, his mind was completely directed elsewhere. Toward her and only her.
Aaron craned his neck, as he had to get to her, but the obstacles continued. Oy. What was he to do? This was beyond—no. No, it wasn’t. He’d wanted this—this moment—and now was his time. Besides, these were the people, the community he’d longed for, and though he was leaving, he wanted to be with them again too, just a little bit, one last time. Smiling, with as much dignity as possible, he acknowledged every well-wisher personally as he wove through the crowds, still focused on his goal—to get to her a final time.
Though that was a trifle difficult, as the guests kept coming, until someone else cut through the crowd with long, firm steps—not Isabelle, but a man. A man in a mask, with a rather familiar gait and set of the shoulders, though he couldn’t quite place him.
“Mr. Ellenberg.” The man clapped him on the back.
“Yes?” He squinted in an attempt to decipher the features through the mask. His hair was dark, though graying at the temples, suggesting he was a few years older, so not a former fellow apprentice or orphan. Perhaps someone from the synagogue?
“I work for the Lira family,” the man explained in a voice so familiar, but just out of reach in his memory. “Miss Isabelle would like to have a word with you before the performance starts.”
“Yes, I would like to speak with her as well.” Because he would. Even if he shouldn’t.
He craned his neck over the throng, working to catch a glimpse of anything red, anything that might be a part of her. He glanced at the other man. Maybe he could be of assistance. “In private, if possible,” he added, lowering his voice, though working to keep his tone still respectful.
The man’s lips turned up in a half smile. “Naturally. And it is not only possible, but preferred.” He placed a hand on Aaron’s arm, his grip rather tight. “Come this way,” he said, tugging him toward a hall he’d never used.
“Where are we going?” He worked to keep up with the servant’s quick pace as they moved through an empty, narrow corridor, a touch darker and less well decorated than the one leading to the library, where Isabelle usually went to breathe. Which, come to think of it, would have been perfect. He opened his mouth to suggest that location, but the other man hushed him.
“We’re going to the garden,” he told Aaron as they hurried down a winding staircase.
“Oh, I know a different way.” He glanced over his shoulder, an unease beginning to spread outward from the pit of his stomach.
“This is a more secluded entrance,” the man returned, though he finally released his grip. They reached the bottom stair and creaked open a small door, lengths of ivy waving like a curtain to reveal the night sky. A soft, cool breeze ruffled through his borrowed garments.
“Follow me, please,” the servant added, pointing toward what Aaron could now make out as the fountain and the statue where he and Isabelle had sat and talked and, well, done quite a bit more.
He reached down and ran his fingers through the water. “Interesting, I didn’t know we could exit—” An object crashed against his skull, causing him to lurch forward, striking his temple on the stone. The action was so fast he didn’t have time to even cry out. Instead, there was a flash of pain, and darkness took him.
