Read Online Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin - Free Book Online Page A

the desk. The first drawer is empty. No ink, no quill, none of the implements that one would keep in a desk. The next drawer is empty as well.
    The third drawer is filled with papers. I grab a folded sheet from the back. It appears to be a schematic for some sort of … airship? At the top Father has written Impossible .
    Tell the boy this will never fly .
    I hear a noise and jump before I realize it is the cook, padding into the sitting room to ask Mother a question.
    In the next drawer I find a stack of carefully labeled papers. Drawings, diagrams, directions. Everything a person might need for making a mask.
    “Araby?” Mother calls from the sitting room.
    I shut the drawer too hard. Mother must certainly have heard it; I slide the papers up into my sleeve, thankful that I wore this modest dress.
    “Araby?” Mother says from the doorway. “What are you doing?” She sounds confused rather than accusatory, and that makes me feel guiltier than ever.
    “I was looking for Father.”
    “He’s downstairs, talking to the guards. Didn’t you see him leave?” Now she’s suspicious. “Come into the hallway. He won’t want you in here.”
    I follow Mother, but before I can smooth the bulge of folded papers in my sleeve, the front door opens and Father steps back into the apartment.
    I wait, heart pounding, but Mother doesn’t accuse me of anything.
    Father stops and waits, obviously wondering why we are standing there.
    “I may work in the laboratory before dinner,” he says finally, eyeing the door that I neglected to close all the way.
    “Dinner will be served in an hour,” Mother says. “Cook got some mushrooms—”
    She is interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.
    I catch my breath. The only person who knocks is April. Everyone else has to go through security at the front desk. A servant opens the door, and we all stare.
    A young man is standing on the threshold with a bouquet of very red roses. I almost don’t recognize him because I’ve never seen him in a mask, but he’s wearing one now. The arrogant way he stands and his quizzical eyebrows give him away. They have even more impact, somehow, now that his face is obscured. I like the mask on him.
    One of his eyebrows looks darker, slightly singed. I remember him sitting in the darkness, lighting matches. Maybe he burned himself. Or maybe he was out in the city last night.
    Either way, I’m thrilled to see him.
    Elliott saunters in, shakes Father’s hand, nods to Mother, and hands the flowers to me. I hold them awkwardly; a thorn scrapes my hand, leaving a thin trail of blood.
    “I’m Elliott,” he says to my parents. “The…” He hesitates. “April’s brother. I was hoping your daughter could walk up to the rooftop with me.”
    The rooftop. I’m not allowed to go there, though I haven’t considered jumping in a long time. I deposit the flowers unceremoniously on a side table. Mother stares at Elliott, her face white. She goes to the sideboard and pours a drink. Whether it’s for her or for Elliott is unclear.
    “The roof?” Before Mother can go on, our courier walks into the room. Tears course down his face. This man who sits outside our door, impassively waiting to run our errands, is weeping. “The bombing last night…” he whispers. “It destroyed the factory where they manufacture the masks.”
    I gasp and put my hand up to the mouthpiece of my own mask, and as I do so, the papers in my sleeve make a loud crinkling sound.
    Elliott’s eyes meet mine.
    “Surely they will rebuild,” Mother says.
    “People on the street say that even if they do, the workers will have to make each mask by hand again. Only the very rich will be able to afford them.” The courier collapses onto our couch.
    Mother serves the drink to him instead of our guest.
    “Are people saying who did it?” Elliott asks.
    My eyes go back to his singed eyebrow. What does he know?
    “Black scythes were painted on the walls that were still standing,” the courier