Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin Page A

still need them. But his offer eases the pressure. Maybe it’s his voice, disembodied in the humid darkness, or maybe it’s how easy he thinks I am. I think of Henry and Elise, and of course I think about Finn. Can anyone overthrow the prince? Even with an army? Elliott is quiet as he waits for my response.
    “I have an idea,” I say. “A suggestion for your new government.”
    “Oh?”
    “Free masks,” I say. “For the children.”
    He coughs and chokes. On smoke from his cigarette or on his surprise?
    “That is an excellent idea.”
    Elliott stubs out his cigarette and then lights a match. In the moment of illumination I can see that he isn’t wearing a mask. I’m not as shocked as I might have been a few days ago. He holds the match between his fingers and watches it burn.
    “There is one problem,” he says. “Very few people know how to make the masks.”
    He drops the match to the ground. It sizzles in the mud, and then we sit in silence for what feels like a long time. Suddenly I know why he agreed so easily, what he’s going to ask, that this is why he truly wanted to meet me. This was a game of chess, and he understands strategy.
    “Whoever can make the masks can defeat the disease. There is great power in that.” Elliott shifts, and a couple of stones fall from the low wall. “I’ve spoken to the workers at the factory. The filters are manufactured secretly, within the prince’s palace.”
    But I know where Father keeps the blueprints.
    I think of the young girl putting her baby’s body into the black cart. Her anguish. A mask might have saved her child. Isn’t it worth any price, any risk, to save someone from watching the contagion ravage their family? I wish I could see his face.
    I move my foot in a half circle, testing the resistance of the unseen mud.
    “I know where the plans are,” I admit quietly.
    He doesn’t waste any time.
    “I have clever friends. If you can get the blueprints, we can start production in just a matter of weeks. Days. We can distribute them secretly to people without money, for their children. I’d thought of making the masks more readily available, of course. But it would be genius to have you, the scientist’s tragic daughter, distributing them. People would love that.”
    Is that who I am? A tragedy? Is that what Will sees when he looks at me?
    “I will get the information,” I tell him.
    “Be careful. Your father is surrounded by spies.”
    Now it’s my turn to laugh. “We know that.” We’ve always known.
    “I’ll contact you soon. Now that April has disappeared, I need you.” I like that he sounds less self-assured when he says this. It makes me think that maybe we could be friends.
    I ask, because I have to know. “Was April lying, or is it true that you write poetry?”
    A moment of silence. “It’s true.” His voice is barely audible. “My father nearly despaired of me ever amounting to anything.”
    He takes my elbow, guides me back to the ladder. “Descend carefully, Miss Araby Worth.”

CHAPTER
    SEVEN
    W INCING AT THE BITTER TASTE , I SWALLOW MY sleeping draft. Father mixes it for me, tired of being kept awake by my screams. Thanks to the medication, I can sleep a dreamless sleep. Most nights.
    I try not to think about anything. Not matches lit in dark gardens, or small children who are unprotected from the Weeping Sickness, or April imprisoned. Not rooms upon rooms of soldiers directly below me. I breathe carefully, fighting the panic that threatens to overwhelm me.
    After what seems like an entire night’s worth of sleeplessness, I dream of faces obscured by shadows.
    I wake with a scream and sit up. My bed is wobbling. I shouldn’t be awake before the sun is up; shouldn’t open my eyes to darkness. I’m groggy, so the medicine is still in my system. Glass breaks, and something crashes to the floor. For a moment the room is bright as day. Then my bed shakes again.
    I press my hands against the mattress and pray for the room to