Masque of the Red Death by Bethany Griffin Page B

stop moving. Am I hallucinating?
    I hear Mother and Father’s voices from the next room. They aren’t bothering to whisper.
    Another explosion rocks my bedroom.
    Bombings have happened before. Once, twice, never two so close together. This is bad.
    Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I press my feet against the floor. It doesn’t move, so I dare to stand.
    Through my window I see flames against a backdrop of darkness.
    I’m going to my parents. My door opens soundlessly, but they must feel a draft flowing in from my room, because they both turn to face me.
    A third explosion shakes the penthouse. More glass shatters in the kitchen. Mother whimpers.
    I won’t succumb to fear. I clench my teeth. Mother is ridiculous. I won’t be like her.
    Smoke billows outside. “Is the entire city burning?” I want to run to the window and look out, as if there is some way that I could see whether Will and the children are safe. Instead I stand, frozen.
    “Idiots,” Father mutters. “Burning, looting. They will make their situation worse.”
    “The people who are burning the city, what do they want?” I ask. I’m thinking of cloaked men and Elliott’s concern that someone would take over the city before he does.
    Father chooses to interpret my question as if I am completely shallow. As ignorant as I was a week ago.
    “They want to change their lives. The poverty, their desperation, the state in which they are forced to live. Desperation and apathy are all we have left—” Father is interrupted by a series of staccato explosions. “Sometimes I wish gunpowder had never been invented,” he says.
    I stare at him, shocked. This is the man who lives by science. Who exists for discoveries.
    I collapse onto the couch between my parents, and we sit in miserable silence until the sun comes up. Mother gasps each time the floor shakes. I keep my feet flat on the ground and my hands flat against the sofa cushions.
    “What would our lives have been like if the plague hadn’t happened?” As soon as I say the words, I wish I could take them back.
    Mother answers quickly. “You would have gone to school. We would have traveled. Your father had a good job at the university. You and—”
    “There is no ‘what if the plague never happened,’” Father interrupts. “It happened. That’s all.”
    We sit, silent and afraid.
    “Father,” I finally choke out, “can you tell me about the masks? How you made them?”
    He gives me a long look. He could be thinking that all I need to know is that the masks can’t be shared, not even between twins. But Father isn’t cruel. If that’s what’s going through his head, he’ll keep it to himself.
    “I’m not supposed to speak of it,” he says. “The prince threatened to cut out my tongue....”
    Mother whimpers and Father turns away. As if he’s ashamed of upsetting her. Or maybe he’s seen the shock on my face.
    I know that my father lives in a precarious place, that he used his popularity with the people to keep us here, away from the prince’s prison, while ignoring the prince’s anger at being outmaneuvered. But I never heard about the prince’s threats. Stealing the plans for Elliott could upset this balance that keeps us free.
    At breakfast time, the servants arrive, frightened, smelling of smoke. They risked themselves to come to work. Jobs are difficult to come by. Our courier is later than the others, and his mask is askew. When Father takes him into the lab to fix it, I follow them and listen.
    “When did it happen?” Father asks as he examines the mask.
    “Men were burning and looting.” The courier’s voice drops, and I have to strain to hear him. “If I contract the disease, please look in on my daughter.” His voice trails away.
    “You have nothing to worry about,” Father says kindly, handing back his mask. But he keeps his own firmly in place.
    With the sunrise, the flames are no longer visible. From my window I trace the path of the river. We