These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel
Read These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel Online
Authors: Kelly Zekas,Tarun Shanker
To Calvin and Hobbes, for teaching me the important things
—Tarun
To Buffy the Vampire Slayer, for heroines who can beat the monsters and also (sometimes) fall in love
—Kelly
From the diary of Miss Laura Kent, soon to be Mrs. Laura Edwards
From the household notes of Edmund Tuffins
These Vicious Masks: Discussion Questions
D
EATH
. T
HIS CARRIAGE
was taking me straight to my death.
“Rose,” I said, turning to my younger sister. “In your esteemed medical opinion, is it possible to die of ennui?”
“I . . . can’t recall a documented case.”
“What about exhaustion? Monotony?”
“That could lead to madness,” Rose offered.
“And drowning in a sea of suitors? After being pushed in by your mother?”
“It would have to be a lot of suitors.”
“Evelyn, this is no time to be so morbid,” my mother interrupted, simultaneously poking my father awake. “And it is certainly not suitable conversation for dancing. You must
enjoy yourself tonight.”
“You’re ordering me to enjoy myself?”
“Yes, it’s a ball, not a funeral.”
A funeral might have been preferable. In fact, there was a long list of things I would rather do than attend tonight’s monotonous event: thoroughly clean the stables, travel the Continent,
have tea with my mother’s ten closest friends, travel the Continent, eat my hat, and—oh, yes, of course—travel the Continent. At this moment, my best friend, Catherine Harding,
was undoubtedly watching some fabulous new opera in Vienna with an empty seat by her side, meant for me. But when I had modestly, logically suggested to my mother the importance—no, the
necessity—of a young woman seeing the world, expanding her mind, and finding her passion, she remained utterly unconvinced.
“Catherine tells me Vienna has grand balls,” I put in.
“This isn’t the time to discuss that, either,” Mother replied.
“But what if tonight, in my sheltered naïveté, I accept a proposal from a pitiless rogue who takes all my money and confines me to an attic?”
“Then better it happens here than on the Continent.”
I bit my tongue, for it was quite useless to argue further. Mother would not be swayed to let me leave the country. Instead, she was determined to see me to every ball in England. But what
was
the point of all this? Was anyone truly satisfied with seeing the same people over and over again, mouthing the same false words, feeling nothing, and saying less? Even my London
season felt like I was in a prison, trapped in the same routine of balls, dinners, theaters, and concerts that all seemed to blend together, just like the shallow people in attendance. They were so
eager to confine themselves to a role and make the correct impression that they’d forget to have any actual thoughts of their own. How would I ever figure out what exactly it was that I
wished to do, stuck here in sleepy Bramhurst?
Gazing out the window, I wondered if I should try very hard to have a horrible time tonight to spite my mother, or if we were still close enough to home that I could just throw myself out the
door and roll back down the hill. But since we had left, the light pattering of rain had become an angry barrage, while the lightning flashed and the thunder raised its voice in warning. Hopes for
an impassable flood took root within me as our carriage swerved and slowed along the slick, muddy road. Suddenly, it jerked to a dead stop, and I believed my prayers answered until the driver
shouted down to my father.
“Sir! There’s a carriage stopped up ahead! Reckon they’re stuck! It’ll be just a moment!”
We lurched forward until we saw the outline of a carriage crookedly tilted halfway off the road. Our driver’s voice carried: “Hello there! Can we be of assistance?”
Rose and I crowded to her tiny window and found three drenched men—a driver, a passenger, and a near giant—all attempting to push the vehicle back out of a muddy ditch. They paused
upon hearing us, and the large man tipped his hat toward our window, the carriage light illuminating his tanned skin and pale lips.
Their driver wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he approached. “Thank you, sir!” he yelled, panting as he waved us along. “It’s quite all right! Get your passengers to
their destination! We shall manage—” The rest of his words were sucked up by another growl and crackle of thunder.
Whether it was the man’s words or the storm that was convincing, our driver decided not to argue and sent the horses forward. As I turned back, watching the three men fade into the
blackness, a flash of lightning unveiled them for one last glimpse, their shapes stark against the bright white rip across the sky. But it wasn’t any figure that caught my eye. It was their
carriage, which seemed to be
lifted
entirely off the ground by the giant man and heaved onto the road before they were swallowed by the darkness again.
“Did you see that?” I asked Rose.
Her raised brow answered the question, but then it furrowed as she considered the matter. “Is the fair in town? Perhaps he’s one of those strong men we always see
advertised.”
“But . . . still, to lift an entire carriage by himself?”
“Evelyn,” Mother interrupted. “I don’t wish to hear another story about hallucinations rendering you too ill to attend—”
“Rose saw it, as well!”
“Oh. Excellent. Then we need not risk the health of any of our footmen to fix that driver’s foolish mistake,” my mother said, in her infinite kindness.
Our conversation died in the din of the storm, but the unnatural image of those four wheels suspended in the air stayed with me as we rolled up the narrow dirt path to the congested entrance of
Feydon Hall. Though there was surely a rational explanation, my nerves were now on edge, making Feydon’s familiar details seem sinister. At the crest of the hill, the mansion loomed over the
rest of the country, and thick clouds roiled menacingly over the magnificent estate. Cracked stone statues of Hades and Charon welcomed visitors in, while gnarled trees reached out to capture all
who dared to veer off the path. Towering gargoyles stretched upward as if to attract an ominous flash of lightning. This was ridiculous. Was my mind so tired of Bramhurst that it was conjuring up
these gothic images? This must be how girls go mad: It’s the only alternative to boredom.
Shaking the absurd thoughts away, I followed Rose and my parents out of the carriage. Umbrella-wielding footmen led us to the front door and into the bright, breathtaking vestibule that set the
tone for the rest of the mansion. Though our home was rather large and well kept, Sir Winston’s home of Feydon was still awe-inspiring. Vivid paintings glowed in the gaslight against the dark
wood paneling. Lush oriental rugs covered the floor, and the ceiling reached toward the sky, providing room for the second-floor balcony—a place where guests wanting for conversation topics
had a steady supply of people below to scrutinize.
Still, in spite of the main hall’s enormous size, the waves of fashionable men and women rendered it impossible to navigate. This looked to be by far the biggest ball our small town of
Bramhurst had seen in years, which unfortunately meant I didn’t have to worry about a sea of suitors, but an ocean. We had not gone three steps when my mother fixed her eyes on a boy frozen
in perfect imitation of the bronze statue beside him.
She leaned in confidentially. “Evelyn, see there. The eldest from the Ralstons. I hear they have a lovely collection of stained-glass windows.” Ah, yes, just my type: a stiff,
prideful lord-to-be with impeccable, cold deportment to prove his perfect breeding.
“Set a date,” I declared solemnly with a wave of my hand. “I shall marry him immediately.”
Rose choked back her giggle, but Mother was far less amused. “Not this childish behavior again,” she said through her teeth, which were still arranged in a polite smile for the
guests. “You will give these men more than a second’s thought or deeply regret this attitude in a few years’ time.”
“Yes, when I’m crying next to, God forbid, a plain window,” I said with a sigh.
As we slowly made our way inside, my sister caught my arm and flashed me a commiserative smile. Only Rose seemed to understand how unbearable these evenings were for me. If I could just make
Mother see that, or annoy her enough, perhaps she would pack me off in frustration. I reaffirmed my plan to show her how joyless a ball could be. For everyone.
She, however, seemed to have her own plan and reinforcements, leading us to Sir Winston at the foot of the grand stairs. With his round face, sizable nose, and wide smile, our host’s
jovial nature was easily apparent as he greeted his guests. But lurking beneath the surface was a slyness that most people missed; he was a Machiavelli who plotted marriages. Mine, mostly.
“My dear Wyndhams,” he greeted, giving me a quick wink. “I’m so glad you could come! I am the picture of health, thanks to you, Miss Rosamund, and of course your sister,
Miss Wyndham! You are so very welcome tonight. What a pleasure!”
“The pleasure is ours,” I said carefully, wondering what he could be planning—for the man was always planning something.
“Sir, I am simply glad to see you so well recovered. The ball is beautiful.” Rose, of course, was all sincerity.
“A wonderful evening, indeed. I am sure you have many new friends gathered here tonight,” my mother said, stealthily shifting the subject. “Is there anyone of special
acquaintance we should be sure to meet tonight?” They shared a mischievous look.
“Why indeed, Lady Wyndham, I must confess that tonight’s ball is a particularly special one. For we are celebrating the arrival of my nephew, Mr. Sebastian Braddock. Sebastian! Come
meet the prettiest girls I know, Miss Evelyn Wyndham and Miss Rosamund Wyndham!”
With another wink at me, Sir Winston stepped aside to reveal his nephew behind him. Good Lord. His appearance was nearly a caricature of the dark and brooding hero from every gothic novel. He
stood very tall, even more so than my gawky frame, arrogance oozing from every inch of his broad-shouldered form. Alert, hooded eyes scrutinized me fiercely, as if trying to turn my blood cooler.
His lips were drawn into a slight frown, presumably a permanent state, while the crease in his brow gave the absurd impression of perpetual deep thought. With a gloved hand he brushed away a strand
of mussed, straight black hair to afford us a better view of his captivating face. I felt sure he knew exactly the effect this would have on most young women.