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It was best to consider The Silver Ingenue a character, someone wholly apart from herself.
She allowed the game of make believe to sink into her bones, to grant her access. Her mask like a skeleton key, opening a grand ballroom disarmed by fantasy.
She had believed the transformation complete when she finished dressing. The gown she was wearing seemed to render her body unrecognizable. She was unaccustomed to the flow of the gauzy, light material, far more at home in dull, heavy, practical clothes overlaid by aprons. They were all starched lines, perfectly folded creases. Rigid in their function and accompanying expectations.
Having hoped to escape the weight of her usual duties for just one extraordinary evening, she was a bit frustrated with herself when she realized she had—by nature or force of habit—retreated to stand against the wall. What was the point, after all, of going to such lengths to escape being treated as a piece of furniture, only to linger wordlessly alongside an armchair? Yet she could not bring herself to move. Not when the view of the wealthy crowd in their elaborate costumes was so spectacularly vibrant.
As much as she had donned her mask to join in with the celebration, she also wanted to seize this chance to stand back. Stand still. And take the night in.
It was simply stunning. She recognized, in a way most present would not, the amount of time and effort it would require to make any place appear this otherworldly. There were flowers. There were what must have been hundreds of flowers, twining around railings, explosively accenting tables. The fact that they were all in full bloom, not one so much as beginning to wilt, was a testament to how precisely coordinated the decorators had to have been.
She was impressed and silently applauded them. She hoped they had been paid well. She hoped someone had remembered to thank them—that their skill had been acknowledged in some way, at some point.
Movement out of the corner of her eye made her flinch slightly, startling her. After a moment, she realized a drink tray was being thrust in her direction. Finding it strange to be on this end of the interaction, she nevertheless managed to smile as she accepted a crystal flute.
The Silver Ingenue’s satin gloves were slippery, and she had to hold the glass quite firmly to prevent it from dropping to the floor. She took a long, appreciative look at it. The golden hue of the drink. The condensation frosting the glass. She wished she could feel the chill of it against her skin, but her fingers were dry, calloused as no true lady’s would have been, and to expose their weathered condition would have risked everything.
She tilted her head back, taking a small sip. Her eyes latched immediately onto the magnificent chandelier dangling from the ceiling. It was a sight to behold. She was certain it was also difficult to maintain. But the end result was such a treat for the eye, the light and beads positively shimmering, that she could not help but smile.
Joy radiated through her. It was a pure, gentle, warm feeling, and her smile only widened as she savored it, continuing to enjoy the chandelier. How lucky she was to be here. How grateful she was to her friends who had helped her to sneak off and perfected her disguise. How truly happy—
Her train of thought splintered. An utterly alien feeling tensed her shoulders, as uncomfortable as an itch unable to be scratched. Someone was watching her.
No, she corrected herself. Not her. She was invisible. But someone was watching The Silver Ingenue.
Gathering all her courage, embracing the part, she followed the urgings of her intuition and settled her gaze straight ahead.
She was confronted with a pair of very fine eyes, framed by a black mask. What she could see of the man’s features suggested someone handsome as well as vaguely familiar, as though she had seen him (or perhaps someone who looked somewhat like him) before. But no name occurred to her.
Why, then, did meeting his stare cause her to fidget, her fingers rearranging around her glass, her stomach dropping as though she was in the midst of racing down a steep hill?
She did not recognize him, and there was no reason that he should recognize her. She was not in any danger of discovery. She felt her brows draw together, though her mask covered too much of her forehead for anyone to be able to make out the change in her expression.
The man in the black mask beamed at her. Even from this distance, she could tell that was the proper description. He had the sort of smile that could brighten any room.
He looked at her with all the awe and understanding she had felt gazing at the chandelier, catching her joy, tossing it back to her.
When she had assumed the role of The Silver Ingenue, she had counted upon being noticed, but she had expected the attention would come as a result of her disguise. People would compliment her dress, would be compelled by a stray sparkle to admire her shoes, would address her on the basis of the finery she had cloaked herself in and the status it advertised.
In short, she was portraying a role, and she was prepared to be praised for it.
What she hadn’t predicted was that anyone would take notice of her—the real, invisible her, hiding behind the mask.
Her heart pounded, her heart panicked, unused to being so exposed. She’d learned to keep the things that brought her genuine joy a secret. She knew the moment she looked too happy was the moment the thing that made her look that way would be cruelly smashed or whisked away.
But the man was still smiling, offering a tender embrace of her enthusiasm. He not only understood how she felt. How she really felt. He was moved by it. His eyes softening, his lips stretching, made happy by a mere glimpse at her happiness.
She dropped his gaze, severing the inexplicably vulnerable connection between them. She focused on the floor, on the silver shoes, her stolen sparkle.