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“Yes. It seems the use of one is required for the evening.”
“A mask for... a masked ball? We have those imported from Venice, if you wish I can show—”
“No, Étienne.” I wave the letter. “I need something more sober. It serves only to maintain anonymity.”
I see him knit his brows, his eyes moving from the paper to my face. I move my hand before my face in a slow circle.
“Pour couvrir le visage.”
“Certainly, Viscount, to cover the face...” he responds with a brief bow. “I shall find something suitable.”
My gaze falls back on the name cited in the invitation.
Cendre d’Enfer.
I have heard it mentioned in salons where people raise their voices without realizing it. A French painter of hidden identity, protected by an aura of scandal built work after work. Paintings judged sacrilegious, dissolute, almost demonic yet sought after more than gold. The aesthetics of sin elevated to gospel.
I understand why Benedek chose black for the seal. And why he feels the need for masks.
The darkness outside has already swallowed everything, the room reflects only the golden light of the oil lamps, just enough to see what I must wear. I fasten my cravat with a slow gesture as Étienne appears behind me, the black jacket draped over his arm, and settles it onto my shoulders.
“Are you nervous, Viscount?”
“It is only an art exhibition, Étienne.”
He nods, but his eyes slide toward the side table where the black mask awaits me.
“But it is forbidden, because of the subjects of the paintings, is it not?” He brushes the edge of the leather with a finger. “Hence all this secrecy... and the use of masks.”
“Whatever it is, I had to go. Correct?”
He presses his lips together, uneasy. “Allow me to come with you, at least.”
He takes the mask and, with cautious movements, shifts my hair, sliding the silk ribbons behind the nape of my neck. His fingers brush my skin as he ties them slowly.
“No. They would recognize you. And consequently, they would recognize me.”
“On vous reconnaîtra tout de même.”
“It is not possible. The Count was clear.”
I let my gaze fall to the floor and pull on my gloves, tugging at the fingers until they fit like a second skin.
My valet steps back.
“At least allow me to accompany you to the entrance. I can drive the carriage. I will stay outside.”
“Are you afraid of being left without a master, Étienne? There is always my mother, in any case.”
He turns pale. “Viscount, please, stop joking in such a manner.”
I step closer. His amber eyes lift briefly, then immediately drop.
“Very well. You may accompany me.”
I brush his arm with the knuckles of my glove. “But you will stay in the carriage. And you will wear that mask.”
His breath hitches. “I...”
