The music immediately swarms me, coiling around my being like an early morning fog. Clinging to my senses like vines in the spring as they twist along a garden trellis. I grip my hands tighter together at my front.

I've stepped into a glittering world of autumn colors.

Thick garlands of leaves swoop from the annex of the chandelier towards the tops of the columns supporting the upper floor. Fading from brown, to bloodred, to sunset orange, to daffodil gold, they continue to spiral around the columns, coming to a halt at the base behind bundles of corn. Large glass baubles hang from the ceiling; within them are more colored leaves haloed by a golden light, like fireflies trapped in a jar. Pumpkins sit in trios, scattered tastefully about the room.

Extravagant, flamboyant, expensive, and very colorful outfits are worn to make sure all who witness them are very aware of their high rank. Long house jackets are worn by noblemen and the length of the jacket often is an indicator of the wealth of the individual. Women in nobility wear long flowing gowns and very extravagant hats or headpieces that are so ornate that they hinder the wearer from doing anything practical at all.

My heart triples in speed at the sight of so many nobles and dukes and lords of other nations filing into the hall. Powdered and pale, the women look like stale pastries. Tall and with garnish, pointed masks, the men seem like predators. They stand scattered throughout the hall dressed like angels and demons, animals and deities. There are masks of feathers, lace, and silk, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks.

Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sit huddled atop the stage. The red and gold velvet curtain drawn back for the first time since my being here. They play their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insets they represent. The rhythm they keep is a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turn like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

Helga stands on the outskirts of the dance floor, patrolling the room like a sentry. Unlike everyone else, she wears no costume. That alone is enough for people to give her a glance, and quickly avert it. Not wearing anything to a themed party must signify her importance to some degree, apparently.

I stick close to Bela, following her golden hair like a beacon. I don't know where we're going, but I know she's my only lifeline in this environment. I'm not surprised when I see we're approaching Lady Dimitrescu and her sisters, but I still lower my head, near hiding behind Bela.

"Mother," Bela chirps.

"Bela darling, what have you done with your little pet?" she asks, swirling her glass of red wine. It matches her nails and lips.

Most don't seem alarmed by Lady Dimitrescu's presence, her sheer size. Perhaps they've met before, are smart enough not to question it, or assume it's part of her costume.

She wears a strapless gown of glittering gold, the fabric folding over the bodice, coming to points at the top of her breasts. The skirt penciling against her legs, with an additional layer flowing behind her in a small train. Her identical mask is fashioned like dragon's scales with a couple, delicate chains hanging along the bottom. All she wears in addition are pearl earrings.

"I just wanted her to look nice, mother." Bela says coyly, batting her lashes behind the lace mask.

"Little much for someone of her status," Cassandra barbs.

I look up to her and Daniela, wearing the same suits as Bela – the only individuality being the colored gems sitting at the base of their masks. Topaz for Cassandra, and emerald for Daniela.

Cassandra's hair has been pulled back, drifting into a long ebony tail down her spine. Daniela's hair having been oiled and brushed, falling into a sleek copper curtain down her shoulder. I'd never noticed before, but half of her head has been shaved. Still, she looks exotic. Charming, but not beautiful like Bela.

"She is my lady-in-waiting, after all. You could've at least tried to make yours look presentable."

I peer around the eldest daughter to find Cassandra having a lady-in-waiting of her own, only this one seems petrified and nerve-wrecked. I don't recall ever seeing her, but she looks a couple years older than me. She wears a very simple dress the color of forget-me-nots, its sheer shelves stopping just past her elbow. The dress is so plain; no sparkles, no glitter, no accessories.

I almost feel . . . discourteous being next to her. To have her see me in such finery. As though I too were part of the ploy to make her feel embarrassed. Inadequate.

Her eyes find mine, widening at the mask. I hide behind Bela, averting my gaze towards the rest of the party. A fly buzzes past my ear, and I swat it away with an annoyed grunt.

"Erika," Bela whispers in my ear, "why don't you go and make me a small plate? Help yourself to anything."

I bow my head low, "Yes, My Lady." I look over towards the rest of the Dimitrescu family. "Excuse me."

Cassandra gives a small sneer, Daniela waving with an innocent smile that scares the shit out of me.

I make my way to the table and my eyes widen as it is covered with an elaborate feast. A crown roast filet tied with rosemary, and exotic dishes I've never seen. A whole roast pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. A standing rib roast with little papered puffs on the top of each rib, sits next to a mangled-looking goose covered with chestnuts and creams, rolls and breads, collards and beets and spreads I can't name. Ocean creatures drizzled in sauces or begging to be dipped in spicy concoctions. Countless cheeses, breads, vegetables, waterfalls of wine and streams of sprites that flicker with fizz.

I don't know where to start. But for a moment, I think back to Lacy, to Luiza – the hunting I would've had to do just to mimic this meal, and even then, it would be so lacking. A pang of guilt palpitates my chest when I think back to my sister – what she's living in compared to where I am.

Surrounded by so much luxury and shine; of course, she is a bit better off than me. She's guaranteed another day to live.

I grab a small, porcelain plate and begin picking out foods I think Bela would like. I'm beyond fear of her killing me at this point, but if she'll publicly humiliate me is still a wild guess. I pluck some bruschetta – as Gretta had once called it – taking a bite and moaning quietly at the taste. I place two on Bela's plate. I only have room for one more –

"I haven't seen you before!" A pitched voice near shouts in my ear.

I bite back my surprise as I turn and find a hideous porcelain doll shoved in my face. I take a step back, feeling the table pressing into my lower spine.

The doll's face is, deformed. One half a dirtied white, the other a slate grey, but this close, the grey looks like a crescent moon.

A crescent moon . . . and sun.

I take a deep breath as I look past the doll's wide-mouthed grin and find the dollmaker and Lord to Mother Miranda, Donna Beneviento.

I quickly remember my place and I curtsey low, careful not to drop Bela's plate of food. "Lady Beneviento, welcome."

"Oh, so formal." the doll – Angie – clucks. "And so new, so fresh. What brings you here?"

I bite back my wince at the doll's wide, soulless eyes. Nothing but white with a small dot for a pupil. "I'm working for the Dimitrescu Family. I'm Bela's personal servant." I gesture over to Bela, who is in conversation with Daniela. Lady Dimitrescu speaking with a man dressed like a jester, and a woman like a peacock.

"Ohhhh," Angie sings, "and I can see they didn't waste any time with you!" The doll jerks closer, a few inches from my shoulder. I hold my ground, stiffening at remembering the large forming scar that cuts across my shoulders from Cassandra. At least the mask hides the one near my eye. "I must admit I'm surprised you've made it this long. Dimitrescu is always so demanding, so . . . immediate –"

I block her out as I glance past Angie again and actually look at Donna.

She's . . . she's stunning.

She bears porcelain skin like her dolls, her hair an obsidian black with half of it pinned up; the rest falling into loose curls down to the middle of her back, its bluish sheen catching in the light. She wears a deep navy-blue dress stitched with lace patterned in whorls of vines and flowers along the neckline and cuffs of her long sleeves. Delicate sequin layers over the lace and the pinched waist before fading down the skirt, the color paling to a baby blue. Her pale blue mask covers half of her face, carved like flowers that stop just at the corner of her pink mouth. Her exposed eye shines like pewter.

That eye flicks to me, and I flinch, having been caught staring. I try to stifle the pride I feel when she adverts her gaze, her cheeks blooming with red.

Only to be dampened when I remember how she's also responsible for a number of disappearances around the village. None of her playmates ever returned from her dank old estate.

That's when she shoves Angie back in my face. "So, what makes you so special?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Dimitrescu and her daughters never keep their toys for very long. Are you a foreigner? Her daughters love entertaining foreigners!"

"No, I'm from around here." I answer stupidly. "I've lived in the village my entire life."

Another exaggerated hum of surprise. "If you were so special, I would've heard about you." Angie states.

And she would've had me dragged to her estate by a mob of her creepy dolls.

"I'm not special," I answer in a surprisingly steady voice. "I just know how to hunt."

"You know how to kill." Angie purrs.

I blink despite the mask. "Yes."

"Have you ever taken a life, before?"

"No."

"Ever pierced an arrow through the throat of a human? Watch them choke on their own blood before watching their eyes fade into the far-seeing of the dead?"

I exhale slowly. "No. I have not."

"But you've considered it."

"How would you know that?" I nearly snarl with grit teeth.

Angie leans in closer, and I flare my nostrils as my anger and annoyance begins to boil. Slowly, she whispers, "Because I know you."

"I've only just met you" – I peek my eyes to Donna – "Miss Beneviento. But I will credit that you know how to hold conversation."

"I know that look in your eyes. You bear resemblance to House Dimitrescu."

I stiffen, my only sign of surprise. "A compliment, I presume?"

"If that's what you want it to be. You're both nothing but beasts dwelling under human skin."

I decide to play dumb. I gesture to my dress, my mask. "It's just a costume. Not really a fair representation."

"Isn't it? You've taken life before. There's blood on your hands, despite the necessity it clawed at your soul. Your soul is tainted, and you try to make up for it by tending to light."

I surprise myself when I retort, "It is tainted because I tend to light, and that was my choice to make."

"But it wasn't your fault. It wasn't your destiny."

I don't know how to take that. I'm beyond questioning how she knows about Lacy at this point; I really wouldn't be surprised if the Lords gossiped in their spare time of living in solitary luxury.

I catch a brief smell of daisies and tulips. The edges around my vision blur, but when I blink, it's gone.

Yes, I spilled blood – animal blood – for Lacy, starved myself to ensure she had a full belly; Yes, I chose to be her provider, despite Luiza's charity and warmth.

But it was my mother's fault for my having to hunt. If she would've just pieced herself back together, I might still be at home. Lacy and I might not have nearly starved. We might still be a family.

It's her fault.

Her fault –

Her fault –

My heartbeat is suddenly quickening, and I lean against the table again to steady myself. That smell of daisies seems stronger. Its perfumy scent has me rubbing my right temple, and in the back of my throat, I taste blood.

I sense it before I open my eyes, shadow movement to my left. I look and gasp when I find Donna's hand inches from my left cheek – the one with the scar. Angie has been left at her feet, standing on her own two, porcelain legs, her mouth agape, but silent.

"Lady Donna, what –" I'm about to smack her hand away, consequences be damned, when her right hand finds my shoulder first. It distracts me enough that her other settles upon my cheek. Her fingers tickle the edges of my mask.

I don't know why I'm scared to have her take it off.

"There is this . . . rage," she whispers in wonder. Her voice is as gentle as honey. "This despair and hatred and rage that lives and breathes inside of you. There is no sanity to it, no gentleness. It is a monster dwelling under your skin."

I swallow, but my throat is tight. Her pewter-colored eye burns past my golden mask, seeing into my soul. I've never felt so naked.

"For the past ten years, your father had worked every day, every hour, to keep that monster locked up. And the moment you talk about those two years, and what happened before and after, that monster is going to break loose, and there will be no accounting for what you do."

My father. If he'd been alive, and I had been captured, he would have had me out of the dungeons before the Dimitrescu family even got word of my imprisonment. But my father is dead — and sometimes the absence of him hits me so hard that I forgot how to breathe.

Things had been such a haze when he died — in two weeks, I'd lost my father and my mother, and lost something of myself in those blurry days, too.

Somehow, I push off the table, stable on my feet; even leaning into Donna, who yields a step. "H-How do you know this?"

"Erika!" Bela barks.

Donna immediately recoils as our heads turn to find the eldest Dimitrescu daughter standing a couple of feet away from us. Her clenched fists say enough.

When she blinks her eyes, it's like she settles back into her facade. Still, her teeth are grit as she smiles, "Is it really so hard to fetch a plate of food?"

By some miracle, I hadn't lost my grip on what I'd been trying to collect for her. "My apologies, Lady Bela, but I didn't want to appear ill mannered before Mistress Beneviento."

Bela's head snaps to the Lord, and I almost pity the woman as she near shrivels under Bela's piercing stare. The eldest daughter takes a couple of steps towards us, Donna stepping back, Angie close to her heels.

Bela takes the plate from me and garbles down the antipasti in one bite. She takes her sweet time eating the next one, glancing over her shoulder at Donna. When the plate is empty, she hands it back to me. "Make your own and let's continue. The night is still young, and there's plenty of other patrons to speak with."

Again, Donna huddles into herself, like a shadow had been cast over a daisy. That pity takes root, and suddenly all I want to do is just wrap my arm around her shoulder. Console her.

Bela's perfume eradicates that flowery smell, and it's like a fog clears in my mind.

I'm quick to make my own plate, everything looking near delicious. With a curling finger, Bela orders, "Come along."

As she walks away, I take a single step before I look back to Donna. I don't know why, but I say to her – not Angie, but to her, "Let's continue this conversation some other time, perhaps."

She looks up at me from beneath her long lashes, her cheeks pink. She gives a timid nod before placing a hand on Angie's head, like a mother would a child.

I spare my own nod before I hurry myself over towards Bela. I wouldn't want her to repeat herself.

Once we're across the room, nestled among the throng of people, Bela shoves a champagne flute in my hand, having grabbed it from the tray of one of the younger servers patrolling the room. "Here. Drink this."

I quickly shove a cracker topped with salami into my mouth before taking a swig from the flute. With each ingestion, it's like that phantom grip of the flowers drips off of me like tar. I'd managed to swipe two more slices of antipasti, and down a few more crackers before finishing off the champagne. Bela's golden eyes watch me with intent.

"What?" I asks, barely swallowing my mouthful of cracker.

"I'm making sure you're okay."

I shrug my shoulders "I feel fine. A little creeped out with that Angie doll, but fine."

"So you say."

"Why? What's wrong?"

Bela takes her gloved hand and wipes a finger down the length of my nose. When it comes back, I can see little white spots clinging to the tip. "Pollen. Might want to wipe your face."

I can't stop the little purse of my lips. "Aw, afraid of me getting allergies."

She rolls her eyes and hands me a napkin. "Just do it. You'll find that your headache will go away a lot quicker."

Again – beyond questioning how she knows – how they know – certain things.

I obey and wipe my nose, using every inch of the napkin, Bela standing at my front to block my face.

"Do I even want to know?" I ask, once I can feel my nose burning pink.

She gives a feline grin. "Not if you want to sleep tonight."

"Great." I peer at the eldest daughter, thankful that the mask hides my own blush. "Thank you."

Barely a dip of her chin. There's a moment of quiet as I munch down on a couple of deviled eggs.

"What did she say to you?" Bela then asks.

I suck the rest of the flavor off my finger, keeping my gaze downcast. "She said some things she isn't supposed to know."

A slow, controlled inhale. "I see."

I stick by Bela for the rest of the party, and not once did Donna or another member of the Dimitrescu family approach me. I wasn't even entirely sure what the party had bene about, until I happen to overhear a conversation between Alcina and another man – the party had been business, as she had simply informed me, and it involved trading wine secrets and recipes, apparently. She had been exchanging glasses with several clients all night. I'm not at all surprised that she managed to outdrink them all.

Cassandra had abandoned her own personal servant to mingle with Daniela among the crowd. Both were shamelessly flirting with men and women alike, both sexes seemingly entranced by the two sisters. Bela participated too, but unlike her sisters – who seemed more than inclined with sprawling themselves along the laps of their visitors – her tactic was more of 'look-don't-touch' strategy.

Rather brilliant, and a little more elegant, almost. I could see the men's eyes bulge out of their heads, their tongues rolling to the floors. They wanted to touch her, wanted her to touch them. Would've begged and pleaded and bargained anything just to get her finger on them. Of which she had them so tightly wrapped around.

I clung to her like a shadow, despite the uncomfortable scenes I had to watch. But I knew better than to speak to Bela about it. And Alcina didn't really seem to mind her daughters' flirting.

It didn't really bother me, either; in fact, I admittedly found myself rather aroused too. I can't really place why, considering all the things I've witnessed them done. But that contrast could be the very thing that has my mouth drying.

It's nearing midnight when I'm standing behind a couch, watching a red-haired woman dressed like a cardinal sit herself in Bela's lap. Her arm wraps around the eldest daughter's shoulder, leaning intimately close to whisper something in Bela's ear. The eldest daughter giggles, and I find myself biting the inside of my lip.

"Don't be too jealous," Daniela Dimitrescu suddenly says to my left. I flinch as I turn to her, finding her leaning against a column with her arms folded.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Daniela?" I try to reign in my fear. I haven't spoken to the youngest daughter since that day in the library. She hasn't come looking for me, thank gods, but with Bela a little more than tipsy, perhaps she's become emboldened. I try not to clamp my hand over the healed bitemark on my neck.

"Oh don't be coy. I can see that look on your face." Her words are a bit slurred. "You want to pluck her eyes out with your bare hands!" Her incessant giggling fills the air around us. Lost among the gathering of people that hasn't thinned the entire night. "Don't be too jealous. Be happy you're not her."

"Why would I –?" I cut myself off when I watch Daniela lick her lips in hunger.

I look back to Bela and find her trailing the tip of her nose along the woman's exposed neck, elongated as she tilts her head back to allow Bela more access. Her tongue follows, trailing back up the path.

And while I see lust in Bela's clouded golden eyes, I can see a ravenous hunger. Not the kind driven by long nights between the sheets, but the primal kind that reminds me how animalistic this family can be.

Worst of all, I'm near panicked by my own lack of care for the woman.

I should warn her. I should step in to try and help her; spare her from the horrid acts this family intends to do to her.

But I don't.

I don't want to warn her. I don't want to spare her.

And that terrifies me.

Daniela takes a couple of wobbling steps forward, taking a large whiff of my scent. She hums with delight. "You smell nice. Come here, I'll hold you close."

I take a careful step away. "I'd rather not, My Lady."

She gives a pitiful pout. "Do you hate me?"

"Don't take it so personally, Dani." Cassandra then calls. Both of us look to watch her stroll over with her hand-in-hand with a rather handsome looking man bearing the face of pig. Fitting. This draws Bela's attention away from the red-head. "She's become quite liberal under Bela's service."

"I'm just following my orders, Lady Cassandra." I sneer.

"You know, we've learned one of your talents. Why not learn more?"

"Cassandra," Bela growls, having risen from her spot on the couch.

"Oh, come now sister," Cassandra calls, drawing the attention of the closest attendees, including Lady Dimitrescu, "you speak so highly of her being an amazing singer, why not let her have a chance to show off?" She looks to me. "It could be an amazing opportunity; show your talents here, and maybe get picked up by some agent who can make all your dreams come true." She carols at the end, as if in mockery.

I eye the pianoforte. I look to Bela, who looks ready to launch herself again at her sister despite the company. She catches my stare and I give a shallow nod.

Her eyes widen slightly, and I pray she can read my thoughts through my eyes. Just trust me.

I look back to Cassandra. "If that is what you wish, Lady Cassandra."

Daniela's giggles echoes throughout the room, and I keep my chin high as I turn and meander my way through the many eyes and colorful masks peering at me. Many of the goers clear a path for me to the pianoforte.

I used to play — oh, I loved to play, loved music, the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.

Carefully, as if approaching a sleeping person, I walk to the large instrument. I pull out the wooden bench, wincing at the loud scraping sound it makes. Folding back the heavy lid, I push my feet on the pedals, testing them. I gaze at the smooth ivory keys, and then the black keys, which were like the gaps between teeth.

I was good once — perhaps better than good. Luiza made me play for her and her husband whenever we saw each other. I touch a lower note. It is deep and throbbing, full of sorrow and anger.

Gingerly, with one hand, I tap out a simple, slow melody on the higher keys. Echoes — shreds of memories arising out of the void of my mind. The opera hall is so silent that the music seems obtrusive. I move my right hand, playing upon the flats and sharps. It's a piece that I used to play again and again until Luiza would beg at me to play something else. I play a chord, then another, added in a few silver notes from my right hand, push once on a pedal, and am gone.

Any whispers that had started and quickly cut off.

I start with a clang of organized notes, trailing down octaves before trickling back up the higher spectrum. As the twines of piano notes seep through the room, the people lean in, entranced by the piano as music pours from it.

With hands trailing back and forth over the keys, I play a warbling of piano notes. The music picks up, the pattern of notes matching my movements. My hands float over the piano keys. An interlude of high notes streams forth in a complicated pattern, accented by a few well-placed chords from the instrument's lower spectrum.

This mixture of dark and light, high and low, hope and despair, work is hypnotic effect on the party goers, as though they are small children listening to an intricate story.

I'm surprised that my hands hadn't forgotten, that somewhere in my mind, after two years of darkness and starvation, music is still alive and breathing.

That somewhere, between the notes, was my father.

I forget about time as I drift between pieces, voicing the unspeakable, opening old wounds, playing and playing as the sound forgives and saves me.

Leaning against the column, Cassandra stands, utterly transfixed.

Erika has been playing for some time with her back to her. The middle daughter wonders when she'll take a break, or if she'll ever stop at all.

She wouldn't mind listening forever.

The man with the mask of a pig nuzzles into her neck, his purr traveling through her skin and skittering along her bones. He drank so much alcohol tonight his very blood reeks of it.

She had planned to get stupid-drunk off of him tonight, both with his body and his blood – and his screams. By now she would've pulled him from the room and coyly escorted him down into the nearest bedroom. But this music, it has her rooted in place.

She hadn't expected such intricate sound to some from the hunter. She had the intention of embarrassing the snide servant, and instead watches entranced as the young woman pours her secrets into a pianoforte.

And suddenly Cassandra has a better understanding of her sister, as a small seed settles into her chest.

It feels warm and real and bright, burrowing through the fog and vacant darkness of her heart.

A secret, lovely thing of beauty.