On the Ballroom Floor

Somehow breaking free from his grasp, I began pushing my way through the ballroom. I heard him calling after me. Some dancers noticed with surprise, yet most continued to dance unconcerned. In my struggle to get through, I snagged someone's foot and fell heavily to the floor. Gowns, slippers, and shoes came dangerously near. Some found their mark. 

God, it was awful! I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. Helpless and desperate, I started to sob.

The masks now towered over me, staring down at me like I was some sort of spectacle. I crawled a few feet before the searing pain in my ankle caused me to collapse. I rolled onto my back, trying to ease the pain. The cold floor pushed against my shoulders and neck. My sobs cracked and heaved, and I stared at the ceiling through the sea of masquerades, my strength drained.

"Help!" I cried, "I'm injured. I—I can't walk. Can anyone here help me?"

The throng shrank back, exclaiming and pointing.

"Her mask! Her mask is gone!" said one.

"And at the Masquerade's Ball!" said another.

"How dare you, child?!" Luceyado said, his gravely voice taking fire. "You insult the lord Masquerade!"

I writhed helplessly, closing my eyes against this nightmare. 

"For God's sake, someone help me! Please!" 

For a few moments, I let my tears drop to the floor, not caring what happened to me but anticipating the worst. I heard the protests faded to whispers, but I still kept my eyes closed. Gradually, the air became less cramped, and it seemed that the dancers were speaking to someone. Curious, I slowly opened my eyes. Luceyado was murmuring rapidly to a tall man, and the others were looking on expectantly. 

He didn't seem much different from the others. I honestly hadn't noticed him before, he mingled with the dancers so well. He was wearing a silver mask. It framed his keen eyes and stood out against his lush, dark hair. A blood-red rose was on his lapel, and his black attire sparkled softly when he moved.

When he saw I was looking at him, he approached and knelt beside me. I shivered as his hand reached toward my face.

"Wha--what are you doing?" I asked, trying hard to steady my cracked voice.

"Look, my lord, her mask is gone!" a lady said.

"It's a disgrace, my lord!" Luceyado insisted.

The master gently touched my cheek. His touch was softer than I expected.

"No," he murmured, brushing a tear away, "not gone. It merely slipped."

Though in a lot of pain, I was fully aware I had interrupted an important social gathering, maybe a convention or something. Now facing whom I assumed was the man hosting this event, I prepared myself to face annoyance, even anger. But neither came. He just looked at me as he dried my tear. I think he even smiled.

In the few moments that his fingers touched my cheek, the walls seemed farther away and the air less heavy and toxic. However, when he drew back his hand, the stupor in the atmosphere began to return. Frightened, I reached up and clutched his wrist. 

"Help me," I begged him in a whisper, "Please..."

Another gasp rippled through the crowd. 

"It's slipping again," an old woman tittered behind her fan.

"Shameful..." her companion whispered from the shield of her own.

The master glanced down at my ankle. He touched the bruised area. Against my will, I gave a cry of pain. An earnest glint crept into his eyes.

"I know what you need," he said, "But it is not here."

He glanced to the balcony at the end of the ballroom, then returned his eyes to me.

"May I carry you?"

Gazing into his deep, brown eyes, I felt heat crawl up my neck. I knew I couldn't walk, especially if stairs were part of the trek. Feeling butterflies in my stomach, I kept my wits enough to nod my head. He gently gathered my knees and, slipping a strong hand beneath my shoulders, lifted me in his arms. I slipped my arm over his shoulders to keep steady while he walked.

"Carry on, my friends," he bade them as they parted, "the night is still young. We will return to you soon."

"My lord Masquerade..." a gentleman asked, "we?"

I saw Lord Masquerade's face darken. 

"All are welcome here," he said in a low tone. "If such company is distasteful to you, sir, that is your concern, not mine. We will return to you soon."

"Master, let me assist you," Luceyado said, coming forward.

"It's all right, Luceyado. Young Garrett will give me the aid I need. Take my place until I return. Garrett!"

There was a stir among the crowd and a teenager with a blood-red mask appeared from among the dancers. Masquerade indicated the stairs, and the boy scaled them with slow and graceful steps. Masquerade followed with me.

So many emotions were swirling through my mind. With every step he took, I shuddered, afraid his arms would give way and I would fall back among the dancers and their scary masks. But the stairs were passing beneath us, and the walls stayed in their places under the ceiling. 

I buried my face against the arm I rested on his shoulder. Where were we going? 

He says he knows what I need, I thought, What is that? 

His arms were strong, his fingers gently held me. There was something about him, an energy he radiated that calmed me. I had never felt that come from anyone before. Was he a dream? Was this all just a dream?

Oh, God, I really hope not!

A frightened gasp slipped from my lips. Masquerade's fingers tightened just a little. I sensed him look at me and raised my eyes to his. The faintest smile curled on his lips, and his eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the silver of his mask. I felt my heartbeats quicken. As a blush colored my cheeks, I wondered if I was feeling more than just gratitude toward him.

Whoa, Jenna, calm down. One mystery at a time.

An answering throb up my leg took me out of my thoughts. Breaking our gaze, I leaned my neck against his shoulder. 

"This door, Garrett," I heard him say to the boy.

I was carried into a very well-furnished chamber. A canopy bed filled one corner. It looked almost brand new. A mahogany desk was near the window, various writing materials scattered over its surface. To the side was a large wardrobe, one of its doors slightly ajar. Masquerade told the teenager to pull aside the bed curtains and the covers, and to arrange the pillows so I could rest comfortably. 

Masquerade carefully laid me on the starched sheets. Gently removing my shoes, his gloved fingers tenderly pressed my ankle, assessing the injury. I bit my lip hard, resisting the urge to moan. Masquerade moved quickly to the wardrobe and pulled out a vial and some linens from its bottom drawer. Returning to my side, he poured the ointment onto a linen and applied the cloth to my injury. The ointment was very cold and I shivered at its touch. Masquerade softly rubbed the bruises and cuts, gradually soothing the inflammation. 

After the initial shock of pain, I relaxed against the pillows. The worst was over and the darkness that had surrounded me seemed locked from this room.