14

Built in the 1880s, the Kent Wood Mansion was ten thousand square feet of opulence and grandeur: majestic columns, a ballroom with an ornate stained-glass ceiling, and a large gallery showcasing local history.

An emerald-green carpet lined the wide marble steps for the evening. To an outsider, the arrival was probably a spectacle, but to those who walked the carpet, pausing for photographers like Hollywood’s A-list, the entrance was delicious. It left them with big heads and lucrative fingers. They were important. They were untouchable.

They were fucking gods.

“Greetings!” An attendant squealed. She stood near a series of sequined-lined tables at the top of the stairs, waving her arms like she was conducting an orchestra. Her dress was pink, flapper style, and with every exaggerated movement the lazy fringe jittered.

Victoria recognized the attendant as one of the Harrisons from the smaller developments off the oldest section of Kent Wood Manor, but it was impossible to know which Harrison it was for sure. There were at least half a dozen, all boasting the same svelte physiques and avian features.

“Is she for real?” Teagan whispered.

“Be good,” Victoria warned. You could never guarantee what was going to come out of Teagan’s mouth. Filters only existed in the digital world for her.

“Welcome to the Harvest! Please, choose a mask and keep the line moving!” Flapper Harrison waved over a table full of masks divided into two categories labeled Saints and Sinners.

The Saints were ethereal and angelic, Venetian half-masks designed with whipped swirls and Swarovski crystals. Rustic maroons, mustards, and golds with metallic sheens and silky ribbons that descended to teardrop handles.

The Sinners were an eclectic combination of beautiful and horrifying. Porcelain dolls with cherry pouts and innocent, rounded features mangled by jagged leather scars. Feathered and bedazzled hybrids. Ghouls dotted with opal and amethyst.

“Are you a sinner or a saint?” Flapper Harrison asked.

“Perhaps somewhere in the middle?” A second attendant asked, stepping to the table. Same thin frame, same straight black hair. Another Harrison, except this one wore a sequined evening gown with a deep cut to her navel. Their masks were identical, though: two ostriches, beaks dripping with red crystals.

“What’ll it be?” Flapper Harrison squawked.

“I’ll take this one,” Teagan said, scooping up a white crystalline blob. She lifted it carefully over her head and fastened the clip. “What do you think?”

“You’re . . . an owl?” Victoria asked.

“Not just any owl,” Flapper Harrison said. “A snowy owl—full of magic and mystery.”

“Ooh, did you hear that, Tor? Magic and mystery,” Teagan said, catching a few snowflakes in her hand. Then, under her breath, “What butt kissers.”

“Teagan.”

“And for you, madam?” the other Harrison gestured at Victoria. She ignored her sister’s snort at the address and focused on the question. “Which face will you wear for the evening?”

She examined the massive selection, nodding as Teagan pointed out her favorites. Third from the last, she found the one, slipping it on and testing the weight of it on her face.

More guests filtered around them, excitedly chirping over the masks.

“A cheetah? Could you be any more predictable, Tori-Borey?” Teagan teased. “Come on, go with the murder baby. Or the vampire dolphin.”

“Teags.”

“It’s a lynx, actually,” said Flapper Harrison. “A true beauty. The luster of the crystals mimics the reflective sheen of the lynx.” She rounded the table to help Victoria adjust the strap. “There. A perfect fit.”

“Gatsby’s right,” Teagan said. “It suits you.”

Victoria thanked them for the compliments and ushered Teagan away from the table. Normally she wouldn’t have minded the attention, but the added scrutiny only served to remind her that, for tonight, she wanted to blend in.

“The Harrisons are so freaking weird,” Teagan said once they’d cleared out. “I know they’re your neighbors, but come on. The Connors can’t be paying them that much. Like, give it a rest, Janice, you’re not a bootlegger’s mistress. I’ll see you at Pilates tomorrow.” She scrolled on her phone while she talked, the mask’s feathers ruffled by her breath.

“They probably wouldn’t have been invited otherwise,” Victoria said. “They don’t exactly run in the same circles. And I wouldn’t want to get on Margaret’s bad side.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” Teagan muttered, tearing herself from the screen. “Alright, Tor. Thanks for the dress. And the ride. And the, you know, sister talk. You’re a peach. But I have some mingling to do. See you later?”

“Knock yourself out,” Victoria said, eager to find Warren.

“Try to enjoy yourself, Tori-Borey,” she said. “I know I will.” She blew a kiss and sauntered through the doors with an exaggerated shake of her hips.

Victoria waited another minute as the snow swirled around her, politely waving to the people who passed. A knot tightened in her chest—of dread or excitement, she wasn’t sure.

Here we go.