As soon as I am out of his line of vision, I take a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray. I half expect someone to stop me. My husband has eyes and ears everywhere. But no one does, and I turn to glance casually over my shoulder as I bring the crystal to my lips and sip.
I don’t actually like champagne per se, but I want the slightly heady feeling I know the bubbles will bring. I don’t plan on getting drunk. I know what that will do to me. But tonight, I need just this little bit.
All around me, men and women float about the rooms of The Society’s main house in the center of the French Quarter talking, laughing, drinking. Some wear elaborate masks, others simple ones. The women’s gowns are beautiful, each one more so than the last. I see them looking at me, too, both the men and the women. Do they know who I am?
I touch the back of my neck with my left hand, his ring heavy on my finger. Those are the only things that would give me away. The tattoo and his ring.
I glance at my hand. It’s not as recognizable as his. Not like the monstrosity some of the men around me wear. The Sovereign Sons and the rings bearing their crests, their link to IVI. Like a status symbol of the elite. It’s disgusting.
At least Santiago’s isn’t horrendous like some I see tonight. Like the one I remember Holton wearing during my exam. I scan the room, remembering my brother’s request. Remembering if I get him information, he’ll bring Evangeline to see me. But when I do finally find him, recognizing him through his half mask, I realize I couldn’t tell my brother what he wants to know anyway because I can’t see the other man’s face, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t recognize him.
Still, I walk closer, keeping my head down as if I were just making my way across the room. When I get near the two men, I look at Holton’s companion’s hand and take in his ring. He moves his hand quickly, though, so all I can make out is what looks like two hammers, which can’t be right. I’ll need to figure out a way to ask Santiago tonight.
Slipping behind cover in a corner, I watch my husband. He’s still talking to the same man. They’re thick as thieves, and I wonder what they could be discussing. The masks they wear are among those that hide the most. Santiago, I understand. He doesn’t like people looking at him. I wonder what the other man has to hide.
When Santiago raises his head to look in my direction, I quickly turn to walk away. I don’t think he can see me here through all these people, but maybe I’m wrong. I can see him clearly enough, after all.
I hurry out of the elaborately decorated room and out into the courtyard. I pass the place where we had the marking ceremony. It’s so different now. Not so ominous. The canopy of roses and vines is gone. The ornate chair and table nowhere in sight. No brands smoking in any fires. I look down at the ground and see the only thing that suggests anything like that ever took place here at all. The small ring between the stones he attached my leash to.
My leash.
Jerk.
But at least he didn’t make me wear that rosary tonight.
The voices around me fade as I stretch my foot out to touch it with the toe of my flat sandals. I didn’t wear the heels Mercedes provided knowing I’d have Santiago’s support if it came to it. But I should remember it’s not out of concern for me. If I trip and break my neck, his toy will be gone.
Mercedes’s words sting me again, and I swallow the rest of the bubbly champagne to numb their impact. When I look up, I notice more eyes on me and hear whispers around me.
God. I’m as paranoid as Abel. They’re not talking about me. They don’t even know who I am under this mask. That’s one thing Mercedes did well. She’s hidden my face. I’m sure this privacy she’s afforded me in the midst of all this wasn’t intentional, even if the mask is irritating and hinders my peripheral vision.
I set my glass on the pedestal of the statue behind which the girl had hidden on our wedding night, only realizing then where I’m headed as the voices fade behind me and the corridor grows darker. I reach out my hands to touch the walls on either side of me as it narrows, and from here, I can already smell incense.
It’s not a comfort. My association with the church is linked to the nuns who were rarely kind, but when I reach the doors, I don’t hesitate. I push one open and slip inside and away from all those people. There is a comfort in that, at least, and in the red glow of the tabernacle lamp. A constant.
I reach back to untie the mask and slip it off as I step deeper into the chapel.
My heart skips when I look at the altar and up at the crucified Christ. As I remember what we did here. What would Sister Mary Anthony think of her Sovereign Son if she only knew?
The thought of it makes me giggle. Or maybe that’s the champagne.
Someone clears their throat then, and I startle. That and movement at the back of the chapel draw my attention, and I feel instinctively guilty. But I need to remind myself that I’m not doing anything wrong. Even if Santiago were to find me here, he certainly couldn’t accuse me of anything.
“I just…” a soft voice starts. She steps out of the shadows. “I was lighting a candle.” She’s holding a long thin white candle in her hand. She’s not wearing a mask, and I recognize her instantly. She’s looking at me with the same wide, almost frightened eyes.
It’s the girl who’d hidden behind the statue the night of the marking ceremony.
I smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.” I realize when she turns that she’s pregnant. I hadn’t noticed it before. I’d only seen her face, and even that partially, and I hadn’t noticed it now, either, not when I first saw her a moment ago. She has one hand under her belly, the tight moss green dress she’s wearing accentuating its roundness against her otherwise petite frame. I see how her wavy strawberry-blond hair falls to her waist down her back.
She sets the candle in the holder, mutters a prayer in Latin, and bows her head as she makes the sign of the cross, then turns to me. She’s pretty. And young. My age, I guess. I watch as she walks down the center of the aisle more swiftly than I’d guess she could with her oversized belly. She stoops to pick something up from one of the pews. Her mask.
“You’re Santiago De La Rosa’s bride.”
I nod as she comes to stand a few feet from me, mask in one hand.
“I’m Colette.” She extends her free hand.
“Ivy,” I say, shaking hers. It’s small and hardly a handshake at all.
“It was getting a little much out there,” she says and holds her mask up, then lays her hand on her belly again. She takes a seat on the edge of the closest pew and bends down a little, trying to reach for something.
That’s when I notice she’s barefoot and what she’s reaching for are a pair of strappy golden sandals that must have a four-inch spiked heel.
“Here, let me get them.” I stoop to pick them up and set them where she can slip her feet inside. “Those can’t be comfortable. I mean, with…” I gesture to her belly.
She smiles wide, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “They’re not comfortable when I’m not pregnant either. But you know how they are.” She gestures to the door, and I assume she means men in general.
I sit beside her and nod, wondering about her. Why would her husband make her wear those shoes when she’s obviously not comfortable?
“When are you due?” I ask her.
“I still have three months to go!” She looks down at her belly. “I hope he comes sooner, honestly. I’m pretty sure he’s ten pounds already.”
“He?”
She nods as she squeezes her foot into the sandal. “Damn.”
“What is it?”
“My feet have swollen so much. I probably shouldn’t have taken them off in the first place.”
“What size are you?”
“Seven and a half normally but these days, eight.”
“Here,” I say, slipping my feet out of my flat sandals. “We can swap. I mean, if you want. They're not as pretty as yours, but they’re a size eight and probably more comfortable than those.”
She looks at my sandals, then at me. “I swear mine are torture devices, Ivy,” she says, trying for a laugh.
“They look it. I don’t mind. These are a little big on me anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod, some part of me wondering how I’m going to walk in the spikey heels, but I’ll make it work.
“Thank you. Really.” She smiles so warmly I wonder again how much we have in common within The Society.
“I’m happy to do it.”
“I have your veil,” she says, surprising me.
“What?” I ask, tying the sandals. They’re a little tight but not too bad.
She turns to me. “I came in here that night. When…the marking.” She lets her gaze drift like she’s embarrassed for me, and I wonder if she saw us in here. If she saw what he did. No, that’s not possible. She was out near the courtyard, but maybe she guessed.
“Oh.”
“I repaired the tear.” She clears her throat as if just realizing how awkward this conversation is about to get. “I can bring it to you. I mean, if you want it.”
“You repaired it?”
“I like to sew, and it was such a pretty veil. It was a shame not to.”
“Thank you.” I’m not sure honestly that I want it back, but I do want a friend. I could use one, and she seems nice. And a little like me, maybe.
“Should you be home, Colette? I mean,” I start, looking at her stomach, “you don’t look very comfortable.”
She smiles and shrugs a shoulder. “Jackson likes these gatherings, so well, I’ll be fine.”
“Jackson is your husband?”
“Yes. Jackson van der Smit.”
“I don’t know the name. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re not one of…I mean, Mr. De La Rosa chose…” She breaks off. “That’s all coming out wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, realizing she means to say I’m not from one of the upper-echelon families. I guess she must be to know.
“I just meant you couldn’t know. I didn’t mean to sound arrogant. I mean, I hate that whole thing.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t sound arrogant.”
She does something unexpected then. She turns to squarely face me and takes my hands into hers. “Are you doing okay, Ivy?”
Her question makes me want to cry. Makes me wish I’d kept my mask on. I pull my hands away and shift my gaze down.
“I know it’s hard at first,” she continues when I don’t answer. “All their requirements and The Society, and well, it gets easier.”
“Does it? I’m not so sure for me.” I can’t help the tear that slips out, but she doesn’t comment when I wipe it away.
She takes my hand again. “You know I don’t live too far from you. Jackson’s family home is just a few miles away. I mean, if you come over, you’ll have to deal with his grandmother.” She makes a face, and again, I wonder how old she is. “She’s a mean old witch, I swear.”
I have to laugh at how she says it.
“I’ll talk to Jackson if you like, and he can talk to your husband, and then maybe you can come over for a visit.”
“I’d really like that.” Again, I have to wipe away tears. How pathetic is your life when a stranger’s kindness makes you cry? And how much more pathetic that two grown women need to ask permission of their husbands to have a visit?
A gong goes off then and Colette gasps, looking at the diamond-encrusted watch on her delicate wrist. “Shoot! That’s dinner. We’d better go. They’ll miss us now.” She adjusts her mask and stands, a sense of urgency about her.
I stand too and put my mask to my face. She helps me to tie it.
“It really will get better.” She takes my hand and squeezes it before releasing it once we get to the door. “I promise.”
I smile and am grateful again for the mask.
“Colette, there you are,” a man says, and Colette gives my hand one more squeeze before hurrying to him.
The moment she’s gone, I hear the sound of Mercedes’s laughter coming from behind me, and I don’t bother to turn around to confirm it’s her. Instead, I hurry to find a bathroom because I’m sure Santiago is looking for me by now too, and I need a new place to hide away for a little while.