Chapter One

My shoes were comfortable when I slipped them on earlier this evening. Now they bite and pinch my feet with each step. My suit jacket transformed into a straitjacket about fifty steps ago, and the beautifully crafted mask gracing the bridge of my nose has transformed into a constrictor, suffocating me. The kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach riots, ready to strip my insides like they’re the carcass of a deer.

I do not belong here.

The grounds are too expansive, too lavish. This path is too long, too exposed. The mansion at the end of the path is too grand, too… Too… Too much. It grows larger with each arduous step, threatening to swallow me whole. But still, my feet take me farther. Because when Augustus Grant invites you to his annual Halloween masquerade ball, you don’t say no. Even if you hate parties, and Halloween, and people, and leaving your house, and going outdoors in general.

A thousand agonising years later, I expend a Herculean amount of energy to drag myself up the wide steps to the door and present myself to the small, immaculately dressed man guarding the door. He extends his bony hand to me, his face viciously indifferent but for the sharp gleam of judgement in his eyes. Even though I checked a half dozen times, a ripple of anxiety still spikes in me as I consider the possibility I’ve forgotten my invitation. But no, there it is, safe in the jacket pocket it had been in when I got dressed, and when I grabbed my keys, and when I locked my house door, and when I got into the taxi, and when I got out of the taxi. It’s still here, a thing of beauty. Thick, luxurious card with gilded edging; Grant embossed at the top in deep, royal purple; spiralling flowers either side of the details; and there, in the centre, my name.

“Jamie Stewart?”

the guard of this kingdom asks blandly. He inspects my invitation like I might have woken up this morning, had a complete psychotic breakdown, and decided to gatecrash the most exclusive and infamous party of the year. What must have happened to this doorman in his life to make him look so miserable when he’s surrounded by such architectural beauty? His face is a wasteland.

“That’s me.”

I bare my teeth in a semblance of a smile.

“Phone?” he asks.

I shake my head and flash him my empty palms. I don’t have my phone. The invitation was very clear about that. He lifts his arms out to his sides like he works at airport security. I assume the T shape, and the seams of my suit scream at the undue strain. Skeletal hands frisk me up and down. My stomach tightens and twists at his touch.

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

When had somebody last called me sir?

My amusement evaporates in a haze of utter awe as I step into palatial opulence so vast, so all-encompassing, that I can’t decide whether I’m impressed or horrified. The vestibule is like a mini Sistine Chapel, with grand artwork painted on the walls, separated by huge pillars that are topped with spiralling gold waves. Above me, a huge quadratura suggests this room could reach up for miles, with painted angels looking for all the world like they may throw off the shackles of their divine work and join us mere mortals for the festivities.

A cough from an irked party-goer makes me realise I’m very much blocking the path for other guests. I beeline for the nearest wall and force some deep breaths. Everyone is so well-dressed. Is my shirt ironed enough? Are my trousers too loose? Calm down, Jamie. Sir. A trace of a grin skitters across my lips. It’s just a party. I can do this.

A young waitress walks past, and I gladly accept a glass of champagne. It’s nice to have something to focus on, a normal act of normal human interaction to help me remember that I haven’t arrived on another planet. Or lost my mind. I hope.

After a few minutes of clutching my champagne like it’ll save me and standing in the corner like a naughty child, or perhaps more like an incompetent fool who can’t human, I decide I have to move. The wannabe knight who waved me in has glanced over at me as he checks other people’s invitations at least fourteen times now. Panic opens her dark eyes in the pit of my stomach and flutters her eyelashes. Will he call security on me? Not that I’ve seen any security, but there must be some here, right?

I dart into the crowd. Men and women are talking, laughing, drinking. But they talk a little too loudly, laugh a little too violently, drink a little too liberally. They are ornate, glittering, anonymous; predators on the hunt. The Augustus Grant party is the event of the year. You never know who you might be talking to, who you might be able to impress. But self-promotion has never been my thing. Anything involving making the first move in social situations has never been my thing.

An eternity of navigating the opulent crowds and rooms later, a man with all the charisma of a Soviet supermarket, dressed in tails, clears his throat and announces, “Our most generous host kindly requests your presence in the ballroom. Please make your way there now.”

I follow the other guests into a grand room filled with three, maybe four, hundred people. Waitstaff hand out crystal flutes containing a glimmering, bubbling liquid, faintly tinged with purple.

“Mr Grant kindly requests that you refrain from drinking this until the toast is finished,”

a waiter no older than myself says. He’s blond and pretty. He’s one of the few faces I can actually see, given all the guests are wearing masks.

I offer him a thin smile as I take my glass. His eyes linger on me for just a second and then he moves on to the next guest.

Augustus Grant doesn’t keep us waiting long. He appears on the balcony at the far end of the room wearing a thin, wiry mask that shows off most of his face. Strange, for a masquerade party. Then again, if I looked like him, I wouldn’t want to hide my face either. He’s much younger than I expected. He can’t be more than a decade older than me. I was expecting a man in his forties at least.

“Good evening, my esteemed guests.”

There’s a grandeur to his voice. He’s not shouting, of course. There’s no need; everyone fell silent the moment he stepped into the room. But his voice carries without effort. It’s smooth, graceful. The kind of voice you’d expect from a man who’d been raised to believe he owned the very sky. “You do me a great honour by attending my party this evening. You have thrown off the shackles of social convention and come to a gathering on your own. No plus ones, no social safety nets, no phones. Some of you may have an inkling as to why you’re here. Many of you may not. But none of you could resist the curiosity of attending, of seeing inside this mansion which has been owned by my family for generations, of knowing what a great recluse could possibly have been thinking when he sent you an invitation.”

Not a soul is breathing. His audience is entranced.

“That is what has driven humanity forward. Curiosity. It’s what led us to travel the seven seas, to scale the highest mountains, to break the very bonds of gravity and fly, first across this great globe and then outside of it to our milky daughter who peers at us lovingly at night. Curiosity has done so much for humanity, and tonight, I hope it will do so much for you.”

He lifts up his drink. “To curiosity.”

“To curiosity,”

we all repeat, then sip our drink.

The sweetness of it catches me off-guard. It’s like champagne but flavoured with Palma violets; like a Kir Royal but softer and richer for being softer.

The music starts back up, and conversation resumes. People are a little slow to the dancefloor. I wouldn’t be caught dead dancing, even with people I know, let alone strangers. I keep to the corner, eyes gravitating to Augustus as he mingles among the crowd. He moves with effortless charm, something I’m severely lacking. He’s right. I am curious about why I’m here, why he invited me. But the idea of talking to him rattles me. I flee.

My stomach roils like I’m on a ship in the North Sea during a storm. Usually escaping people calms me, but it seems to be getting worse. I find an actual chaise longue beneath a huge arched window and sit down. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I dig my fingers through my hair. I’m no stranger to anxiety, but this is something else. I lean back and look up, sucking in a deep breath. Another trompe-l’oeil decorates the absurdly high ceiling. I focus on the art and count my breaths. Art always calms me down.

But not this time. I know this kind of art is supposed to trick your eye, mess with your perception. But I’m sure the intricately painted figures aren’t supposed to actually be moving.