The Masquerade
It was cold on the day of the ball, and I walked as briskly as possible along the packed dirt street that ran out of town. The houses that lined the road stood staunchly against the cold, with shutters drawn tight and light peeking from beneath the base of every door. It was still early in autumn, but Grandmother swore that the first snow would fall within the month. My woolen coat and scarf had been misplaced since the last winter, and I had been prepared to leave without them, but Grandmother had insisted that my father and I search the entire house before I was to leave. I left so late that I now walked to the ball alone, rather than with my sister and our two cousins. I didn’t mind walking alone terribly much, but I had wanted to see what new dresses my cousins would be wearing tonight before the Masquerade started. And of course, I would have wanted to see what masks they had chosen for the event.
When my invitation to the ball had arrived from Duke Jefferson’s son, it had specified that the occasion would be “An Event of Ornithological Beauty,” and I had quickly set about gathering the plethora of pheasant feathers that now adorned my new violet mask and dress. I had heard that it was not wise to ignore the host of a Masquerade when he or she made particular statements about thematic attire, and I hoped that my outfit would be well received.
A crisp wind blew across from the northeast, tugging at the hem of my skirt and stinging my bare ankles. I shivered and pulled my coat closer around me, burying my hands deeper in its woolen pockets. As the breeze numbed my chin and lips through my thin scarf, I admitted to myself that I likely would have frozen solid if I had not been forced to heed Grandmother’s advice. As it were, I still had to stop, warm my face with my hands, and carefully wipe my nose with my handkerchief every few minutes to avoid smearing my makeup.
I first heard the boy during one such stop. Or rather, I heard his assailants.
“Look at the little Lord Harris, he thinks he’s gonna walk right by us without a single word, eh? Predictable!”
I paused as I heard the voice, handkerchief pressed lightly to my nose. To my right was a lone house; behind it, a small shed next to the forest. After a moment of hesitation, I moved towards the shed, and a different voice spoke, louder now.
“Perhaps we ought to give him a bit of a lecture on appropriate formal wear! He should know by now that this filth won’t do!”
Halfway between the house and the shed, the owners of the voices appeared on a path that struck out through the yellowing trees. A short boy stood in the center of the trail facing away from me, scruffy black hair visible above a thick red scarf. Two larger boys – the taller of which had the end of the short boy’s scarf grasped in his gloved hand – flanked him. The taller one wore a featherless white mask with a curved beak, while the shorter one had a black-feathered mask with a short yellow beak.
None of the young men had seen me, and I moved silently to the near side of the shed. The smaller boy attempted to walk further down the path, but came up short as the white masked boy’s handle on the scarf reined him in. With a yank, the white masked boy pulled the red scarf off of the shorter boy, who stood motionless as the fabric unraveled around his neck and hung limp in the air. Unrestrained, the younger boy began walking down the path again, and the yellow beaked boy lunged forward and caught him by the shoulders. Laughing, he then twisted and threw the younger boy face-first to the ground, making a soft thud in the carpet of leaves. With that, the two strode off down the path, their laughter fading into the wind.
Wanting nothing to do with the two rowdy youths, I waited until the backs of their coats disappeared into the distance before appeasing my curiosity. Hesitantly, I moved towards the path. The boy was already picking himself up off of the ground as I approached. Clods of grass and dirt and smashed leaves stuck to his worn jacket and pants, which were already in poor condition. As his head rose, I saw that he wore a lifelike bronze-colored mask with a prominent snout, beady black eyes, and small triangular ears – that of a common dog. The mask blended seamlessly with his face, and as I came closer, I could feel his eyes search my face. I found his inscrutable masked gaze unsettling at first, until I remembered that a mask also hid my face, and it then occurred to me that perhaps he was unsettled by me as well. Strange, I thought, how crippled we are in communication simply without sight of another’s true face.
Just as I reached the boy and had opened my mouth to speak, he turned and began walking down the path. After struggling a few seconds with how to respond, I lifted my dress slightly to avoid the carpet of leaves and followed. I did not wish to speak to the boy’s back, but though I steadily quickened my pace, I found myself no closer to him and was soon short of breath.
“Excuse me, sir!” I called to the boy over the wind.
He did not reply.
“Excuse me, but are you attending the Lord Jefferson’s Masquerade tonight? I’ve never been to a ball of his, and I’m not quite sure if this is the way.” As I spoke I looked behind and realized that the shed was now lost among the trees.
He spoke without turning or stopping. “This is a quicker route to the Lord Jefferson’s mansion. I often take it to avoid the cowardly scum you saw earlier, but it seems I can do so no longer.” His voice was rough and low, unfitting for his stature. I thought for a moment that I might have underestimated his age.
I breathed a small sigh of relief that I was not being led astray. I had a multitude of questions now, and after a minute or two of silence, I voiced them. “The men earlier called you Lord Harris – are you the Duke Harris’ nephew? Why are you wearing a dog mask instead of a bird mask? And why did those men treat you so badly?”
His gruff voice answered, carried back to me on the breeze. “Duke Harris is my uncle, and it is only because of his honor that I must attend such vile displays of societal merriment like the Lord Jefferson’s Masquerades. In the past I have tried wearing the attire the Lord Jefferson proscribes, and I have tried commiserating with attendees like those men,” at the word ‘men’ I could hear the pitch of his voice rise angrily, “but I am treated like filth despite all my attempts! I am not filth – they are the filthy ones!” he barked.
At Lord Harris’ words my anxiety quickly returned. Walking alone to the Masquerade was assuredly preferable than walking with such a frightening man, but the sun was now beginning to set, and I realized that I would soon be lost without him.
To my small respite, Lord Harris never turned nor stopped walking. I was too nervous now to speak, but surprisingly, he continued.
“Now…now I wear what I want and say nothing. They treat me no differently, and I do not oppose them. Though if I did,” he added with a growl, “it would surely be nothing they did not bring upon themselves.”
Something in the boy’s (man’s?) whole manner interested and terrified me. There was far too much pain, wisdom, and anger in his voice for me to understand. However, I was compelled by his honesty. Cautiously I said, “Perhaps, Lord Harris, they are afraid of you – or afraid of your uncle’s influence?”
He then stopped so suddenly from his swift pace that, even several steps behind him, I barely avoided crashing into him. Above his dark hair I saw bright beams of light from the windows of Lord Jefferson’s mansion piercing the twilight ahead. Standing behind him, a strange, rabid scent filled my nostrils. When he spoke, it was near to a whisper.
“They should not fear my uncle’s influence.”
He began to move towards the mansion in long strides. I started to follow, then heard him speak again – scarcely audible over the wind.
“They should fear my rage.”
At this, Lord Harris sounded so composed – so resolute – that my feet were rooted to the ground as he walked away. An ineffable foreboding rose in my throat like a lump, and it took all my willpower to swallow it down, tear my feet from the frozen ground, and follow.
The forest soon broke open into the mansion’s sprawling grounds, and following Lord Harris’ example, I mounted a high stone pathway that wound through the estate’s vast gardens. It was not difficult to navigate even though twilight had since closed into night, thanks to the full moon that now showed brilliantly in the cloudless dark sky. As the mansion drew closer, I was rewarded with the sounds of laughter and music and the silhouettes of partygoers in the mansion’s tall, bright windows.
We rounded the mansion to its front, the faint outline of Lord Harris serving as my guide through the gardens. Two tall, polished wooden doors in brass frames stood open to the night, flanked by a pair of guards in similarly polished armor. The mansion itself was wide and majestic, its stone walls climbing high into the darkness, and for a moment my breath caught in wonder and all thoughts of the strange Lord Harris left my mind.
My attention was then stolen by a small group of guests clustered just inside the large doors. I saw men and women older than myself, dressed in vibrantly colored clothing with ornate birdlike masks and hats. A man with a bright red robin’s mask spoke, gesturing wildly with a gloved hand, and the rest of the group burst into raucous laughter.
Ahead of me, Lord Harris continued his steadfast march up to the guards. A guard raised a hand towards him, but stopped as Lord Harris dropped a letter of invitation at the guard’s feet without stopping. The laughter of the guests broke off markedly as the dog-masked man strode past, and I could sense the guests’ disgust beneath their beaks and feathers. I was unsure how to react after his display of rudeness.
The other guard must have noticed my hesitation, for he smiled and raised his hand, asking to see my invitation. Digging through the inside pockets of my coat, I produced the personally signed letter from Lord Jefferson with its red wax seal and handed it to the guard. The guard, a young, rather handsome man with soft features, glanced at the seal and signature, and passed the slip of paper back to me, gesturing for me to enter.
Even before I stepped through the towering entrance, I could feel the gentle warmth of the mansion soak through me, dispelling the autumn cold. My coat immediately became an itchy burden, but before I could remove it, a butler appeared at my side and offered to do so for me. Next to the door there was a stone on the floor covered with a rough yellow fabric, which the butler was explained was for wiping your shoes. Certainly much more civilized than smacking the mud off your shoes on the front stoop, I thought to myself as I brushed off the forest grit.
Within minutes, I had lost myself in the joviality of the occasion. After climbing the tall staircase at the entrance to the mansion (I had long since lost track of Lord Harris), I found my sister and cousins. Although none of our costumes were half as lovely as those of the older ladies at the ball, we were very proud of our ensemble, and it wasn’t long before a group of handsome men accosted us and asked us to dance.
I remember so clearly how blissful I felt then, bathed in the flickering torchlight and candle chandeliers of the vast chamber hall and wrapped in the arms of a merry, eagled-masked boy as we twirled across the floor to elegant music with hundreds of others. At one point the boy spun me so quickly that I lost my balance and fell to the ground, laughing uncontrollably. The boy’s fervent apologies only served to make me to further laugh until I was out of breath.
I realized quickly and with unbridled joy that I was accepted by these people – these noble people – and right then, that approval meant everything to me.
I found Lord Harris again; spied him out of the corner of my eye as I danced. He was slumped next to a column at the edge of the hall, far from the center of the dancing. He stood like a statue, canine face inscrutable, provoking no one, yet not a minute went by that some group of attendees strode past him, jeering or tossing some insult at him. It perplexed me why he refused to wear nice clothes and an appropriate mask to the ball. He claimed that it had made no difference in the past, and I could not help but wonder why.
As the night wore on, I found myself constantly checking on him out of my own morbid curiosity. At one point, three young ladies passed by him and one intentionally spilled a glass of wine on his trousers, the red liquid staining the fabric noticeably and immediately. Lord Harris’ head moved sharply as they walked away laughing, and I could swear I saw his mask grimace in a snarl at their backs, but the motion was too quick to be sure. I discovered as I watched him that I both pitied and despised him, and could not decide which emotion was stronger.
It was not long before my last dance of the night – everyone’s last dance of the night. Some hours had passed, much wine had been drunk, and everyone seemed to be experiencing the effects of exhaustive exhilaration and alcohol, including myself. I spotted Lord Harris one final time and saw that he had accumulated even more stains on his clothes, the product of an increasing number of less-than-sober assaults. His mask seemed to have been screwed up into a permanent scowl, fiercer than ever.
I wonder now if there was anything I could have done to stop him even then, even just seconds before. I wonder if there was anything that anyone could have done then, or ever – but of course we could have – in Lord Harris’ own words, it was we that brought him upon ourselves. It was we that created him.
As I watched, the two men from the woods walked by him with a tall young lady, her golden brown hair spilling out around the glittering black face of a raven. The two men made some rude gesture at Lord Harris, while the woman merely stopped and looked at him in the face. It must have been something that she said then, because an instant after she stopped, Lord Harris sprang forward from his slumped position, seizing her by the waist of her black gown and by her hand, and began twirling her in a violent dance towards the center of the room. She was at least a head taller than him, but between his ferocity and her drunkenness she could not escape from his grip, although she tried desperately.
Heads turned as the couple crashed through the crowd into the center of the floor. I noticed now that as they turned, Lord Harris seemed to be growing larger, for the top of his head now reached the height of his partner’s nose. Jeering shouts from the gathering at Lord Harris dissolved into frightened murmurings as it became apparent that he was growing taller and wider, his crummy coat now straining against shoulders and forearms that supported a head that was as high as that of most of the men in the room.
The two men from the forest suddenly burst through the crowd and were about to lunge towards Lord Harris but stopped as his coat abruptly burst open with a loud ripping sound, revealing a mass of black hair beneath that was also rapidly growing. He was now taller than any man in the room, and his left hand, which now dwarfed the raven-faced lady’s, was now covered in the same black hair.
The raven-faced lady shrieked, and, on cue, so did everyone else. I found myself screaming as the creature’s ears grew and elongated, flattened like an angry dog’s against a head and neck now obscured by thick black fur. In response to the raven-faced lady’s shriek, the two men from the forest threw caution to the wind and leapt forward at the monster. They slammed into the back of a creature that was now over ten feet tall, with viciously clawed feet and hands, which lifted the lady off the ground in one hand and used the other to bat the two men away like flies. As the creature turned to do so, I saw that its face was the mask Lord Harris was wearing – but it was not a mask, it was the living face of a wolf with golden skin and black hair, gaping mouth filled with sharp teeth and red eyes burning like coals from their tiny black sockets.
The two men were struck by its great burly arm and flew back into the crowd. The monster did not look at them, for its eyes were suddenly upon me, and I could not look away. I felt that my mask held no secrets from the creature. Its red eyes burned through my exterior, saw to the depths of my soul, and in return, I saw the terrible anguish in its own. I felt his hatred, his disgust, and his rage. I felt his pain, his sorrow, and his loneliness.
The creature – Lord Harris – roared, and the foundations of the mansion shook with his fury. It roared like thunder that split the ground beneath our feet.
It roared with all the brutality, agony, and cowardice of youth.
When my invitation to the ball had arrived from Duke Jefferson’s son, it had specified that the occasion would be “An Event of Ornithological Beauty,” and I had quickly set about gathering the plethora of pheasant feathers that now adorned my new violet mask and dress. I had heard that it was not wise to ignore the host of a Masquerade when he or she made particular statements about thematic attire, and I hoped that my outfit would be well received.
A crisp wind blew across from the northeast, tugging at the hem of my skirt and stinging my bare ankles. I shivered and pulled my coat closer around me, burying my hands deeper in its woolen pockets. As the breeze numbed my chin and lips through my thin scarf, I admitted to myself that I likely would have frozen solid if I had not been forced to heed Grandmother’s advice. As it were, I still had to stop, warm my face with my hands, and carefully wipe my nose with my handkerchief every few minutes to avoid smearing my makeup.
I first heard the boy during one such stop. Or rather, I heard his assailants.
“Look at the little Lord Harris, he thinks he’s gonna walk right by us without a single word, eh? Predictable!”
I paused as I heard the voice, handkerchief pressed lightly to my nose. To my right was a lone house; behind it, a small shed next to the forest. After a moment of hesitation, I moved towards the shed, and a different voice spoke, louder now.
“Perhaps we ought to give him a bit of a lecture on appropriate formal wear! He should know by now that this filth won’t do!”
Halfway between the house and the shed, the owners of the voices appeared on a path that struck out through the yellowing trees. A short boy stood in the center of the trail facing away from me, scruffy black hair visible above a thick red scarf. Two larger boys – the taller of which had the end of the short boy’s scarf grasped in his gloved hand – flanked him. The taller one wore a featherless white mask with a curved beak, while the shorter one had a black-feathered mask with a short yellow beak.
None of the young men had seen me, and I moved silently to the near side of the shed. The smaller boy attempted to walk further down the path, but came up short as the white masked boy’s handle on the scarf reined him in. With a yank, the white masked boy pulled the red scarf off of the shorter boy, who stood motionless as the fabric unraveled around his neck and hung limp in the air. Unrestrained, the younger boy began walking down the path again, and the yellow beaked boy lunged forward and caught him by the shoulders. Laughing, he then twisted and threw the younger boy face-first to the ground, making a soft thud in the carpet of leaves. With that, the two strode off down the path, their laughter fading into the wind.
Wanting nothing to do with the two rowdy youths, I waited until the backs of their coats disappeared into the distance before appeasing my curiosity. Hesitantly, I moved towards the path. The boy was already picking himself up off of the ground as I approached. Clods of grass and dirt and smashed leaves stuck to his worn jacket and pants, which were already in poor condition. As his head rose, I saw that he wore a lifelike bronze-colored mask with a prominent snout, beady black eyes, and small triangular ears – that of a common dog. The mask blended seamlessly with his face, and as I came closer, I could feel his eyes search my face. I found his inscrutable masked gaze unsettling at first, until I remembered that a mask also hid my face, and it then occurred to me that perhaps he was unsettled by me as well. Strange, I thought, how crippled we are in communication simply without sight of another’s true face.
Just as I reached the boy and had opened my mouth to speak, he turned and began walking down the path. After struggling a few seconds with how to respond, I lifted my dress slightly to avoid the carpet of leaves and followed. I did not wish to speak to the boy’s back, but though I steadily quickened my pace, I found myself no closer to him and was soon short of breath.
“Excuse me, sir!” I called to the boy over the wind.
He did not reply.
“Excuse me, but are you attending the Lord Jefferson’s Masquerade tonight? I’ve never been to a ball of his, and I’m not quite sure if this is the way.” As I spoke I looked behind and realized that the shed was now lost among the trees.
He spoke without turning or stopping. “This is a quicker route to the Lord Jefferson’s mansion. I often take it to avoid the cowardly scum you saw earlier, but it seems I can do so no longer.” His voice was rough and low, unfitting for his stature. I thought for a moment that I might have underestimated his age.
I breathed a small sigh of relief that I was not being led astray. I had a multitude of questions now, and after a minute or two of silence, I voiced them. “The men earlier called you Lord Harris – are you the Duke Harris’ nephew? Why are you wearing a dog mask instead of a bird mask? And why did those men treat you so badly?”
His gruff voice answered, carried back to me on the breeze. “Duke Harris is my uncle, and it is only because of his honor that I must attend such vile displays of societal merriment like the Lord Jefferson’s Masquerades. In the past I have tried wearing the attire the Lord Jefferson proscribes, and I have tried commiserating with attendees like those men,” at the word ‘men’ I could hear the pitch of his voice rise angrily, “but I am treated like filth despite all my attempts! I am not filth – they are the filthy ones!” he barked.
At Lord Harris’ words my anxiety quickly returned. Walking alone to the Masquerade was assuredly preferable than walking with such a frightening man, but the sun was now beginning to set, and I realized that I would soon be lost without him.
To my small respite, Lord Harris never turned nor stopped walking. I was too nervous now to speak, but surprisingly, he continued.
“Now…now I wear what I want and say nothing. They treat me no differently, and I do not oppose them. Though if I did,” he added with a growl, “it would surely be nothing they did not bring upon themselves.”
Something in the boy’s (man’s?) whole manner interested and terrified me. There was far too much pain, wisdom, and anger in his voice for me to understand. However, I was compelled by his honesty. Cautiously I said, “Perhaps, Lord Harris, they are afraid of you – or afraid of your uncle’s influence?”
He then stopped so suddenly from his swift pace that, even several steps behind him, I barely avoided crashing into him. Above his dark hair I saw bright beams of light from the windows of Lord Jefferson’s mansion piercing the twilight ahead. Standing behind him, a strange, rabid scent filled my nostrils. When he spoke, it was near to a whisper.
“They should not fear my uncle’s influence.”
He began to move towards the mansion in long strides. I started to follow, then heard him speak again – scarcely audible over the wind.
“They should fear my rage.”
At this, Lord Harris sounded so composed – so resolute – that my feet were rooted to the ground as he walked away. An ineffable foreboding rose in my throat like a lump, and it took all my willpower to swallow it down, tear my feet from the frozen ground, and follow.
The forest soon broke open into the mansion’s sprawling grounds, and following Lord Harris’ example, I mounted a high stone pathway that wound through the estate’s vast gardens. It was not difficult to navigate even though twilight had since closed into night, thanks to the full moon that now showed brilliantly in the cloudless dark sky. As the mansion drew closer, I was rewarded with the sounds of laughter and music and the silhouettes of partygoers in the mansion’s tall, bright windows.
We rounded the mansion to its front, the faint outline of Lord Harris serving as my guide through the gardens. Two tall, polished wooden doors in brass frames stood open to the night, flanked by a pair of guards in similarly polished armor. The mansion itself was wide and majestic, its stone walls climbing high into the darkness, and for a moment my breath caught in wonder and all thoughts of the strange Lord Harris left my mind.
My attention was then stolen by a small group of guests clustered just inside the large doors. I saw men and women older than myself, dressed in vibrantly colored clothing with ornate birdlike masks and hats. A man with a bright red robin’s mask spoke, gesturing wildly with a gloved hand, and the rest of the group burst into raucous laughter.
Ahead of me, Lord Harris continued his steadfast march up to the guards. A guard raised a hand towards him, but stopped as Lord Harris dropped a letter of invitation at the guard’s feet without stopping. The laughter of the guests broke off markedly as the dog-masked man strode past, and I could sense the guests’ disgust beneath their beaks and feathers. I was unsure how to react after his display of rudeness.
The other guard must have noticed my hesitation, for he smiled and raised his hand, asking to see my invitation. Digging through the inside pockets of my coat, I produced the personally signed letter from Lord Jefferson with its red wax seal and handed it to the guard. The guard, a young, rather handsome man with soft features, glanced at the seal and signature, and passed the slip of paper back to me, gesturing for me to enter.
Even before I stepped through the towering entrance, I could feel the gentle warmth of the mansion soak through me, dispelling the autumn cold. My coat immediately became an itchy burden, but before I could remove it, a butler appeared at my side and offered to do so for me. Next to the door there was a stone on the floor covered with a rough yellow fabric, which the butler was explained was for wiping your shoes. Certainly much more civilized than smacking the mud off your shoes on the front stoop, I thought to myself as I brushed off the forest grit.
Within minutes, I had lost myself in the joviality of the occasion. After climbing the tall staircase at the entrance to the mansion (I had long since lost track of Lord Harris), I found my sister and cousins. Although none of our costumes were half as lovely as those of the older ladies at the ball, we were very proud of our ensemble, and it wasn’t long before a group of handsome men accosted us and asked us to dance.
I remember so clearly how blissful I felt then, bathed in the flickering torchlight and candle chandeliers of the vast chamber hall and wrapped in the arms of a merry, eagled-masked boy as we twirled across the floor to elegant music with hundreds of others. At one point the boy spun me so quickly that I lost my balance and fell to the ground, laughing uncontrollably. The boy’s fervent apologies only served to make me to further laugh until I was out of breath.
I realized quickly and with unbridled joy that I was accepted by these people – these noble people – and right then, that approval meant everything to me.
I found Lord Harris again; spied him out of the corner of my eye as I danced. He was slumped next to a column at the edge of the hall, far from the center of the dancing. He stood like a statue, canine face inscrutable, provoking no one, yet not a minute went by that some group of attendees strode past him, jeering or tossing some insult at him. It perplexed me why he refused to wear nice clothes and an appropriate mask to the ball. He claimed that it had made no difference in the past, and I could not help but wonder why.
As the night wore on, I found myself constantly checking on him out of my own morbid curiosity. At one point, three young ladies passed by him and one intentionally spilled a glass of wine on his trousers, the red liquid staining the fabric noticeably and immediately. Lord Harris’ head moved sharply as they walked away laughing, and I could swear I saw his mask grimace in a snarl at their backs, but the motion was too quick to be sure. I discovered as I watched him that I both pitied and despised him, and could not decide which emotion was stronger.
It was not long before my last dance of the night – everyone’s last dance of the night. Some hours had passed, much wine had been drunk, and everyone seemed to be experiencing the effects of exhaustive exhilaration and alcohol, including myself. I spotted Lord Harris one final time and saw that he had accumulated even more stains on his clothes, the product of an increasing number of less-than-sober assaults. His mask seemed to have been screwed up into a permanent scowl, fiercer than ever.
I wonder now if there was anything I could have done to stop him even then, even just seconds before. I wonder if there was anything that anyone could have done then, or ever – but of course we could have – in Lord Harris’ own words, it was we that brought him upon ourselves. It was we that created him.
As I watched, the two men from the woods walked by him with a tall young lady, her golden brown hair spilling out around the glittering black face of a raven. The two men made some rude gesture at Lord Harris, while the woman merely stopped and looked at him in the face. It must have been something that she said then, because an instant after she stopped, Lord Harris sprang forward from his slumped position, seizing her by the waist of her black gown and by her hand, and began twirling her in a violent dance towards the center of the room. She was at least a head taller than him, but between his ferocity and her drunkenness she could not escape from his grip, although she tried desperately.
Heads turned as the couple crashed through the crowd into the center of the floor. I noticed now that as they turned, Lord Harris seemed to be growing larger, for the top of his head now reached the height of his partner’s nose. Jeering shouts from the gathering at Lord Harris dissolved into frightened murmurings as it became apparent that he was growing taller and wider, his crummy coat now straining against shoulders and forearms that supported a head that was as high as that of most of the men in the room.
The two men from the forest suddenly burst through the crowd and were about to lunge towards Lord Harris but stopped as his coat abruptly burst open with a loud ripping sound, revealing a mass of black hair beneath that was also rapidly growing. He was now taller than any man in the room, and his left hand, which now dwarfed the raven-faced lady’s, was now covered in the same black hair.
The raven-faced lady shrieked, and, on cue, so did everyone else. I found myself screaming as the creature’s ears grew and elongated, flattened like an angry dog’s against a head and neck now obscured by thick black fur. In response to the raven-faced lady’s shriek, the two men from the forest threw caution to the wind and leapt forward at the monster. They slammed into the back of a creature that was now over ten feet tall, with viciously clawed feet and hands, which lifted the lady off the ground in one hand and used the other to bat the two men away like flies. As the creature turned to do so, I saw that its face was the mask Lord Harris was wearing – but it was not a mask, it was the living face of a wolf with golden skin and black hair, gaping mouth filled with sharp teeth and red eyes burning like coals from their tiny black sockets.
The two men were struck by its great burly arm and flew back into the crowd. The monster did not look at them, for its eyes were suddenly upon me, and I could not look away. I felt that my mask held no secrets from the creature. Its red eyes burned through my exterior, saw to the depths of my soul, and in return, I saw the terrible anguish in its own. I felt his hatred, his disgust, and his rage. I felt his pain, his sorrow, and his loneliness.
The creature – Lord Harris – roared, and the foundations of the mansion shook with his fury. It roared like thunder that split the ground beneath our feet.
It roared with all the brutality, agony, and cowardice of youth.