heart of gold | timothée chalamet

part two - the masquerade

without the leaves blocking the sky, the blue is visible—vibrant with hints of pastel orange. cotton clouds highlight the traces of dawn, but the shadow of the castle blocks a portion of the blue. you and little john, with your arms linked, walk toward the entrance of the castle, joining the growing crowd funneling into the castle. all attendants adorn a mask in a variation of colors and shades. this dissolves any suspicion.

you lean slightly toward little john, muttering, "so, this is what the rich does with their time and gold." little john stifles a laugh, making a sound somewhat of a sneeze. the lady who stands in front of john looks back at him with a dirty look before entering the castle. you follow.

the entry room of the castle is grand, imposing portraits line the walls to make up for the lack of windows. the largest of the portraits is centered in a golden frame. it's of an older man, an enemy of time. his wrinkled mouth is painted in a perpetual scowl. blue eyes stare straight into the soul, sending a chill down your spine. little john notices your unease and gently squeezes your arm with his hand.

guards line the hallways, leading guests to the ballroom. two stand at the doors, revealing the bustling party inside. masked people dance around the room in extravagant outfits, skirts twirling with the musicians' notes. tables of every food imaginable serve as a barrier between the fluttering dancers and those observing. the ballroom has an almost orange ambiance, in part due to the pristine wooden floors reflecting the glass chandelier lit with hundreds of candles. "how do you think they lit those candles?" little john asks in wonder. your mouth is agape in wonder at the buzzing, warm party.

little john eyes the food tables. "we should split up, not raise attention to ourselves. i'll signal you when it's time." you nod, skirt grazing the ground as you carefully step toward the nearest wall. people-watching comes with the keen eyes of an outlaw. you watch the dance floor, admiring how free they are. they aren't bound by the mask they wear; they take the choice for granted. you subconsciously adjust your own mask.

you hear footsteps approaching from your right and swivel your head, expecting little john. to your surprise, it's an unrecognizable boy. he's lanky, wearing a black suit jacket with hints of navy and subtle specks of white—as if his suit was the night sky. he has a black waistcoat underneath, and a grey undershirt with a black tie. his dress shoes click against the wooden floors, though louder than your hidden boots. he stands taller than you, but not nearly as tall as little john. bouncy brown curls dance on his head as if they have a mind of their own and enjoy the music. he halts next to you, hazel-green eyes that remind you of the forest peer through his black, moon-inspired mask. "people-watching?" he asks. you nod, tearing your eyes from the lanky boy. "i'm not one that enjoys these parties, but i was forced to come. i thought i'd join you on this side. nicer view." you look back and see him looking at you, smiling.

"i'm not very entertaining, not really a partier."

the man laughs airily. "me neither."

with every word that the man speaks, you wonder why he seems so different from others you've spoken with. finally, it hits you. "you're american?" you look at him quizzically.

he raises a pale hand to his hair—a contrast to the deep brown. "i travel a lot."

"a noble, then?"

"i guess you could say that," he shrugs, lowering his hand. he leans against the wall casually, fiddling with his sleeve. the two of you have a casual conversation, and he repeatedly tries to get you to laugh. "hey, you know a bit about me, but i only know that you stick to the walls at parties, have a great laugh, and are pretty."

you smile at the floor, touching your mask. "i like being around the forest."

"i could've guessed that based on your beautiful dress," he laughs and you hear him shift. you look up to see him still leaning against the wall, but now facing you. his shoulder rests against the wall instead of his back, curls pressed against the plaster. "my pa doesn't let me go near the forest. he insist that it's too dangerous and i'm," he raises his hands, bending his fingers to form air quotes, "too important to be hurt."