Angel Tongue

ūnus

Isaac Alessandro Stjerne was starting to regret drinking as much as he did.

He gazed out onto the opulent ballroom from his seat, his legs sprawled out on the fainting couch and his heavy-lidded eyes glossed over by the haze that alcohol so often brought when consumed in too large a quantity. If he were sober, he would have taken note of the soaring arches that dominated the hall, the vault that towered above them, the reliefs that lined the walls, the detailed tapestries that had cost a fortune. But now was not the time for thoughts of sobriety. Music filtered into his drunk ears: violins, lutes, flutes and the telltale croon of a harpsichord coming together and forming a trancelike rhythm to which the revelers danced.

Fighting the urge to roll them, he kept his eyes on the writhing bodies of masked revelers occupying the dance floor, all of them in some varying state of undress. From his perch, he could see the sweat glistening on their skins, the rouge smeared on the uncovered portions of their faces. The sights, the sounds, the smells that arose from the congregation all overwhelmed him, an invisible gag that wrapped itself around his head, sealing his mouth and nose, and taking from him the ability to breathe. And yet, in a way, they did not affect him at all, for his mind was somewhere else entirely. Frustration bubbled deep within him. Leave it to his father to throw the masquerade to end all masquerades for his coming of age and not be there to handle it. His parents had told him just the morning before: they had invited everyone who was anyone in the city to the villa but could not entertain them for they had to travel to Galacós on urgent business.

Isaac suspected-no, not suspected, he was fairly sure-that the only business they had in Galacós was to spend a day of peace and quiet in their summer home. They had simply announced it in that manner to make sure that he wouldn't be able to slither himself out of this one. At that, he could not refrain anymore, losing any thought for putting up appearances and letting his irises disappear into his eyelids. The formality and the toasts at the start of the event were torture; this drunken mess was pure stupidity. A thousand curses upon this wretched thing.

"You do not look as if you are enjoying yourself," a silky voice called from out of nowhere, snapping him out of his train of thought.

"And what would you need from me?" he replied, carefully engineering a tone of dead indifference into his voice. Before him was a lady, no doubt one of the high profile guests that had taken it upon themselves to let go of all inhibitions for the night. A silver mask encrusted with gems sat upon her nose, reflecting the light in a thousand different directions and causing him to narrow his eyes at the bright intrusion.

"Only to pay my respects to the guest of honor," she returned, her multicolored gown billowing as she attempted a curtsy. She swayed onto one side, barely keeping her balance as she stood back up. "One celebrates his eighteenth summer but once in his life, after all." She smiled at him, lowering herself, not without mistakes unto the couch.

Drawing himself into an upright position, he asked her, "But how are you so certain that I am the guest of honor?" Feeling particularly brave, (though it might have been the alcohol) he leaned forward, twirling a lock of her brown hair with his finger as he spoke. "I am wearing a mask, after all."

"Do not take me for a fool," she laughed before leaning in as well. "Just because you are masked does not mean you are hidden." Her voice was barely above a whisper by now, and she was close enough that he could feel her breath fanning over him and see every crease on her wine-stained lips. She smelled of wine and poppy. "Same raven hair," she tugged at his shoulder length sweat-stained locks and continued, "same pale milky skin..."

He had taken care of choosing his own clothes before the ball, opting to hide as much skin as possible in the hopes that his defect wouldn't be seen. How terribly wrong he was.