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♫ Arrivo tardivo ♫
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I enter the corridor and pull the door shut behind me. The noise of the party is muffled into a dull murmur. Taking a deep breath, I remove my mask. I’ve never been in this part of the castle before. It’s likely a passage for servants leading to the kitchen. I open one of the windows to let the fresh air dry the sweat on my forehead. It feels as if we’ve spent weeks here behind closed doors with the drawbridge raised, indulging ourselves in unrestrained revelry.
In the window glass, I see a blue discoloration of the skin near my collar, but I attach no further significance to it. Instead, I curiously examine the small, tied bundle on the windowsill. I unfold a long black cloak in which a mask, a large hourglass, and a scythe are wrapped—the handle of which folds out. I drape the cloak over my shoulders and suddenly feel young and full of purpose again, even daring a few small dance steps and pirouettes. The mask depicts a skull. Mine has become useless; I simply toss it out the window. It lands somewhere in the depths of the courtyard, lying in a darkness the pale moonlight cannot reach.
The scythe in my right hand gives me a good feeling. The clock strikes. It is time to go back among the revelers.
The Masque of the Red Death: 