#WritingWonders 4.23 — The Masquerade Invitation
Bolt held her wings flared out, making the metallic bits in the feather vanes sparkle in the sun coming through the skylight. She was either excited or very pleased with herself, or both. She practically vibrated as she handed me the sculpted silver foil-surface card, made to look like angel feathers.
I looked. I blinked. I held it out at arms length, as if that would somehow bring into focus words that didn't quite make sense. To me. "You were invited to a masquerade ball back where you grew up?"
"Yes. I want you to be my plus-1."
I snorted and started laughing.
Her wings flagged a bit and I reached for her shoulder.
I grinned. "You're planning on causing trouble, aren't you?" I waggled a finger at her and she perked up.
We'd both been pardoned for our criminal past. Trouble for us had multiple meetings.
She held open the card with both hands and warped over a primary feather to point at names. "The city directorate and commerce are putting it on. Those featherbrains that blackballed me when I tried to get into long distance hauling will be there."
"You're planning of rubbing your status change in their face. You're going as Captain Stormchaser, I suppose?"
"The hero who helped Director Rainy Days establish the nation? I'm wearing Stormchaser's actual antique armor daily... So... Why not wear her uniform? I'm having one tailored for me."
"Who would I go as?"
"You'll go!? You'll be my plus-1?" Her eyes sparkled now.
"You saved my flank and got yours burnt up as a result. The least I could do is the small stuff from time to time. It's at an aerie, though." Her hometown was a day angel-predominate city with buildings you needed to fly up to, or within.
She grinned devilishly. "I was thinking you could go as Rainy Days."
I rubbed my chin. "She's a giant—with wings. I don't have any."
"Make them part of the costume. You can jump magically between platforms, something only she, you, and very few people can do."
"She'd fly."
"Yeah. Suppose."
"Her's is a pearl white complexion. You may have noticed mine is somewhat greenish."
"I've seen you wear washout skin dye plenty of times. Before you say it, I know you can paint on skin patterns. You did that for years, and I know you were good at it." Most people got theirs near puberty; I'd only got mine a few weeks ago. Rainy Days' patterns continually shifted visibly over minutes and I wasn't sure she actually had control over what presented. Nobody did, except me. If I thought about doing it, I could change my spots.
I said, "I have a better idea."
Bolt looked crestfallen.
"I get it. Rainy Days and Captain Stormchaser together would be awesome. But... I could go as my mother!"
"The singer Midnight?" Her eyes moved as she considered that.
I may not have inherited my mother's good looks, or coal black skin color, but I could sing and often practiced in the shower, as Bolt had learned. I sang a show tune: Don't Cry for Me, Equatorim. Her song helped me visualize the stately woman I'd seen on so many album covers, but of whom I had no personal pictures with me as a child. She died before I was five.
Bolt stepped back, watching as wavy black patterns slowly advanced across my arms and everywhere else. I was thinking sound waves, them vibrating, leaving wave traces behind, filling up every patch of skin.
"Wow. Amazing," Bolt said. "Nobody will recognize you—if you dye your hair black. Red won't do. I can carry you between levels."
"I'll reserve the jumping until I need to startle somebody."
Bolt started chuckling. I joined in. It wasn't maniacal laughing but, by the smile on Bolt's face, what we shared was close enough.
I'd have to wear contacts over my emeraline eyes but, with my hair up, I could wear a velvet black fedora to cover my horns (Midnight's spiraled). I'd need a flowing knee-length Diva M's black dress with lots of black lace and maybe a sequins collar. The black on black with black so appealed to my goth soul! Me singing would perfect the costume.
Of course, my voice couldn't compare to my mother's. Nobody's ever would. For this, it would be good enough.
However, she had also been a spy for the Directorate. The reason she'd died so young. Bolt wanting to cause mischief at the masquerade resonated with me pretending to be my mother. Not being recognized as myself presented lots of devious possibilities, especially once Bolt pointed out the people who had hurt her. I was a devil-girl, never forget that.
"This might actually be fun!"
[Author retains copyright]
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