I stand in the shadows and watch the dancers. Men and women move together as if they’ve practiced this all their lives. I wonder if they are guests or professional dancers hired by The Society to add to the ambiance. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter because I’m pretty sure I didn’t look like they do when I danced with the stream of men my brother, Carlton, arranged for me.

I shudder at the thought of my last dance partner. A man old enough to be my grandfather.

A breeze blows into the grand Baroque ballroom as someone opens a window a few feet from me. The rain has slowed to a drizzle and the room is muggy even with the air conditioning running on high.

After a quick glance to confirm Carlton isn’t watching, I drink the last of my champagne and set the empty flute on a nearby table. I slip quietly toward the exit and out the double French doors that stand open, in spite of the damp night.

In the courtyard, small tents have been erected to protect guests from the rain. They’re decorated with warmly glowing lanterns and too many flowers to count. Men and women collect beneath the tents drinking, smoking their cigarettes and laughing too loudly.

Everyone turns to look at me as I pass. It’s the dress. It’s ridiculous with its feather skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh and the cinched waist of the corset top which is seriously limiting my oxygen supply. Carlton’s choice. It showed all my best attributes apparently. At least the mask, which I liken to chainmail, leaves only my eyes on display.

The mask is pretty with it’s delicate gold chains and coins brushing my shoulders with each step. And it offers some protection from curious eyes. The too-revealing dress I could do without.

Deciding to risk the drizzle that will likely make the feathers of my dress wilt, I hurry to the small chapel on the other side of the courtyard. No one will be there. I know that for sure. Society members may profess to be religious but from what I’ve seen, they’re going through the motions. Showing up in their Sunday best, each outdoing the other, at least where fashion is concerned.

The wooden door is heavy. It creaks open just far enough to let me slip inside. I close it behind me and breathe a sigh of relief at the familiar sight, familiar scent. I miss incense when I’m away too long and Carlton isn’t the church-going type.