Mascarada

It was a day like any other, one of many, when the House of R. awoke in its city residence in K. The family was affluent enough to keep servants and spend the season’s months in the towns of K– or B–.

For such occasions they brought all their attendants along and stayed at the old family estate. It was the off-season time — an ordinary, cool spring day that hinted at the warm festivities to come.

A sunny one, it must be said.

It spread gently across the courtyard, stroking each blade of young grass, and settled tenderly on the worn cobblestones — old and well-trodden — paving the way for sunbeams to slip through the glass windows of the manor’s ground floor. This was the very part the family had used in recent years to spend the winter.

The head of the family believed that here, closer to the husband of the eldest daughter, the youngers might be subject to a more appropriate influence, especially when it came to the significant and valuable choices in life. Such as marriage, for instance, and connections that might improve the family’s fortunes. Not that their position was in any real danger, of course.

The house of R. was ancient, with centuries of history and glorious deeds now preserved only in yellowed chronicles. Despite the loss of former grandeur, the family name still echoed through every ball and reception in the city, invitations sent without exception.

Such was the case with the masquerade ball scheduled for the coming Friday.

As early as Monday, the city was already buzzing with anticipation. Invitations had been sent out and the ladies wandered leisurely and solemnly through shops and ateliers, selecting exquisite fabrics and intricate designs, each striving to create her perfect guise.

The regnant rule of the upcoming masquerade ball was anonymity. Here, titles, beauty, or wealth mattered not. At this celebration everyone, be they commoner or peer of the realm, stood as equals. The air was thick with excitement and a subtle mystery — for behind the masks, more than just faces were concealed.

Lavinia sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the wide stone ledge of the windowsill, listlessly perusing yesterday’s mail. Her eyes skimmed quickly over the lines of the daily paper, filled with gossip and happenings from across the city, while a cup of chamomile tea slowly cooled, its steam blown away by the fresh, damp breeze drifting through the open window. The rising steam curled upwards in lazy spirals, its scent spreading throughout the room, filling it gently.

The white stone on the wall opposite to the window began to warm as the sun slowly climbed, marking the exact time without a clock. The first light of the day cast its ray upon a bouquet of yellow and red tulips. She had plucked them yesterday, barefoot in the garden, beneath the violet summer shadows, careful not to soil her hem or be seen by anyone.

It was probably foolish. But pleasant.

Behind the wooden door carved with flowers, echoes of long-awakened servants could be heard, bustling about the morning routine for the ladies of the house.

The steady rustle of a broom somewhere in the courtyard, the soft clang of a bucket against the edge of a copper basin, the quiet creak of the spiral staircase’s floorboards — all filled the morning with impending tasks. All of it was part of the girl’s solitary morning symphony familiar since childhood as constant as the river flowing behind the estate.

The door swung open with a piercing creak as if the very stone itself shuddered at the sound. Lavinia flinched along with it and pulled her hand away from the mail.

“Lavinia! You’ve been reading the morning paper?!” her mother exclaimed, slamming the door.

Majestic and full-figured, her hair carelessly loose, clad in an embroidered nightgown, she held the newspaper crumpled in her hands like a dust rag — the victim of her excitement and haste. Her face shone with triumph, a lively fire danced in her eyes, and her voice rang out like a copper bell in the church.

“No, Mama… What is it?” Lavinia asked, studying her with cautious unease.

She already knew. Since her mother, not even bothering to put on a corset, had appeared before breakfast — something extraordinary had happened in the house. And this “something” was bound to be connected to the ball, gossip, or… something far more troubling.

“Lavinia!” her mother babbled, slamming the door behind her with such force it seemed she meant to bring the frame down.

“We’re going to the milliner! Today! Right now! Get ready immediately!” she almost jumped with excitement.

“I’ll send Varvara to change you while I run off to do my makeup! And hurry up! Everything must be perfect! You must be perfect!” The last words came from beyond the door.

Her footsteps echoed loudly down the corridor, and the house came alive. As if her presence had given permission for chaos — the maids who had until then moved like shadows through the house, suddenly began to cluck, stomp, slam shutters, and bustle in a frantic rush of preparation.

It seemed the very manor itself shuddered under her force, readying everyone for the events to come.