Isobel skimmed ahead until she reached midnight in the story. Having seen plenty of horror flicks, she knew enough to expect the major drama to start then. And Poe didn’t disappoint.
When the black clock chimed twelve, so began the real freakiness. Left and right, everybody started to flip out over some stranger-danger creep who had come out of nowhere.
The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revelers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
Gross, she thought, but also kind of cool. Isobel flipped the page and scanned to the very end, to where Prince Prospero, peeved to the max, started charging through all the chambers.
He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
Hold up. Wait—what? That was it?
Isobel traced over the last sentence again, even though she knew she hadn’t missed anything. Or maybe she had? She swallowed hard against the lump that had formed thick at the back of her throat.
“Okay.” She slammed the book shut, causing the table to rattle, which must have caused Varen’s writing to skip because he looked up, eyebrows raised. “So can we talk about how I just read this Masque with a q thing and how at the end the bad guy totally wins?”
He drew his pen away from the page and sank back into his chair, regarding her with something like amusement. “I assume that when you say ‘bad guy’ you’re referring to the Red Death, implying that Prospero is the good guy?”
Her jaw jutted to one side as she took this into consideration. She saw his point and, eyes rolling upward, lashes fluttering, she sighed. “So, whatever, he locked out all the sick people and threw a big party for his rich buddies. Not cool, I get it. But that aside, why would Poe write a story about some lavish palace and take so much time talking about all these different-colored rooms and build up all of this stuff about this chiming clock and some sagacious prince and his drinking pals if he’s just going to kill everybody at the end?”
“Because,” Varen said, “in the end, Death always wins.”
At these words, Isobel recoiled. She took her hands from the table and put them into her lap, shoulders hunching. “You know,” she said, “no offense, but it’s when you say stuff like that that people start to worry about you.”
His expression fell.
She cringed on the inside, admitting to herself that she hadn’t meant to sound so blunt. He stared at her, but she couldn’t meet that kohl-etched gaze, half-hidden behind his hair yet still able to pierce her straight through.
“I mean . . . ,” she began, gesturing with her hands, as though they could help with the damage control.
“So,” he said, “are you worried about me?”
Her eyes lifted. He watched her steadily, all too serious and, again, she found herself floundering in that penetrating stare.
Was he being for real? Or was he just mocking her again?
He blinked once, clearly waiting for an answer.
“Um . . .”
She was saved by the sound of a low creak. His focus broke away. She followed his gaze, realizing that it must have been the downstairs door reopening.
“Is somebody coming?” she asked.
