Chapter 15 Atticus
Atticus
Our true passions are selfish.
—Stendhal, The Red and the Black
I find Raven hunched over the writing desk at the apartment.
It’s been a week since Professor White discovered that the building was crumbling from the inside.
We’ve been working day and night on the problem, and I’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone talk to my friend.
Raven has one knee drawn up to her chest, her toes curled over the seat of the chair, the other knee bouncing nervously as she writes.
She doesn’t hear me come in. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together in the living room since we messed around.
I hesitate, not sure how to start. In the soft lamplight, a small halo frames the top of her head, and when she tips it to the side, her hair shifts to one shoulder.
Something about seeing Raven in a natural state, unfiltered, makes my chest hurt.
My heart can’t handle everything that’s been thrown its way recently.
When I shut the door behind me, she practically jumps.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I wasn’t expecting you.” She takes a breath and settles back into her chair. Her eyes narrow; her shoulders tense.
“You seemed busy. Who are you writing to?” I ask.
“My parents. It’s nothing.” She hastily finishes up her work, folding the letter into thirds and stuffing it into an envelope.
She’s nervous.
We’ve been missing each other even though we both live here.
After our trio—the full Oneiric Society—bonded over Raven surviving the Rosette explosion, it felt like we were back to normal.
But I’m still a little wary. The past few days, she’s always busy, and now it’s like there’s a wall of TV static between us, electric, tangible.
And I’m afraid if I poke it, I’ll get shocked. So I don’t pry.
“Are you still up for the party tonight? St. Ad’s? Aspen?” I ask instead of the questions that are really on my mind: Do you hate me? Are we good? Are we still friends?
Raven nods. She notices that I’m holding a box. “What’s that?”
“Special delivery,” I say. “I gave Dorian his when I ran into him leaving Old Bones.”
“Our masks?” she asks.
“As Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.’ ”
Raven doesn’t react like I hoped she would, with barely a smile. It stings a little.
She comes over to the table where I set the package down. It’s the size of a shoebox, the contents neatly wrapped in red tissue paper.
“Oh, will you look at that,” Raven says as I pull the wrappings away.
“Plaster and papier-maché, just like the artisans in Venice,” I say.
“It took me ages to smooth everything out, but I think they came out beautifully. Yours is a full mask in the volto style.” I hand it to her.
The plaster face is pale with red lips and touches of gold on the cheeks, courtly and striking, just like she is.
I wanted to capture her as best I could.
Mine, I painted black and gold with a curling filament sculpted around the eyes and lips. It will stand out spectacularly with the black robe I found at a thrift store.
“You truly outdid yourself,” Raven says.
I press the mask to my face and try to read Raven’s expression. Her eyes are bright with excitement as she puts on her own mask and strikes a little pose.
“How do I look?” she asks.
I want to say she is beautiful, that I’ve always found her beautiful, and that I will always love her but can’t be her lover, but the words get stuck halfway down. I swallow thickly and manage to say, “Great.”
—
When the hour arrives and it’s time for the party, we walk side by side to the old cemetery, passing Arches and all of its mysteries.
A yellow plastic tape prevents anyone from going too close.
I make sure we keep our distance, but I’m nervous and my senses play tricks on me.
As we pass, I think I hear a screaming howl coming from inside. I stop walking.
“Did you do that?” I ask Raven.
“Do what?”
“Make that noise.”
“Um, no,” she says, furrowing her brow curiously. “Freaky.”
I stare at Arches, scanning for movement, and hold my breath, listening.
There’s only the quiet sounds of the campus and the soft rustling of leaves, and a part of me thinks I must be imagining things. It was probably just the wind slicing through the tower. There’s no one in Arches; no lights illuminate the interior, just as it should be.
The tower is empty, but I’m left with a troubled feeling in my gut. This has been happening to me more and more. I’m hearing things that don’t seem to be there.
Raven doesn’t seem bothered, or maybe she’s just lost in her own thoughts.
Campus is mostly empty, and there’s a crispness that makes it feel as if the air could bite you.
The breeze nips at our cheeks and sends brown leaves skittering like rodents across the cobblestones.
The clouds passing overhead blot out the moonlight, and the air grows colder.
I lift my shoulders toward my ears, wishing I’d worn something a little warmer.
“I hope the party isn’t outside.” This black robe is thin cotton.
I should have tried to find a wool cloak.
“I wouldn’t worry. If it is, this is a school of magic—right?” There’s a twinkle in Raven’s eye. That’s the Raven I know. Maybe she’s forgiven me fully.
“Right, magic. I’m sure everything’ll be perfect. We’re just slipping into a party with all of the kids who did the one thing we couldn’t do—they were admitted to Sibylline.”
“Right, those wizards.” She snorts. “Not one of them could banish that fire demon…” She trails off, and the aura around her head glows an angry red.
We turn the corner and stumble upon the old cemetery.
An iron gate made of angel wings sits propped open in the high stone wall, the bars rusted, the paint peeling.
Most of the headstones are weathered and cracked, covered in ivy, the names having faded with time.
We take a winding dirt trail toward the very center of the cemetery, where a stone cottage sits atop a hill.
Its windows glow warmly from within; the party has already started.
I spot that familiar symbol, the eye and the pentagram, that I noticed on my first day of work.
It adorns the cottage roof and several of the nearby tombstones.
Waiting for us beneath the drooping branches of a leafless tree, Dorian stands dressed in a robe and holding his own Venetian mask in his gloved hand.
He smiles when he sees us, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.
I want them to bite me. He waves at us with his mask, one that will cover half his face in swirls of red and gold.
“The artist himself,” he says, making me blush.
“You like it?” I ask.
“It’s perfect.” Dorian’s eyes stay on me, lingering maybe a little too long.
Raven gives me a sidelong glance, then clears her throat. “Right,” she says, slipping her mask over her face and pulling up her hood. “Shall we?” Raven steps up to the door and knocks. A slat in the aging wood slides open, and a pair of dark eyes peer out.
“Speak the password,” says the person on the other side. We see only her lips, painted red and luscious.
Raven traces an X through the air as she says, “Omnes una manet nox.”
Sparks trail after her finger.
The slot slides closed and the door flies open, the music booming.
Inside, I’m overwhelmed with noise, both auditory and psychic.
The party is staged inside a vast empty sepulcher.
Marble busts line the walls, and a single floating chandelier flashes with multicolored lights.
It’s the only source of illumination and turns the space into a dizzying whirl of rainbow and shadow.
The room is packed, everyone gathering around a tall and intimidating figure, a man in a glittering jacket and black face mask.
He yells something unintelligible into a microphone.
The music thumps, surrounding me in sound, but there are no speakers in the room.
Then I realize the busts that line the tomb are all singing, acting like magical speakers.
With a wave of his hand, the figure in the glittering jacket controls the music, raising the volume.
Students float through the room, laughing and talking.
Their emotions wash over me like a great ocean wave, and it makes my world spin.
Raven and Dorian brighten visibly, their spirits lifted as they take in the scene.
Everyone’s dancing. People cheer and holler, screaming for more as the bass booms.
I want to be happy. I really need to enjoy tonight. Everything has been so tense. Raven, the Rosette, work, Dorian, desire. I need to dance, and drink, and forget. But I can’t.
I’m starting to regret ever coming to the party.
I didn’t think it’d be this bad. The heightened emotion of the room is nauseating.
There’s too many things happening at once, too many voices, too many feelings.
I squeeze my eyes shut and think about the digits of pi: three-point-one-four-one-five-nine…
I want my thoughts to be my own, but my internal voice is pushed out by someone wondering if there’s Elysian mead in the punch bowl.
I gather it’s some sort of drink brewed magically, but the voice vanishes before I can hear the rest, replaced by some girl wondering if she’s going to get lucky tonight.
Half a dozen voices hit me at the same time: I…bathroom—beautiful night—sweating so much in this mask—oh my God, he’s so funny!…Who’s that golden god, is he in Sorcery 101? No, I think he works here. At Old Bones. Always wears gloves.
“Raven!” A voice cuts through the cacophony, and a guy—Aspen, I assume—appears at Raven’s side, beaming, with a red, possibly Venetian, mask in hand.
He lights up, literally—his aura glows when he sees her.
Raven’s right, he’s like a Labrador as a person.
“You made it,” he says, yelling over the music, which has, once again, increased in volume.