You attended the masquerade because it would have been quite rude not to. What with the personal invite and what not. You donned the simple robe and nondescript mask handed to you upon entry and found to your relief you blended in with everyone else.
Gaudiness abounded. Rhinestones and cut glass made beautiful fools of everyone.
No one knew who you were. You don’t know those around you. Everyone is equally haughty, pretentious, respectful, and afraid. No one wants to risk angering a person of power. But no one wants to give away their lack just as well.
A servant comes to you. It is your turn at the table, you are told. The genderless servant doesn’t wait for your expected questions. You are led away from the busy floor to a side room.
The small room is lit by two candles. There is no seat for you. Across the circular table is a seated woman. Behind her is a standing man. His richly pungent cigar perfumes the room. He has a grip on the woman’s shoulder.
You start to ask a question but the woman silences you with her actions. She lays three large cards on the table, face down. You notice she wears elbow length black gloves with shiny black talon tips. Her dress appears to be made from feathers. Her mask gives her a corvid appearance. She smiles like a crow but her eyes are stern as a raven.
She flips the three cards over, announcing them one by one.
“Cinq des Coupes. Upright.”
“Quatre des Épées. Upright.”
“Le Mort. Upright.”
It was clear her tongue was not used to the French words that stumbled out of her mouth and the heavy accent drew your attention to the last card. Your bones chill when you realize these are tarot cards and the last card is the Death card.
She is waiting for you to speak. Her anticipation of your questions makes the candle flames dance in mockery of your feared stillness.
You examine her closely, looking for any tell that this is all a staged joke. That this is part of the silliness of the masquerade. The hand on her shoulder squeezes slightly. The action draws your attention to the man behind her.
She could be mulatto. But he… He is of old, never mixed stock. You are not surprised to see her playing the role of seeress at this farce of entertainment. But for a moment you forget to be modern in your thinking and wonder how did someone darker than shadow come to such an obviously high position in this old Louisiana manor.
And then you see his face.
His ash covered face.
The ash carelessly patted to evoke the leer of a sun bleached skull.
He laughs at you and adjusts his worn top hat in confirmation of your assumption.
“Well? You gon jus stand there or you gon do sum’n?”
Before you can take a breath to answer, the candles flicker and bow out of the conversation, yielding the room to the devouring darkness that ends your attendance at the masquerade.