UNTIL TOMORROW | D. MALFOY

𝟐. 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞

"Do you know what I don't understand, Pansy?" We turn down a new street, walking past a closed shop. She hums in response to my question.

"Why are we attending the season's opening ball, then presenting to the Queen the following afternoon? How will anyone know who is debuting?" My brows furrow in confusion and I scoff at how utterly backward this seems.

"Well, it is a masquerade ball. Is that not the point of being masked? Hiding ourselves? Remaining hidden for one final night before allowing the pigs to be slaughtered." Pansy says nonchalantly.

I shake my head free of cobwebs blocking my thoughts. I guess it makes sense, having one night to pretend and escape from oneself.

—

"I am not entirely sure a small mask covering our eyes is doing much to hide our identities," my brows raise as I think about how foolish it is to believe no one will remember your face hidden by a small mask.

"Play into it, Arabella. Stop questioning everything. After a few drinks, no one will remember a thing, so enjoy yourself and worry later." Pansy links her arm with mine as we move deeper into the palace.

There are servants stationed at every pillar, standing with their backs flat against the wall, staring straight ahead. We have servants in the manor, but not nearly as many.

Pansy and I ascend the marble staircase, branching up towards the left as the staircase splits in two. Lamps are interspersed, some hanging from a rope, draped from the ceiling, others stationed on poles in clusters of five.

Entering with Pansy rather than my family is uncustomary; however, due to the nature of a masquerade ball, we were expected to enter without revealing ourselves and our families for tonight.

With our arms still linked, we enter the ballroom, bowing our heads towards the servants stationed in front of the doors. Every attendee is shielded by a mask covering their faces, concealing—to an extent—their identities. I still find it humorous that we are to believe no one will recognize us tomorrow, or the next day, without our masks.

The orchestra plays Stamitz's Symphony in F major, it lifts the atmosphere and fills the air with dulcet notes from the strings. My fingers play at my side as I recall the symphony.

Couples sway as they share dances, smiles plastered on their faces as they become one with the music.

Having just barely entered the ballroom, we are approached by a potential suitor.

He wears a brushed silver mask, covering the upper half of his face. "Miss," he bows towards the both of us, dropping his head and looking towards the floor. "Would you be so kind as to join me for a dance?" He shares a charming smile with Pansy, offering his hand.

"I am aware you do not wish to share the company of a prince; however, that is not stopping me from securing a prince of my own," Pansy leans into my ear to whisper this, and when she finishes, she unlinks her arm from my own and flashes a devious smirk before curtseying and taking the mystery suitor's hand.

Now alone, I take my time to survey the vast room. Many wear masks that only cover their eyes, myself included. The ribbon holding my mask flush against my face is interwoven into my hair. The gold mask is pearlescent, with ornate wings that sit nestled above my brows, framing a small gold medallion that rests on my forehead from the mask. While I was holding the mask before my lady maid wrapped it into my chignon, the light bounced in every direction as I moved it under the lamps.

Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention. A tall, built man makes his way towards me, the sea of people parting as he walks. Averting my eyes, I turn my body in hopes that he will pass me.