Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death) Read Free

your strength.”
    He’s right; I do. Even standing here for this short time has worn me out, and the railing is all that’s keeping me up. When we return to the city, I have to be able to fight. I have to search for my father. April has the contagion, and if anyone can save her, Father can. So, for now, I let Elliott take my hand and lead me toward the cabin.
    I cast one last look over the swamp. Does something move out there? I stop, watching for even the tiniest ripple, but everything is still, and then Elliott pulls me through the door and the main cabin of the airship, to the small sleeping chamber where the prisoner was held before Will and Elliott secured him someplace within the house.
    I’m still wearing my green party dress, though it’s inches shorter than it was when I put it on. April cut away everything that was ruined during our escape, leaving me with something close to indecent. One of the ragged edges catches on the doorframe, and there’s a rustle of paper from one of my pockets as the journal in it bumps against my leg.
    Father’s journal has traveled with me across the city and out of it, through ruin and fire and flood. And I’m grateful that no one has taken it from me. Whatever revelations are in this book, I want to know them first. In private, not the middle of a crowd—the way I learned about Father and the plague. I never want to learn something so earth-shattering so publicly again. And today is the first time I’ve felt clear-headed enough to read it.
    “Someone should watch the swamp,” I say as I lie down. “Malcontent’s men could be out there.” Elliott pulls the blanket to my chin and pats my good shoulder. He isn’t listening, but I know he isn’t blind to the danger we face from the swamp. He’ll have someone on watch.
    I keep my eyes closed until he shuts the door, and then I pull the journal from my pocket. The pamphlet that calls my father a murderer sticks out from where I tucked it inside.
    The journal’s paper is wavy from water damage, and it falls open to the first passage I ever read. The ink is still clear. Everything is my fault . My heart stutters.
    But that is near the end, and I need to start from the beginning. Some of the pages stick together. Father is careful, though, and he’d never use an ink that bled, not for his research. I turn the page.
     
Spent the morning showing Finn how to use the microscope. Catherine dressed the twins in ridiculous matching outfits. She wants us to have their portraits painted. It’s amazing how alike they are. I don’t blame her for wanting to capture this stage. Already we’ve seen how fast they grow and change.
She doesn’t know that all of our savings have been spent. The things she wants are reasonable. But my research is expensive.
     
    There was never enough money when we were young. Not until after the plague.
     
Have been hired for a new project, trying to locate a defect in local cattle. A quandary about local breeding. I’ve put my personal research on hold.
     
    The next five pages detail the vagaries of cattle breeding. On the seventh page it says:
     
Araby dressed up in white lace and ribbons. Catherine planned to take her to visit relatives. She is a beautiful child. Finn spilled a cup of grape juice on her, and the excursion was canceled. Catherine went to bed with a headache. Entire day of research wasted.
     
    Is that all we ever were, all I ever was? A distraction from Father’s work? But I push that aside. I’m not looking for clues as to whether Father loved me. I need information about the disease that destroyed our way of life.
    Pages later, my father writes about working with Prospero, before he was prince. I nearly drop the journal. I try to think. Did Father ever speak of knowing Prospero, before? I force myself to keep reading, to learn all I can about the disease. It was originally supposed to kill rats. Only rats. But it did so much more.
    This is confirmation of my worst fears. Whoever