The invitation came gilded in silver, sealed with the emblem of the Earl of Redgrave. A masquerade ball at his grand estate, a gathering of nobles, scholars, and artists. Anna did not wish to go. Yet Clara urged her.
"You must be seen, my lady. It would not do for you to vanish into your rooms and ettiqute lady. People already whisper
Anna silenced her with a look but allowed herself to be dressed. That evening, she entered the ballroom clad in emerald silk that shimmered like forest leaves under candlelight. A delicate mask of ivory lace veiled her eyes. She carried herself with the quiet dignity of a noblewoman, not the secret author whose pen carved through men's reputations.
The hall blazed with chandeliers, violins weaving through laughter. Goblets clinked, perfumes mingled, gowns swept the floor like restless tides. Anna, though praised for her elegance, felt curiously detached, her mind heavy with the secret letters folded into her bodice.
She moved to the refreshment table, fingers grazing the rim of a glass of wine, when a sudden burst of laughter drew her gaze.
A man in suit tall handsome broad shoulders everyone started talking to him painted in bright , had leapt into the crowd. He told jokes with reckless wit, greeting between nobles and scholars alike, making even the elegent smile. His voice was exaggerated, his movements absurd, yet there was something calculated beneath the merriment, as though he used humor to veil a sharper intent, YET I CANT SEE HIS FACE
Anna watched, amused yet wary. Her guard lowered when he approached her, bowing low in a parody of courtly manners.
"A jewel in emerald," he said lightly, though his tone carried weight. "Tell me, lady, do you laugh in shadows, or only in light?"
She smiled politely, prepared to dismiss himbut then he leaned closer. The smell of his lavender sense get into her nose, another role play, ?????
Anna knows he is here, he is trying to provoke her but the only safety she had is what is he gonna do, tell people she is the author , or kill her she didn't dear , but has some fear
"Burning your letters does not burn me, Anna."
Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened around her goblet until it nearly shattered. She turned sharply, eyes wide behind her mask, but the man had already spun away, leaping back into the crowd with laughter and cheers following him.
For the rest of the night, she was distracted, the music blurred, the wine bitter. She forced herself to dance, to smile when spoken to, but her pulse thrummed like a trapped bird. He was here. He had seen her. And no one else knew.
When she returned home, she dismissed Clara early and locked herself in her chamber. The mask lay discarded upon her desk, beside the untouched quill. She stared at the blank page, her hand trembling.
Hours passed before she wrote again not in her book, but in a letter.
"If you know me so well, then tell me, why must you torment me? What do you gain from binding me to your pain?"
What do you gain from me, is it my life that you want from me , or you want to disclose me
She writter. Two letters yesterday and today and he haven't replied to any ,
It all feels like a fantasy , is he a devil I summon she thought to herself , what have I done ..
Sealing it with wax, she knew she had crossed a line. This was no longer silence. This was engagement. And in that moment, Anna, the hidden author, chose to write back to the villain who haunted her.