Darkness was absolute.
The ballroom dissolved into chaos. Thousands of gold coins' worth of silk and velvet rushed toward the exits. Screams of frightened nobles echoed off the high ceilings.
Taylor was pushed. Hard.
She stumbled in her high heels, the crowd surging around her like a panicked ocean. Her hand was still under her skirt, clutching the bamboo grenade against her thigh. It was the worst possible position to be in during a stampede.
"Move! Get out of the way!" Baron Hogg's voice bellowed somewhere to her left.
A heavy elbow slammed into Taylor's ribs. She gasped, losing her footing on the slick marble floor. She began to fall backward into the crushing mass of bodies.
*I'm going to get trampled,* she thought, clutching the bomb tightly. *Death by stiletto heel. What a way for an engineer to go.*
Just as she braced for impact, a hand grabbed her arm.
It wasn't a frantic, panicked grip. It was firm, cool, and incredibly strong.
"Easy there, sweetie."
The voice was smooth like expensive velvet, calm amidst the storm.
Taylor was pulled—not yanked, but guided with undeniable force—sideways, out of the crushing flow of the crowd and into the shelter of a stone alcove hidden behind a heavy curtain.
The noise of the panic was instantly muffled.
"Are you alright? You looked like you were about to become part of the flooring."
The lights flickered back on. Not the chandeliers, but emergency candelabras held by guards rushing into the room. The dim, dancing light illuminated Taylor's rescuer.
Taylor stopped breathing.
Standing before her was a woman who looked like she had stepped out of a painting—or a modern fashion magazine. She was perhaps twenty-five, with golden-blonde hair falling in soft, calculated waves around a face that was terrifyingly beautiful. She wore a gown of pale yellow silk that looked simple but was probably worth more than Oakhaven's entire yearly budget.
She didn't look terrified like the other women. She looked poised. Mature. Like a queen surveying a slightly inconvenient riot.
[System Analysis]
Name: Alison DiLaurentis (Ali)
Role : High Noble / Socialite / Mystery
Vibe : The Benevolent Dictator.
"You're shaking," Alison said, her blue eyes scanning Taylor's face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
"I... the lights," Taylor stammered, quickly pulling her hand out from under her skirt and smoothing her dress. "I don't like the dark."
Alison smiled. It wasn't a mean smile. It was a knowing, almost motherly smile. The kind of smile that said, *I know everything you've ever done, but I still love you.*
It was terrifying.
"Nobody likes the dark when they have something to hide," Alison murmured.
Taylor froze. *Something to hide?* Did she see the grenade?
Alison took a step closer. The scent of vanilla and something sharp—maybe expensive gin—wafted over Taylor.
"Look at you," Alison sighed, reaching out. "You're a mess. The Duke really spun you around, didn't he?"
Before Taylor could protest, Alison's hands were on her.
It was invasive, yet gentle. Alison's cool fingers brushed against Taylor's heated skin as she fixed a stray lock of silver hair, tucking it behind Taylor's ear. Her touch lingered on Taylor's neck, right over her pulse point.
"Your heart is beating so fast," Alison whispered.
"Social anxiety," Taylor lied, her face burning. Being touched this intimately by such a beautiful woman was sending Arthur's dormant brain into a meltdown.
"Shh," Alison hushed her, moving her hands down to Taylor's bodice.
"Wait, what are you—"
"Your lace is twisted. You don't want Baron Hogg staring at your corset strings, do you?"
Alison's knuckles brushed against the top of Taylor's breasts as she deftly straightened the neckline of the blue dress. The sensation was electrifying. Taylor held her breath, trying hard not to look down at the blonde woman fussing over her cleavage.
"There," Alison said, stepping back and admiring her handiwork. "Perfect again. You're too pretty to look disheveled, Taylor."
Taylor blinked. "You... know my name?"
"Of course I do," Alison laughed softly. It sounded like wind chimes. "Everyone is talking about the 'Soap Princess' of Oakhaven. The girl who turned mud into gold."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, just for a fraction of a second.
"You're very clever for someone who was asleep for three days. Almost like a completely different person woke up."
Ice water flooded Taylor's veins.
*She knows. She has to know.*
The calm demeanor. The sudden appearance in the dark. The knowing comments. The motherly vibe that felt like a velvet glove over an iron fist.
[Suspect Meter: Alison]
[Probability of being "A": 95%]
"I have to go," Taylor whispered, backing away toward the curtain. "My maid... Luna... she'll be worried."
"Go on then," Alison smiled, tilting her head. "But be careful, sweetie. The ballroom is full of wolves tonight. Don't let them see what you're hiding under that pretty dress."
Taylor didn't wait to ask what she meant. She turned and fled back into the thinning crowd, her hand instinctively going back to the grenade on her thigh.
As she ran, she realized she was clutching something in her other hand.
Alison must have pressed it into her palm when she fixed her hair.
Taylor stopped behind a pillar and opened her hand.
It was a handkerchief. Fine white silk, edged with delicate lace. It smelled of vanilla.
Embroidered in the corner, in pale blue thread, was a single letter.
**A.**
Taylor stared at the handkerchief. Her breath caught in her throat.
*It's her. It has to be her.*
But why be so obvious? Why give her a monogrammed handkerchief? Was it a taunt? A warning? Or was it just a rich woman's initial?
Taylor looked back toward the alcove. Alison was gone.
The lights flickered fully back on. The ballroom was bright again.
But Taylor felt like she was standing in the deepest shadow yet. The motherly woman with the vanilla scent was the most dangerous thing in the castle.
[Ding!]
[Quest Updated: The Masquerade]
[Primary Suspect Identified: Alison DiLaurentis]
[New Objective: Survive the Night.]
Taylor gripped the bamboo grenade. The ball was over. The war had begun.