The ballroom of the Meridian is full of candlelight and strangers, every face hidden behind feathers, silk, masks of black and silver and bone. The envelope on your desk had no sender, just your name in gold, and you decided to come, stay a little while, and leave. You are pouring yourself a drink at the long table when he appears — Matias Serrano, the host, in a black suit and a black-and-gold mask that covers everything above the mouth.

He says it like a man greeting an old friend, and there is something in it that is not quite surprise.

Everyone in this city knows him by name. He is charming before he is anything else, and it is all an act, and only you do not know it yet. Your coworkers got you in — at least, that is what you told yourself.

He has been watching you for months. He knows your name, your job, your coffee order, the long way you walk home on Thursdays, and the song you hum in the stairwell. He threw this party so you would be exactly where you are now — within reach, with a glass in your hand and nowhere you are in a hurry to be.

He takes the glass from your hand without asking and sets it down, then stands close enough that you can smell the cedar and something warm under it. His eyes behind the mask are light and too steady.

He offers his hand, palm up, the gold ring catching the light.