I turn around and dance in one of the few moments that I could take for myself. Of course, this was still a mission, and, of course, I was still expected to be on lookout at all times.
The drinks and wine glittered in the background; they were held up to a high standard, as this was the ball of the supposed royalty. The attendees were mostly distantly related lines that claimed they were royalty for the sheer pleasure of one night to profess their wealth and roll around in the luxurious life they so desperately craved. So, when just one more of these beggars in ball gowns showed up, nobody was the least bit suspicious.
I’m wearing scratchy gloves that look like silk from the outside, but itched horribly on my hands; bangles overlap on my wrist and jingle when I shake them. They’re mostly made of plastic, though. A tacky dress that’s supposed to be my cover drapes over my body. I had protested against the look at first, but now I see it fits right in with everyone else.
Now, if only my outfit was a bit more comfortable… Where did all the money in my agency’s bulging budget go? Obviously, not to me- maybe it had gone to my boss, who was now twirling with a lady in the middle of the dance floor.
What a shame. Looks like I have to ask, not so politely, for a raise, before my next job.
“Would you care to join me for the next dance?” A man in a suit approaches me. I want to gag at the smell of sweat pervading the room, but instead, I force a polite smile onto my face.
“Of course!” I respond, then let out a little giggle.
The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“So, where are you from?” The man inquires as we twirl around the room. I hope he doesn’t notice that I narrowly miss stepping on his foot.
“I’m Isobel Ambrose,” I responded smoothly. I had taken the spot of another distant cousin of the King’s brother’s wife.
We make small talk about the weather, and once the song is done, I attempt to take back my spot at the table once more. Only, a rough hand grabs me from my side.
“Get back here,” my previously unassuming dance partner demands. “You’re not Lady Ambrose.”
I sidle my way back nervously, hoping not to attract too much attention. “What do you mean? Of course I am!”
The man responds, calmly, “Isobel Ambrose died a month ago. I saw to it myself.”
Before I know it, a flintlock is pressed to my head. The entire room has fallen silent, and I look to my boss, who is also disguised as a dancer, for any chance of help. He just looks at me, then puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out another gun aimed at my head. The entire room follows suit, dropping their chuckles and lightheaded demeanor and turning to bring out their own firearms, each pointed at me.
A second before the bang of the pistol echoed in my soon-to-be-unhearing ears, I realized the truth; I had never been meant to get out of this ball alive.
The drinks and wine glittered in the background; they were held up to a high standard, as this was the ball of the supposed royalty. The attendees were mostly distantly related lines that claimed they were royalty for the sheer pleasure of one night to profess their wealth and roll around in the luxurious life they so desperately craved. So, when just one more of these beggars in ball gowns showed up, nobody was the least bit suspicious.
I’m wearing scratchy gloves that look like silk from the outside, but itched horribly on my hands; bangles overlap on my wrist and jingle when I shake them. They’re mostly made of plastic, though. A tacky dress that’s supposed to be my cover drapes over my body. I had protested against the look at first, but now I see it fits right in with everyone else.
Now, if only my outfit was a bit more comfortable… Where did all the money in my agency’s bulging budget go? Obviously, not to me- maybe it had gone to my boss, who was now twirling with a lady in the middle of the dance floor.
What a shame. Looks like I have to ask, not so politely, for a raise, before my next job.
“Would you care to join me for the next dance?” A man in a suit approaches me. I want to gag at the smell of sweat pervading the room, but instead, I force a polite smile onto my face.
“Of course!” I respond, then let out a little giggle.
The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“So, where are you from?” The man inquires as we twirl around the room. I hope he doesn’t notice that I narrowly miss stepping on his foot.
“I’m Isobel Ambrose,” I responded smoothly. I had taken the spot of another distant cousin of the King’s brother’s wife.
We make small talk about the weather, and once the song is done, I attempt to take back my spot at the table once more. Only, a rough hand grabs me from my side.
“Get back here,” my previously unassuming dance partner demands. “You’re not Lady Ambrose.”
I sidle my way back nervously, hoping not to attract too much attention. “What do you mean? Of course I am!”
The man responds, calmly, “Isobel Ambrose died a month ago. I saw to it myself.”
Before I know it, a flintlock is pressed to my head. The entire room has fallen silent, and I look to my boss, who is also disguised as a dancer, for any chance of help. He just looks at me, then puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out another gun aimed at my head. The entire room follows suit, dropping their chuckles and lightheaded demeanor and turning to bring out their own firearms, each pointed at me.
A second before the bang of the pistol echoed in my soon-to-be-unhearing ears, I realized the truth; I had never been meant to get out of this ball alive.
