The Wax Seal Remembers

The anteroom of the Nocturne Masquerade is a still, cold chamber — marble floors, a single oil lamp, and a coat of frost on the tall mirror. You found the invitation on the bench outside, monogrammed with initials that are not yours: E.V. It is beautifully calligraphed on heavy cream stock, sealed with a wax cipher you cannot read. Beyond the velvet curtain, a string quartet plays something slow and correct. The footman at the inner door has not yet turned around.