“I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered Gemma was shielding herself from a sandstorm of dandelion seeds. Her tutor, Dominick Vickson, and herself were right at the core of a lush field. “As you can see,” Dominick called above the strong summer wind, as they made their way through the long, fine, green stalks, “wind is another form of seed dispersal. So that makes…” He choked on a mouthful of seeds, and coughed them out. Gemma giggled behind her hand and finished the sentence for him. “…that makes three different ways of seed dispersal we’ve learnt today!” Dominick nodded approvingly. They had almost reached the village smothered by the thick forest pines on the other side of the field. “And can you remember what they are?” he tested her. Gemma thought for a moment, recalling their trek through the woods, then snapped her fingers. “The first one we learnt was how the seeds sometimes get stuck in a passing animal’s fur, then fall off later,” she replied carefully. “The second one was how they eat the seeds and— well—excrete them,” she blushed but shook it off. “And we just learnt the third,” she said with a grin, as Dominick managed to get another mouthful of dandelion seeds, “…seed dispersal by wind!” * * * Soon they were back in the village. The ripe, orange sun was low in the sky, staining the horizon a horrifying yet fascinating red. Gemma was bathing in the river that trickled be-hind the small log cabin that she and her parents lived in. The water was cool and refreshing, gurgling and bubbling happily as it streamed along like an endless cord of blue ribbon. As she washed, a twittering bird caught her attention. Its wings were a deep, eye-catching turquoise; its chest was a soft, plush orange and it had a white underbelly. The bird’s beady black eyes darted back and forth, as it hopped along the bank. It must be a bluebird, Gemma thought, look at that magnificent sheen! Suddenly, her mother walked out of the back door of the cabin, startling the bluebird. “Gemma, your tutor is here to see you.” Her mother smiled. “And he’s brought the loveliest clothes with him! You’d better dry yourself off, then greet him.” She handed Gemma a clean linen towel that had been left outside to be baked by the sun. “I’ll be right there!” Gemma exclaimed, hopping out of the river and gladly taking the warm sheet to towel herself off with, from her mother. * * * Gemma walked in, her curling raven-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her red cotton dress creased as she sat down on the chair opposite Dominick. “Hello!” she said cheerfully. “Haven’t today’s lessons ended?” He beamed. “Well, this isn’t really a lesson,” he said. Unable to contain himself, he blurted it out, “Have you heard of the Masked Ball?” “No.” Instantly, a flashing yellow question mark appeared in Gemma’s head. It was her weakness—a thirst for knowledge. “Well,” Dominick explained excitedly, “it’s a marvellous ball that happens every year, and the theme is masquerade. All the famous scientists, writers, mathematicians and artists meet there every year and exchange information. The fun part isn’t the elaborate dresses, delicious food or bittersweet drinks; it’s the fact that you have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the person you’re getting information from, because all of these great, talented people are masked. And so you will be too, Gemma.” He stopped for breath, panting. Dominick pulled out a beautiful black mask from his satchel, along with a dark blue gown of silk and pair of pearly white shoes. Gemma’s eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered. Her heart was pounding wildly, she felt the blood pulsing ecstatically inside her. She would get to meet all of those wonderful people! She, Gemma Burberry, would become a masked guest at this extravagant event! “I’m not even on the guest list though!” she cried, more with excitement than doubt. “How can I get in?” Dominick grinned. “That’s the sneaky bit,” he said. “My Aunt Jennifer is the cousin of the man who runs the catering at the ball. She was invited to come along and mingle with the guests, but sadly she caught pneumonia and can’t go. Instead, we’ve agreed that you, a young scholar with plenty of potential, should go instead. Your name from then on will be Jennifer Vickson.” “But what if the catering man mistakes me for your aunt?” Gemma gasped. “He’ll certainly be there!” “No he won’t,” Dominick replied calmly. “He’s gone down with pneumonia too—who do you think my aunt caught it from?” Gemma sat down, not even realizing she had stood up in the first place. There was nothing stopping her. Nothing blocking her way from becoming a guest at the Masked Ball… what should she do? A smile slowly began to spread on her face, as sweetly and willingly as hot butter on toast. “Of course I’ll go,” she said. “I’d be crazy not to!” * * * Meanwhile, the ball was taking place. Lords and ladies, scientists and amateurs, all gathered under the brilliant, golden light that leaked through the crystals of the grand chandelier, which hung suspended over their heads. The floor was a cool marble, the tables all of the smoothest oak, even the curtain cords were tied in fancy silver bows! But the highlight of the evening was the masks. Oh, what a variety! There were red masks of velvet lined with gold tissue; menacing black masks adorned with long, dark feathers; pleasant, solid blue masks with shining silver pearls. Suddenly, the chatter subsided as the doorman led another person into the room. It was a young woman, wearing a soft, navy-blue dress and an intriguing, mysterious dark mask almost as black as her hair. Eventually, the noise grew back to its usual level. The girl
By Sophie Tottman, Illustrated by Sophia Aleksandra Allen