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thirteen

Astoria

W hen I arrived in London a few years earlier, the world was on the cusp of war. The years that followed were long and brutal. We’d all lost more than we ever meant to give. Now the war was over, and this December, joy clung to the air—infectious and bright.

I’d been invited to a winter masquerade ball by a dear friend, and all things considered, it was exactly what I needed.

For weeks, I searched for the perfect dress, trying my best to honor the hostess’ eighteenth-century theme.

Balls and gowns and Hollywood fantasy had begun to spill into every corner of life. It was part of the post-war high.

I’d enlisted the help of a seamstress who helped me create the most stunning black ball gown and mask. Despite everyone’s protest, I insisted on black.

After everything this year, I wasn’t ready to fade back into normalcy as if nothing had happened and there was nothing to grieve.

Leo had fallen on the battlefield, joining his sister in death, leaving Arthur and me as the last of the DuPonts

I’d spent nearly seven years in London and, slowly, my circle had begun to pick up the threads of life from before the war.

My friends were marrying, having children.

There were even rumors that Charles Henley—my closest friend’s oldest brother—had bought a ring.

He was kind, hard-working, a decorated naval officer, and he’d make a good husband.

A good father. And regardless of the effort I went through to keep him from me, he loved me anyways.

But I couldn’t do it. Not when he would age. Not when our children would grow up and leave me behind.

Instead, I was boarding a boat in the morning, bound for America. I’d reunite with my son and somehow I’d figure out what came next.

The air thrummed with energy and anticipation as I stepped into the ballroom—a grand hall tucked deep in the English countryside, in a manor that could rival even Chatsworth House.

Pulling my onyx-laced mask down over my eyes, I slipped from the car, giddy to spend my final evening in England cloaked in anonymity.

Lifting the heavy skirts of my gown, my gaze swept over the towering architecture, breath catching in my throat as I made my way inside.

From somewhere beyond the gilded doors, soft strings floated through the air, weaving the melodies of famous composers into the night.

Helen had pulled out all the stops. Everything was magnificent.

Servers glided through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, champagne, and deep red wine.

In the center of the room, couples danced in sweeping arcs, the women’s gowns trailing behind them conjuring images of spilled paint—blush, emerald, sapphire, gold.

The men lingered off to the sides, laughing into short glasses of something dark and expensive.

Their conversation light, their postures easy.

Towering floral arrangements graced every table and alcove, fragrant and full. Even the drapery had been swapped to match Helen’s theme: opulent and otherworldly, mirroring a fairytale set just outside of time.

My black gown had been a bold choice, but its silhouette held all the romanticism of another era, and as I crossed the threshold, a hush rippled through the room. The orchestra slowed into a softer movement, its notes unfurling into the winter-chilled air, delicate as breath on glass.

I paused, breath catching in my throat, letting the moment settle.

Then I saw him—a tall stranger striding toward me with his hand outstretched.

His dark hair was brushed back, the top left long and tousled into soft waves.

I couldn’t make out his full face beneath the raven-feathered mask, but the strong cut of his jaw left little doubt that he was handsome. Striking, even.

When our hands met, his skin was warm, his fingers calloused. A spark bloomed where we touched, humming like a struck chord.

“I’m certain none here could consider themselves as fortunate as I,” he said, his voice rich and low, “if you would grant me this dance.”

That voice, it wrapped around me with the warmth of velvet, so achingly familiar I almost swayed. Something deep inside me stirred, sharp and sweet; a note held too long. It echoed of home.

The flutter in my chest turned tight. Anchored. Cemented.

I couldn’t place him, although I was certain we knew each other. But instead of dwelling on his identity, I placed my small hand in his large one and let him lead me to the middle of the dance floor.

The orchestra continued its mournful lament, shifting into a minuet, each note lingering in the way of memory.

My emotions surged, unbidden, pulling me back through the fog of the last few years—years cloaked in the darkness of war, yet somehow illuminating parts of me I’d believed long dead.

I never played a vital role in the war, but I found myself face to face with the dead more than I cared to.

His hand found my waist, steady and sure, guiding me into the dance as we moved in circles, a quiet orbit of two. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

Our gazes locked, intense and unflinching, but I couldn’t look away even if I tried. I melted into the strength of him, allowing myself a single moment of surrender. A single moment to feel something beyond survival.

Fire threaded through my veins, igniting every inch of skin.

I leaned in closer, my cheek grazing his shoulder, and smiled—truly smiled.

Not for show or courtesy, but something real.

The kind of smile I hadn’t felt in years, born from the quiet magic of a stranger’s arms and a song that knew how to ache.

A quiet sorrow settled between us as the final notes fell, soft and inevitable. I’d grown used to goodbyes. I'd even come to expect them, and found a strange kind of relief in their certainty.

But not this one.

This one felt heavier. The ache of something unfinished, unspoken. And yet, it was already over. Much to my dismay, similar to everything else that had ever stirred something real in me.

The strings held the final note and he took the opportunity to step in, mouth dipping toward my ear. His breath was warm, electric.

“Is your mind made up, then?”

I furrowed my brow, breath catching.

“Where to next, Astoria?”

I pulled away from him, almost stumbling.

“Shhh…” he soothed, tucking me back into his embrace as couples moved around us to the opening strains of the next song. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Clarity struck with an arrow to the chest.

I looked up into his eyes, searching for answers I already knew.

“Death?” I asked, lips scantly moving.

“My Tempest,” he spoke just above a breath, lowering his cheek to my head as we swayed, the swaths of black fabric around us glittering with the beauty of stars fallen to earth.

“What are you doing here?” I murmured, relaxing into his grip once more.

“I wanted to see you off.” He reached for a curl that had slipped forward, wrapping the red strand around his finger with maddening tenderness. “Is that so terrible?”

“It’s… strange.”

“There’s nothing strange about dancing with a mesmerizing woman draped in my color.” He gave a quiet smile. “Except, perhaps, that the woman is almost a hundred years old…”

I gave him a look, pushing gently at his shoulder before tucking the lock behind my ear.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said softly, already tugging me toward the doors off to the side, the ones that opened onto the garden, where moonlight waited.

Torched lamps and candles littered the patio beyond the doors, casting a warm, golden glow over the gardens below. Snow had just begun to fall, the soft flurries catching moonlight as they drifted lazily through the air.

It was quiet. No chirps from the trees. No howling from the woods beyond. Even the gravel held its breath beneath our feet. The heavy doors behind us muffled the revelry of the ballroom, sealing it away like a dream. Out here, the world had fallen asleep. Still. Breathless.

“It’s beautiful.” I tilted my face to the wind, letting the crisp breeze wash over me.

“You are,” Death replied, stepping beside me. “Beautiful, that is…” He cleared his throat awkwardly, casting me a quick glance before redirecting his gaze to the garden’s edge.

If it hadn’t been so cold, my eyes might have welled with tears. Vulnerability— that was the true affliction of being known. Even more so by your enemy.

The thought struck gently, uninvited but persistent.

When the letter came, as I stood in the doorway, fingers trembling over Arthur’s handwriting, reading that Leo had died—I felt it.

A breeze, impossibly timed, lifting a strand of my hair.

It carried the faint scent of oleander and salt.

The burn of oud. It was Death, brushing past, if only to tell me he was near.

I couldn’t explain it then, because what was I to think?

But hadn’t he showed up when Beatrice died? Then Leo? Was he still my enemy?

“Do you have a name?” I asked, turning toward him.

Death leaned forward over the balcony, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the stone. A pained expression passed over him before he blew out a long breath and turned back toward me with a haunted look in his eyes. “Let’s take that walk, shall we?”

I took his hand, hooking my arm through his as he led me down the grand staircase into the mazed gardens below. Only the moonlight and flickering torches guided our way.

A midnight walk through a garden on the darkest night of the year—with the king of night himself. The thought made me smile.

Death towered beside me, resting his other hand atop mine in a gesture of quiet possession. He was nothing if not a gentleman, as I was beginning to learn. Moving at an unhurried pace, his steps were assured as he led me deeper into the labyrinth of hedges.