In front of the gilded bronze doors of the Garnier Opera House, a black carriage was parked.
Inside the carriage, Vivian looked like a catfish gasping on land, her mouth wide open as she struggled to snatch oxygen from the thin air.
“Miss Detective, do you have a history of Asthma?”
Seated across from her, Cicero was tidying his cuffs.
Tonight, he wore a deep purple tailcoat, a gold gear brooch pinned to the collar, and his hair slicked back perfectly.
Scoundrel in fine clothing.
That was the first phrase that popped into Vivian’s mind.
“You… huff… try… this for yourself…”
Vivian pointed at the pale blue Rococo Gown she wore. Its layers of lace piled up like a cream cake, but the Whalebone Corset beneath felt like an instrument of torture.
If she ever made it back to the modern era, she swore she’d dig up the person who invented the corset and seal their nostrils with two hundred pounds of cement.
“I can see my great-grandma already.” Vivian rolled her eyes. “She’s waving at me.”
“That’s a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen.”
Cicero handed over an exquisite mask. “Put this on. According to the invitation rules, tonight is the Execution Ball. Everyone must cover their face, since that’s the ‘part about to be lost.'”
Vivian took the mask. It covered only the lower half of her face, just enough to hide her mouth and chin, leaving her eyes and forehead exposed.
“What kind of design is this?” Vivian put it on. “It’s so ugly.”
“It’s so that, before the Guillotine falls, the executioner can see the despair in your eyes.”
Cicero pushed open the carriage door, and the sounds of the outside world rushed in at once.
“Remember our identities. I’m a Viscount from Austria, and you’re my cousin.”
“Why set us as cousins?”
“If you were my wife, it would be inconvenient to sell you for gambling money.”
“Screw you.”
The foyer of the Garnier Opera House was filled everywhere with flowers, champagne, and crystal chandeliers.
All the guests wore various masks. Some wore the black hood of an executioner, some donned Marie Antoinette wigs, while others simply tucked their heads inside their collars, pretending to be headless corpses.
The air reeked of a sweet, rotten scent—the smell of decaying lilies mixed with expensive perfume.
“Something’s wrong with this place,” Vivian muttered under her breath. “It’s like a parade of a hundred ghosts.”
“This is the work of the Twilight Society.”
Cicero offered his arm to Vivian—in reality, he was half-supporting her to keep her from fainting, while his gaze swept quickly through the crowd.
“They’re collecting Emotion.”
“Emotion?”
“Look at those people.” Cicero raised his chin slightly.
Vivian followed his line of sight.
In the center of the ballroom, men and women in splendid attire spun around in dance. Their movements were mechanical and feverish; every step landed perfectly on the beat.
And on the ceiling, those beautiful marble reliefs—Apollo, Muse—had all opened their eyes.
They stared down at the crowd below with greedy intensity.
Faint wisps of gray mist, nearly invisible, drifted upward from the dancers’ heads, sucked into the mouths and noses of those reliefs.
“That’s Longing for the Old Era, and Fear of Death,” Cicero explained coldly. “It’s a kind of energy.”
“So we’re all just sugarcane being squeezed dry?” Vivian concluded.
Just then, the lights in the hall dimmed suddenly, and a pale spotlight shone onto the second-floor balcony.
There stood a man dressed in a pure black military uniform, a golden mask covering his entire face.
Two tear-like scars were engraved on that mask.
“Welcome, ghosts of the old era,” the man’s voice boomed through the hall via a loudspeaker.
“Is that the thief who stole the Doll?” Vivian squinted, trying to make out the man behind the golden mask.
“That’s the Marquis de Saint-Germain,” Cicero’s voice was very low.
“Don’t stare at him. If it’s his true form, your retinas would burn out.”
“Isn’t that a bit much? What is he, a welder?”
On the balcony, the Marquis spread his arms as if embracing all of Paris.
“Tonight, we shall witness the correction of history.”
“Those noble heads severed by the mob shall return to their elegant necks.”
“Those forgotten courtesies shall become new laws.”
“Now…” The Marquis snapped his fingers.
“Let the ball begin. For… reunion.”
At his words, the orchestra began to play.
It was a variation of the Marseillaise, slowed to a minor key, sounding like a funeral march.
Vivian broke out in goosebumps. “Is he not afraid Rousseau will come knocking at his window at midnight?”
“Shh.” Cicero suddenly slipped his arm around Vivian’s waist.
“Someone’s coming. Dance.”
“What?!” Vivian’s eyes widened. “I don’t—”
Cicero didn’t give her a choice, dragging her directly onto the dance floor.
Vivian felt her world spin.
This dress was too heavy! At least ten pounds! Worst of all were the high heels.
“Left foot, back,” Cicero murmured in her ear.
Vivian’s brain: Got it, left foot back.
Vivian’s foot: I’m not the left foot.
Crack. A sharp sound rang out.
Vivian’s heel landed squarely on Cicero’s shoe.
Cicero’s forced smile twisted instantly into a Picasso painting.
His mouth twitched, veins bulging on his forehead like earthworms, but he stubbornly held back any sound.
“…Sorry,” Vivian shrank her neck. “That was… a tactical error.”
“Again!” Cicero gritted his teeth, trying to save the situation. He pulled Vivian’s hand abruptly, aiming for an elegant spin.
But he’d overestimated Vivian’s sense of balance in her oxygen-starved state.
“Ah—!”
Vivian let out a short yelp, spinning out of control straight into Cicero’s arms.
In the collision, her knee unfortunately rammed right into Cicero’s thigh.
“Ugh!” Cicero grunted, staggering.
To keep her balance, Vivian’s other foot began madly searching for support.
Her heel hammered the floor around Cicero’s shoes like a machine gun.
The scene looked like she was stomping cockroaches.
The guests around them stared in astonishment.
This frenzied, seizure-like dance step—accompanied by such eerie music—somehow created a strange sense of harmony.
“My goodness…” A lady in an owl mask nearby exclaimed, “Look at that young lady! How… beautiful her dance is!”
Another noble was moved to tears. “This is art! This is performance art!”
“So beautiful! The wailing of the soul trapped in the flesh!”
In an instant, people around began to imitate.
They started to stumble deliberately, stepping on each other’s feet and letting out exaggerated yelps.
The whole dance floor turned into a massive scene of mutual tripping.
“Ouch!”
“Ah! My toe!”
“Step harder!”
Vivian stared at the madness in shock.
These people are nuts, right? Is this what passes for high society?
Just as the atmosphere reached its peak and everyone was lost in this absurd “foot-stomping ball”—
The music stopped abruptly, and a suffocating silence fell over the entire hall.
Everyone’s eyes turned to the stage.
The curtains slowly parted, revealing a giant golden birdcage at the center of the stage.
Inside the cage sat a Doll.
She wore a simple white dress exactly like the one Marie Antoinette wore on her way to the Guillotine, a bright red ribbon tied around her neck.
That face, skin as fair as jade, long eyelashes, lips the soft pink of cherry blossoms.
That face was identical to Vivian’s, who now stood in the center of the dance floor.
“That’s…” Vivian felt the hairs on her neck stand up. “My face?”
The Marquis in the golden mask on the balcony spoke once more.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce tonight’s protagonist.”
“Not only a reenactment of history, but a vessel for the future. She will open the gate to the Perfect World for us.”
Click.
The door of the birdcage opened, and the Doll moved.
Her gaze swept the entire hall before locking precisely onto Vivian.
The Doll’s lips curled into a faint smile.
“Run.”
Cicero was suddenly back at Vivian’s side. His voice was tense, and his cane had already been quietly unscrewed to reveal the silver tip of a sword.
“That thing… has your Concept.”
Vivian hadn’t even had time to ask what “my Concept” meant.
The Doll suddenly opened her mouth.
A visible shockwave of sound rippled outward like a tsunami.
“Ahhhhhh—!!”
The crowd on the dance floor screamed.
The gray mist that had been swirling above their heads was now sucked frantically into the Doll’s mouth as if caught in a tornado.
As the mist was drawn in, the Doll’s skin flushed with color, her stiff joints grew flexible.
She was coming to life.
And those whose Emotions had been drained began to collapse one by one, like puppets with their strings cut.
In the box on the second floor, the Marquis de Saint-Germain swirled the wine in his glass, looking down upon it all.
“I’ve finally found you,” he murmured softly, the corners of his lips curving ever so slightly.