High Society by Ryan Kane McGuire

“Ponsonby!”

“Yes, sir?” His pathetic voice wobbles from down the corridor.

“Fetch my masque.” I admire my buttocks in the standing mirror. Rarely do I have the chance to see it in such fine garments, but tonight is a special occasion. There is a party to attend, on the pretense of business.

Ponsonby pokes his shrivelled little head around the door of my chamber. “I wasn't aware you had a masque, sir.”

“It was recently... procured. A business gift. It should be on the mantle.”

“Very good, sir.” Ponsonby shambles off. The old dogs brain shrinks hourly, it seems. Perhaps a sharper manservant would have noticed something by now.



I give myself a little twirl, green coat-tails flapping, and I approve. I've had my harder days, and my hair is still thick and dark, my features strong, my eyes deceiving. From the box sitting under my bed I find my valuables. Gold, silver, diamonds. Valuable to certain people, but not to me. They were just a thrill for me. A rush.

“Your masque, sir.” I kick the box shut before the old hobbling prune has a chance to see its contents. “It's lovely, if I may say so, sir.”

“Yes. The prior owner was loathe to part, but they found me rather charming, I think.” Even I think my uncontrollable grin looks smug.

“You do seem to have a way with people, sir.” Ponsonby slides the mask over my head, and I give my form one last admiring scan. Other peoples' trinkets, the baubles of my trade, dangle from my neck and wirsts, and I feel the flintlocks hammer bite into my thigh. I love high society.

“Ready my horses, Ponsonby.”