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I pocketed the key and went to find a drink, because that is what I always do when something frightening and exciting happens at the same time.
The ballroom was roaring. A swing band, chandeliers, a Napoleon dancing with a skeleton, Tom himself as Dracula by the punch bowl, bellowing at somebody about the cloak. I fought my way to the bar and found the only gap, beside a woman in a scarlet silk dress and a red domino mask, with dark curls pinned up and lips painted the colour of a fire engine.
“Vampires,” she said to nobody, watching Tom. “The word came into English from German, via Serbian. Not Transylvanian. Somebody should tell him.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “Right after I’ve been told I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong, you’re just not me.” She turned. Behind the red mask her eyes were dark and quick and amused, and they dropped to my left wrist. To the black ribbon. To the pocket where the key sat heavy against my thigh.
“Ah,” she said softly. “She’s picked you.”
She leaned in until her mouth was at my ear. I felt the heat of her breath on my neck, and everything south of my belt tightened.
“Red ribbon,” she whispered. “End of the corridor. Ten minutes. I am not telling you my name and you’re not telling me yours. Come and find out what I do instead.”
She took her drink and walked away through the crowd, hips swinging.