If only anybody had waited around to see her float, she was sure they’d have been impressed.

She hunched her shoulders and made a face at the last wagon. It was surrounded by dozens of shouting, capering children. A man in a parti-colored elf costume was throwing candy right and left. Scarlett peered at the name on the sign above his head. “Rich’s.” Willie kept talking about this new store at Five Points. He was worried because prices were lower there and Kennedy’s was losing some customers. Fiddle-dee-dee, Scarlett thought with contempt. Rich’s won’t stay in business long enough to do me any harm. Cutting prices and throwing away merchandise is not any way to be successful in business. I’m mighty glad I saw this. Now I can tell Willie Kershaw not to be such a fool.

She was even gladder to see the Grand Finale float behind Rich’s. It was Rex’s throne. There was a leak in the red-and-white striped canopy above it, and water was pouring steadily on the giltcrowned head and cotton-batting-ermined shoulders of Dr. Meade. He looked thoroughly miserable.

“And I hope you catch double pneumonia and die,” Scarlett said under her breath. Then she ran to the house for a hot bath.


Scarlett was costumed as the Queen of Hearts. She would have preferred to be the Queen of Diamonds, with a glittering paste crown and dog collar and brooches. However, then she wouldn’t have been able to wear her pearls, which the jeweller had told her were “fine enough for the Queen herself.” And besides she had found nice big imitation rubies to sew all around the low neck of her red velvet gown. It was so good to be wearing color!

The train of her dress was bordered with white fox. It would be ruined before the Ball was over, but no matter; it looked elegant draped over her arm to dance. She had a mysterious red satin eye mask that covered her face down to the tip of her nose, and her lips were reddened to match it. She felt very daring, and quite safe. Tonight she could dance to her heart’s content without anyone knowing who she was so they could insult her. What a wonderful idea it was to have a masquerade!

Even with her mask in place Scarlett was nervous about entering the ballroom without an escort, but she needn’t have been. A large group of masked revellers was entering the lobby when she stepped out of her carriage, and she joined them without comment from anyone. Once inside, she looked around her with astonishment. DeGives Opera House had been transformed almost beyond recognition. The handsome theater was now truly a convincing King’s palace.

A dance floor had been built over the lower half of the auditorium, extending the large stage into a mammoth ballroom. At the far end Dr. Meade as Rex was seated on his throne, with uniformed attendants on each side, including a Royal Cup Bearer. In the center of the Dress Circle was the biggest orchestra Scarlett had ever seen, and on the floor were masses of dancers, watchers, wanderers. There was a tangible feeling of heightened gaiety, a recklessness that arose from the anonymity of being masked and disguised. As soon as she entered the room, a man in Chinese robes and a long pigtail put his silken arm around her waist and whirled her onto the dance floor. He might be a perfect stranger. It was dangerous and exciting.

The tune was a waltz, her partner a dizzying dancer. As they spun, Scarlett caught glimpses of masked Hindus, clowns, Harlequins, Pierrettes, nuns, bears, pirates, nymphs, and cardinals, all dancing as madly as she. When the music stopped, she was breathless. “Wonderful,” she gasped, “it’s wonderful. So many people. All Georgia must be here dancing.”

“Not quite,” said her partner. “Some had no invitations.” He gestured upward with his thumb. Scarlett saw that the galleries were full of spectators in ordinary dress. Some were not so ordinary. Mamie Bart was there, wearing all her diamonds, surrounded by other dregs. What a good thing I didn’t take up with that bunch again. They’re too trashy to be invited anywhere. Scarlett had managed to forget the origin of her invitation.

The presence of an audience made the Ball seem even more desirable. She tossed her head and laughed. Her diamond earrings flashed; she could see them reflected in the Mandarin’s eyes through the holes in his mask. Then he was gone. Elbowed aside by a monk with his cowl pulled forward to shadow his masked face. Without a word, he took Scarlett’s hand, then circled her waist with his arm when the orchestra struck up a lively polka.

She danced as she hadn’t danced in years. She was giddy, infected by the thrilling madness of masquerade, intoxicated by the strangeness of it all, by the champagne offered on silver trays held by satin-clad pages, by the delight of being at a party again, by her unquestionable success. She was a success, and she believed she was unknown, invulnerable.

She recognized the Old Guard dowagers. They had on the same costumes they’d worn in the parade. Ashley was masked, but she knew him as soon as she saw him. He wore a mourning band around the sleeve of his black-and-white Harlequin outfit. India must have dragged him here so she’d have an escort, Scarlett thought, how mean of her. Of course she doesn’t care if it’s mean or not, as long as it’s proper, and a man in mourning doesn’t have to give up going out the way a woman does. He can put an armband on his best suit and start courting his next love before his wife’s hardly cold in her grave. But anybody could tell poor Ashley hates being here. Look at the way he’s all droopy in his fancy dress. Well, never you mind, dear. There’ll be plenty more houses like the one Joe Colleton’s building now. Come spring you’ll be so busy delivering lumber that you won’t have time to be sad.

As the evening wore on, the masquerade mood became even more pronounced. Some of Scarlett’s admirers asked her name; one even tried to lift her mask. She deflected them with no trouble. I haven’t forgotten how to handle rambunctious boys, she thought, smiling. And boys is what they are, no matter what age they might be. They’re even sneaking over to the corner for a little something stronger than champagne. Next thing you know, they’ll start giving the Rebel Yell.

“What are you smiling at, my Queen of Mystery?” asked the portly Cavalier who was, it seemed, doing his best to step on her feet while they danced.

“Why, at you, of course,” Scarlett replied, smiling. No, she hadn’t forgotten a thing.

When the Cavalier released her hand to the eager Mandarin who was back for the third time, Scarlett begged prettily for a chair and a glass of champagne. The Cavalier had badly bruised one of her toes.

But when her escort led her towards the sitting-out side of the room, she suddenly declared that the orchestra was playing her favorite song, and she couldn’t bear not to dance.

She had seen Aunt Pittypat and Mrs. Elsing in her path. Could they have recognized her?

A mix of anger and fear dimmed the happy excitement she was feeling. She was painfully aware of her injured foot and the whiskey breath of the Mandarin.

I won’t think about it now, not about Mrs. Elsing and not about my sore toe. I won’t let anything spoil my fun. She tried to push the thoughts aside and gave herself over to enjoyment.

But, against her will, her eyes looked often at the sides of the ballroom and the men and women sitting or standing there.

Her eyes brushed a tall, bearded pirate who was leaning against a doorjamb, and he bowed to her. Scarlett’s breath caught in her throat. She turned her head to look again. There was something . . . the air of insolence . . .

The pirate was wearing a white dress shirt and dark evening trousers. Not a costume at all, except for the wide red silk sash tied around his waist, with two pistols tucked into it. And blue bows tied to the ends of his big beard. His mask was a simple black one over his eyes. He wasn’t anyone she knew, was he? So few men wore thick beards these days. Still, the way he was standing. And the way he seemed to be staring at her, right through the mask.

When Scarlett looked at him for the third time, he smiled, his teeth very white against his dark beard and swarthy skin. Scarlett felt faint. It was Rhett.

It couldn’t be . . . she must be imagining things . . . No, she wasn’t; she wouldn’t feel this way if it was anyone else. Wasn’t that just like him? Showing up at a ball that most people couldn’t get invited to . . . Rhett could do anything!

“Excuse me, I must go. No, really, I mean it.” She pushed away from the Mandarin and ran to her husband.

Rhett bowed again. “Edward Teach at your service, ma’am.”

“Who?” Did he think she hadn’t recognized him?

“Edward Teach, commonly known as Blackbeard, the greatest villain that ever plowed the waters of the Atlantic.” Rhett twirled a ribboned lock of the beard.

Scarlett’s heart leapt. He’s having fun, she thought, making those jokes of his that he knows I hardly ever understand. Just the way he used to before . . . before things went bad. I mustn’t put my foot wrong now. I mustn’t. What would I have said, before I loved him so much?

“I’m surprised that you’d come to a ball in Atlanta when there are such big doings in your precious Charleston,” she said.

There. That was just right. Not exactly mean, but not too loving, either.

Rhett’s eyebrows rose in black crescents above his mask, Scarlett held her breath. He’d always done that when he was amused. She was acting just right.

“How do you come to be so informed about Charleston’s social life, Scarlett?”

“I read the paper. Some silly woman keeps going on and on about some horserace.”