Quote:
When you get home from work, a young man is waiting for you. He's masked and slim and small, his hair color concealed by a light golden hood. "For you," he says, offering you an envelope. It is cream-colored and scented lightly of burnt orange, a strange and charred aftertaste on the tongue. He won't leave until you take it, and once you touch the envelope he simply disappears.

Opening it, you find a heavy key of some light-colored metal and a handwritten invitation:

The Court of the Sorrowful One
requests your attendance on the eve of the red moon
at a dance to honor the tithe of the otherworld.

Come alone or in a pair.
Please arrive at moonrise and appropriately dressed.
The unmasking will occur at moonset.

The speed at which he crossed the living room and snatched the envelope away from his unwanted guest would have made his former track coach cheer, but it was through no desire to attend a party that he did so. Chester simply wanted the man gone, and as soon as he touched the creamy parchment he got his wish, though it hardly happened like he thought it might. He envisioned an argument of some sort, a "get out of my house before I call the police" scenario, and when the man disappeared instead, leaving behind the oddly pleasant scent of wood smoke, Chester could only stand there stupidly, mouth slightly agape as he shifted his weight.

Thank... whoever or whatever force drove his parents that they weren't home. Had he needed to try explaining some teleporting man to them when he barely knew what was going on himself, the only guaranteed result would have been more shrink time. He might have even welcomed treatment for some obvious mental aberration had he not spent a handful of recent hours in another world. He was willing to give a lot of things deeper consideration these days.

Even though he was still standing alone in his living room, Chester slid the envelope into the pocket of his jacket and retreated to his room before opening it. He sank to a seat on his bed, clutching the key as he skimmed, then removed his glasses and held the card closer to his face, as if that would help him understand. A dance to honor the tithe of the otherworld. A ball. In the eighth month.

Chester went cold, hearing her humming, feeling her fingers brushing his forehead and her voice in his mind. It wasn't like he hadn't made the connection before, between the red-headed woman and the—what did they call it? The otherworld?—but to have it so blatantly clarified by a disappearing man? The dangers of that rainy place were far more apparent when they were paraded right in front of him. And still, he was intrigued.

He'd have to lie, to find an excuse as to why the friendless son of the effervescent Pooles was going out alone on a weekday night. And what if they kept him at this... ball? Time in that place ran strangely, to say the least. He could be gone for an hour or a week just as easily.

Resting the summons on the mattress beside him, Chester's hand found the key again, its metal cold from neglect. He sincerely hoped he would be receiving further instruction, because right now, he was at a loss. And "appropriately dressed"? What did that mean? He hadn't gone to his senior prom, and the last time he had attended a family wedding he'd been twelve. His everyday clothes were nice enough, in his opinion, but he had a feeling anyone who spent time in a court wouldn't think so. He sighed, abandoning the bed to look through his closet. Chester was wary, apprehensive, distrustful, but he never once considered failing to show up. Curiosity outweighed all, and deep down he couldn't deny it felt good to be unironically invited anywhere at all.