The Scarlet Ball Masquerade

Paris, 1899. Every Thursday, a low-voiced woman called Clémence at the switchboard. "Are you well?" Operators weren't allowed to answer.

Clémence knew every voice in the city. Nobody knew hers.

One December night, an envelope arrived. A black lace mask. A brass key. A card: Wear the mask. Look. Ask. Never take. Leave your name at the gate.

She went. Behind an iron gate in Auteuil, a masked ball. A woman in white. A whisper at midnight.

This New Year's Eve, Scarlet Salon opens the gate in Washington. An Art Nouveau masquerade. Whether you walk through is up to you.