So it’s the Ides of November, and NaNo is halfway done. And I’ve written 25k+ words, so I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I don’t know where the story is supposed to be, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?
Have an excerpt.

I leaned back against the blue velvet of the curtains, and lost my balance as the window behind them clinked open. Catching myself with a hand on the edge of the settee, I twitched aside the curtain to see what lay behind the window.

The thick fabric must have been there to block the moonlight streaming through mullioned glass. Stripes of the grey light flowed across the floor of a long gallery from a set of south-facing windows, and I glanced behind me to see if anyone would notice my disappearance behind the curtain.

To my delight, no one looked in my direction, for a series of thuds drew attention to the dance floor. I could see Letitia’s long neck in the center of the scrum, and I wondered if she had been the instigator or simply a gawker. I cared not, for the distraction allowed me to slip behind the curtain with no one the wiser.

Careful to pull the drape shut once I slipped through, I gazed down the length of the gallery, marveling at the absolute clarity of the glass. Every window boasted the same curtains as I had just stepped through, pulled to the side to let in the moonlight. It leeched the color from my dress, leaving it dark as the night outside and setting my gloves to glowing.

Mirrors took the place of windows on the opposite side of the gallery, and the image reflected there made me stop and stare. I looked ghostly, my painted skin matching my white gloves and my dress like a mourning garment. Then I stepped into one of the beams of moonlight, and the imaged changed: an angel, perhaps, haloed in the glow, tricking glints of red from my hair.

I moved back quickly when I saw that, ingrained in me as it was to avoid all of that color. I shook my head at the folly. Seemed a silly thing that our lives revolved around the whim of an old man who probably did not even remember why he made the rule.

The mirrors and windows continued down the gallery, and I followed the bath of a dark stone that lined the floor, every so often looking out the glass or into the mirrors, but all I ever saw was my reflection–until the face peering back at me was not my own.

I gasped and nearly fell down, just avoiding tripping over the train of my dress. I narrowed my eyes and took a step forward, and knew I faced a painting, but one so lifelike that I could not resist reaching out a hand to touch the canvas, just to make sure.

‘Twas Edward, of a surety. The Baron’s long-dead son, lost to a vicious murder so many years ago. Did he live now, we would be of an age. The full-length painting showed Edward in antique dress, a style forty years out of date, standing against a backdrop of fiery maples. His hair was unfashionably long, curling dark around his shoulders, and the artist had managed to make his eyes spark even in the flat paint. A long nose drew the eyes to smiling lips, red and full, ready to break into a grin. The color of his jacket was faded in the moonlight, but I knew it was a bright carmine, echoing the shade of his lips.

I drew my fingers away from the forbidden color. No dust marred the tips of my gloves, and I looked closely at the frame. No spiderwebs in the ornate carving of the frame. The portrait hung straight on the wall, and the alcove was pristine, with clean candles in the sconces beside it, ready to be lit.

Cocking my head, I examined his face again. Kindly, happy. From the stories, Edward had been his father’s joy, especially after his mother died (the rumor being her carriage lost its driver on the rather hazardous trip from Brighton, and in the darkness the horses took her over a cliff). He certainly looked content, and I wondered what it would be like to know him in person.

The painting did not look like only paint and canvas. The skin looked more alive than my own, though probably covered in the same amount of pigment. I traced the line of his jaw, feeling the brushstrokes through the fabric of my gloves. Of course no life stirred beneath my fingers.

“It is a ball, my lord. Since there is no one to introduce us, I must be rude and do that myself,” I said, smiling a little at my folly. “Miss Madeline Thorne at your service. Would I could save a dance for you, Edward Trevelyan,” I said, whispering, so my words would not carry into the hall. “We are so close, after all,” I said, making a vague gesture towards the dancers.

The creaking of wood made me whirl so I faced the way I had come. I saw no one, but the curtain moved, and I whipped my head around, looking for a place to hide. Surely I was not supposed to be here, not with the painting of the lord’s son, accoutered in his red frock coat…