Depth

by Emily Thompson

  “Nonsense,” Myra declared, getting up from her chair to step closer to Kima. “I’m sure you could borrow something from Tasha or I. And dancing is easy.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Tasha said earnestly to Kima. “Come along with us, my dear. We can set you right.”

  Kima looked between them, appearing almost frightened. She turned to Jonas as if silently begging for assistance. Seeing her so ill at ease, Twist was reminded of his own unwillingness to venture onto unfamiliar ground. When the Vimana had first taken him to Venice during Carnival, he had been forcibly dragged off of the ship by Aazzi. When Jonas had insisted on attending a party in Santiago, Twist had to be coerced into going once again. And yet both instances, he remembered now, had led to truly wonderful experiences that he was very glad to have had.

  “It’s all right, Kima,” Twist said softly, catching her gaze. “It’s just a dance. You might enjoy it. And if you don’t, then you can leave it whenever you like.”

  Kima stared back at him for a moment, as if judging the trustworthiness of his words. She then gave a sigh and turned back to Myra and Tasha as she rose from her seat. “All right.”

  “Lovely,” Myra said sweetly, taking Kima’s hand.

  Jonas shook his head as the women hurried away together. “Well?” he asked, glancing toward Niko and Twist. “Do either of you want to go powder your noses before the dance?”

  “I might go fetch my good cravat,” Twist mentioned, intentionally ignoring the acid in Jonas’s jibe.

  “I’m good,” Niko said, stirring a bit more cream into his cooling coffee.

  “What about you?” Twist asked Jonas. “Are you going to try to look a bit more presentable? Perhaps, I don’t know, button up your bloody waistcoat for once?”

  Niko glanced up at them.

  Jonas narrowed his eyes at Twist. “You care entirely too much about the way I dress.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Bloody dandy.”

  “Shabby-looking brigand.”

  “Watch it, you,” Jonas grumbled, pointing at Twist’s nose. “I’m just stubborn enough to attend the dance in the nude if you don’t leave me be.”

  Twist laughed. “No, you’re not.”

  “I could be!”

  “Please, please,” Niko said, raising a hand. “I really don’t want to see that. And I have to go to the ball, or Tasha will be cross with me for weeks.”

  “There, see?” Twist said with a gesture to Niko. “Be kind to the poor young man. And put on a hat.”

  “Never!” Jonas growled, as if channeling the fervor of William Wallace.

  Twist laughed again and got to his feet. “My dear man, you’ll be a scoundrel to the end.”

  “Precisely,” Jonas replied, looking pleased.

  “I am going to fetch my cravat. I’ll see you two at the ball.”

  Twist left Jonas and Niko behind and did exactly as he’d said. Returning to his cabin, he freshened himself up a bit and did his best to tame his unruly curls. A final glance at himself in the mirror over the dressing table confirmed that he looked a touch smarter than usual and therefore wouldn’t detract from the look of whatever finery Myra put on.

  When he left his cabin again, he heard voices behind Myra’s cabin door. He smiled, imagining Myra’s delight at showering Kima in pretty trifles. He tapped at the door to tell Myra that he would wait for her in the lounge. Busy with her work, she only peeked out, thanked him quickly, and then vanished into her room once again. When Twist made his way to the lounge, at the top of the ship, there were already a number of people milling about in the amber glow of the lights along the edge of the wooden floor, but it was clear that the actual party was outside on the deck.

  Music drifted in through the door, and Twist could already see dancers spinning in soft, colorful light. Long strings of tiny paper lanterns had been strung up to hang over the dance floor like garlands, reminding Twist of the colorful streets of Hong Kong. The dancers looked like specters to him, shifting from shadow to light as they moved with elegant grace.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rodriguez.”

  Twist turned to find a man standing behind him, looking directly at Twist with an expectant smile on his face. The man was dressed in a long, lavishly embroidered jacket of copper silk, which hung to just below his knees, over trousers and open sandals. Judging by his clothing, the warm brown tone of his complexion, and the tight curl of his short, dark hair, Twist immediately assumed that he might be from India or some surrounding area, but his accent stuck Twist as distinctly British.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the man said.

  Three other people—a gentleman in silver, a pale woman in a red dress, and another woman in a yellow sari—were also standing nearby, watching with silent interest. Twist couldn’t fathom for an instant why they were so fascinated by Twist or by the man who had addressed him.

  “Not at all,” Twist said to the man, trying to snap out of his confusion. “Just a moment, what name did you say? I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.”

  The three onlookers seemed utterly astonished by this news, the woman in the sari going so far as to gasp in shock. The man in copper shook his head with a frown.

  “No, your name is Tristan Rodriguez.”

  “I assure you, it isn’t,” Twist responded. “I think I should know my own name. As I said, you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Looks like you’re losing your touch,” the man in silver said chidingly. The man in copper shot him a glare.

  “Ranjit, how did you get it wrong?” the woman in the sari asked, her face awash with bemused shock.

  “I can’t get it wrong,” Ranjit snapped, turning back to Twist and scowling now. “Come now, man, why are you lying? Your name is Tristan Cole Rodriguez.”

  “I’m not lying,” Twist answered, beginning to lose his patience with this strange interchange. “I know my own bloody name, and it’s certainly not anything like that. Who are you to call me a liar when it’s your mistake?”

  Ranjit narrowed his eyes at Twist. “Because my Sight never gets it wrong. I can see the name of everyone I meet, written in the air before them,” he added with a wave of his hand between himself and Twist. “And I can see yours as clear as day.”

  Twist shook his head and began to retort again but paused as realization exploded into the forefront of his mind. He’d known since his youngest days that “Twist” wasn’t the name his parents had given him. The note that had been left with him on the orphanage doorstep had gotten wet in the rain or something. He’d been told that his name was unreadable and that it only looked something like “Twist.”

  Rain and running ink might be able to change the name “Tristan” to look close enough. Wasn’t his father supposed to be Spanish? Wasn’t Rodriguez a Spanish name? Wasn’t Tristan a French name, one his French gypsy mother might have chosen? Could those strange, alien-sounding names truly belong to him? In his spinning thoughts, he only vaguely became aware that his breath had grown short and his heart was racing with panic.

  “Is he all right?” the woman in the sari asked softly.

  “Twist?”

  Jonas’s voice shot through Twist’s confusion like a flaming arrow through the fog. Jonas hurried closer, his expression alarmed and the illusion in his eyes yellowing. The relief at the sight of Jonas broke over Twist in a soothing wave, steadying him enough to begin to collect himself.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jonas demanded, glancing at Ranjit and his friends. “Who are you?” he asked sharply, his stance ready to fight.

  “Mr. Davis, please,” Ranjit said, appearing frightened. “We were only talking!”

  “How the devil do you know my name?” Jonas snapped back.

  “Oh hell…” Twist muttered, realizing with a shudder that Ranjit had gotten Jonas’s surname correct. If he really could see Jonas’s name, then maybe he actually could see Twist’s as well.

  “Talk to me, Twist,” Jonas said, his
voice low but sharp. “It felt like you just got a horrible shock. Do I need to deck this guy for you? Did he touch you?”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Twist said quickly, putting a hand on Jonas’s arm—partly to hold the man in place, partly for the breath of soothing calm that came into his Sight with the touch.

  “I’m sorry for whatever I did,” Ranjit mentioned, his eyes wide and his hands up. “It’s just a party trick. I was showing off. I certainly didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Rodriguez.”

  “Who?” Jonas asked, incredulous.

  “It’s fine,” Twist said, forcing himself to look back at the other man with some level of dignity. “I’m sorry that your Sight didn’t function the way you expected.”

  Ranjit’s gaze slipped off of Twist’s for a moment, skimming the empty air before him as if reading it. Twist fought to hold himself still through the shudder that ran up his spine as the man read his true name once again.

  “Right.” Ranjit forced a smile. “Good evening, sir. Mr. Davis,” he added stiffly. He and his friends then hurried away and vanished into the crowd that continued to build in the dome around them.

  “What was that all about?” Jonas asked, his voice low and concerned, no longer sharp at all.

  Twist took a deep breath, his hand still on Jonas’s arm, as he struggled to calm the last uncomfortable thoughts that spun around his mind like hornets. Jonas pulled out of Twist’s grasp to take his hand instead. His eyes turned lavender and calm as he watched Twist patiently, and Twist felt the fog in his touch grow smoother and deeper as Jonas focused on calming himself as well. His efforts grounded Twist immediately, giving him much greater control of himself.

  “Thank you,” Twist said, marveling at how drastically stronger and more stable he now felt.

  Jonas nodded, clearly still waiting for an explanation.

  “That man’s Sight,” Twist began. “It shows him people’s names, before they’ve been introduced. He got your name right with just a single glance.”

  “All right,” Jonas said. “That’s a weird Sight, but whatever. What happened to you?”

  Twist looked back at his friend, suddenly frightened to go on. The subtle weight of Jonas’s purple gaze against his own Sight gave him just enough courage. “He called me by a name I’ve never heard. I told him he was wrong, and he argued with me. He said he could see my name as if it were written in the air before me.”

  Jonas’s eyebrows rose with alarm. “He saw your real name?”

  “I don’t know, but…well, he got your name right.”

  “What did he call you?” Jonas asked, his curiosity sparkling in the fog at the edges of Twist’s Sight. “He said Rodriguez, didn’t he? That is a Spanish name, you know. And Mama said your father is Spanish. Wait!” Jonas said suddenly, alarm billowing into the fog of his touch. “Mama said never to say your name.”

  The gypsy woman’s warning flashed into Twist’s mind as well. She’d told Twist that she knew his name, but she’d refused to speak it for fear that malevolent fairies might be magically listening for it. Apparently, they had been waiting to hear his name spoken for most of his life and would set upon Twist with murderous intent the moment they discovered him.

  “We believe all of that nonsense now, do we?” Twist asked. He glanced over the crowd in the dome around them but didn’t see anything amiss.

  “Mad as it sounds, I would hate to find out that all of it’s true,” Jonas offered apologetically.

  “That nutter just said a name he thought was mine a few times. I don’t appear to be under attack.”

  “Maybe he got it wrong.”

  “Maybe Mama did,” Twist countered. “Maybe all of that madness is just madness.”

  “Hey, that’s my dear sweet gran you’re talking about.”

  “Mine as well, if we’re to believe her,” Twist said.

  “Holy hell, our lives are strange,” Jonas said with a heavy sigh. “Well, in any event, there is one thing to be sure of.”

  “What’s that?” Twist asked hopefully. “I could use a bit of solid ground.”

  Jonas's eyes shifted to a pale-blue color. “Regardless of all the nonsense Mama told us or what any Sighted bloke says, you have always been Twist, and you will always be Twist. The whole world could dissolve into chaos and insanity, and you would forever remain a stuffy London dandy.”

  A smile spread over Twist’s face at this declaration, and he felt the last echoes of unsettled confusion vanish into Jonas’s faith. Tradition demanded that Twist respond with a friendly jibe, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to say anything but what he truly meant.

  “And you, Jonas, will always be a far better friend than I deserve.”

  Jonas looked back at him, somewhat startled. “You’re supposed to insult me back.”

  Twist laughed. “And a bloody brigand, of course, naturally.”

  “That’s my Twist,” Jonas said, giving Twist a hearty pat on the shoulder.

  By the time Myra, Tasha, and Kima arrived in the lounge, Twist’s nerves had calmed. Myra rushed to him in obvious excitement; she was dressed in a pretty dress of blue silk that swirled about her form like that of a Grecian statue. Her copper shoulders were bare, but she wore a pair of pale-blue gloves that stretched from her fingertips to her elbows. Her maroon hair had been gathered into a pile of curls that crowned her head and bared her slender neck.

  “I’ve never seen that dress before,” Twist mentioned, admiring the way the silk shimmered in the light, looking almost like water. “You look lovely, my dear.”

  Myra smiled proudly back to him. “Thank you, darling. Tasha lent it to me,” she said, glancing back to her friend. Niko, in exactly the same attire he’d worn at dinner, walked beside Tasha as well.

  Tasha’s appearance seemed almost too flawless to Twist. She had changed into a ruby ball gown with a snowy ermine stole wrapped elegantly around her shoulders, and she had put her dark hair up in a style similar to Myra’s. A string of small, flashing rubies hung around her pale throat and matched her perfectly painted lips. She looked so effortlessly refined that she seemed more like a living painting than a real woman.

  “She said this dress would match you rather nicely,” Myra said, taking Twist’s arm and splashing delight over his Sight.

  “Match me?” Twist asked, glancing down to find that the color of Myra’s dress and the blue silk of his waistcoat were, indeed, quite close. “But isn’t the gentleman expected to accommodate his lady?”

  “No, you look far too good in blue,” Myra said, shaking her head.

  Jonas snickered. Twist shot him a warning look.

  “Where’s Kima, then?” Jonas asked, turning to Tasha.

  “Oh, goodness,” Tasha said, turning quickly. “Did she slip away?”

  “No, there she is,” Myra said, pointing.

  Twist found her still standing near the top of the stairs, looking a bit lost as her gaze darted about the crowd. Her usual mannish, rugged clothing had been replaced with one of Myra’s soft, colorful saris. A long, gold-embroidered, pink tunic hung past her hips, over a pair of billowing yellow trousers that gathered at her ankles, while the long, sheer, orange-and-pink sari draped around her shoulders and hung nearly to the floor. She wore a pair of Myra’s simple sandals on her feet, and her long hair had been braided into a neat tail down her back.

  Tasha gestured her closer, and when Kima approached Twist noticed that her amber cheeks now bore a gentle flush of pink and that her lips appeared to be a richer color than usual, as well. She looked back at Twist and Jonas with obvious uncertainty. Twist smiled back to her, noting how nicely the pink and orange she wore complemented her complexion.

  “Hello,” she muttered, tugging at the shawl-like sari as if it were slightly out of place.

  “Doesn’t she look lovely?” Myra asked the others, her proud smile as bright as the sun.

  “Yes, those colors look very nice on you, Kima,” Twist offered.

  Kima gave him back the glimmer of a
smile.

  “You put the American Indian into actual Indian clothing?” Jonas asked, glancing to Tasha.

  “She didn’t want to wear a skirt,” Tasha responded unhappily. “Myra and I did our best to find something she wouldn’t mind.”

  Kima’s expression soured.

  “It doesn’t take a skirt to make a woman beautiful,” Jonas said. “Especially not Kima.”

  Kima’s dark eyes shot to him sharply. Tasha’s fine eyebrows lifted on her face. Myra’s shock at this direct and open flattery from Jonas, of all people, rippled over Twist’s Sight, and she gave him a surprised glance. Twist, just as surprised as Myra was, mirrored it. Jonas, however, didn’t seem to find anything amiss in what he’d said. Careful not to catch Kima’s gaze, he held out his hand to her.

  “I’d be pleased to escort you. Shall we go to the ball together?”

  A true smile finally caught hold of Kima’s expression as she took his hand. Now all paired off, the group turned to the door.

  Outside, the night air was chilly but pleasant. The lively music was much louder as well—the band was placed just off the dance floor, which covered most of the center of the ship’s open back. As the dancers crossed the thin stream of faster wind that ran down the exact center of the deck, the ladies’ dresses and men’s tails fluttered playfully under the soft glow of the hanging paper lanterns and the quarter moon overhead.

  Tasha and Niko slipped into the dance as easily as water, spinning effortlessly together. Twist mastered his courage as Myra drew him into the swaying masses as well. He did his very best not to think about how many people were surrounding him and focused his full attention on Myra instead. His Sight supplied his limbs with the steps as he should take them, following Myra’s graceful movements like a shadow, while her emotions flowed through her touch and drowned his thoughts with her delight.

  After a moment of struggling to keep his attention on Myra and trying to smooth his own motions to better match her effortless grace, Twist found himself subtly enjoying the feeling of the dance itself. The more he relaxed into the pleasant sensations of his own actions, the more freely they flowed through him. Myra’s joy pulsed through his Sight as well, only adding to his own, until he finally began to truly understand why she loved dancing as much as she did. There was a unique sort of freedom in the private air they now shared, moving perfectly in time together.