What is Hidden

by Skidmore, Lauren

  I quickly got ready for bed and let my mind wander as I tried to fall asleep. It had been a good day, and I fell into bed with a satisfied smile on my lips. All my days with Aiden tended to be good ones.

  If I’d known what was coming next, I might have relished that feeling of contentment just a bit more.

  =

  FOUR

  +

  That night, I woke to the sound of Hachi whining from the small yard behind our store. He normally slept through the night, so it was unusual for him to make any noise. Then he started outright barking. And I smelled smoke.

  I threw off my covers and pulled on my boots under my nightdress. I scrambled to move as quickly as I could in my newly awakened grogginess, still clumsy with sleep. I reached for my mask blindly, strapped it on, and rolled out of bed.

  While calling for my father to see if he was simply working through the night and I was in a panic over nothing, I noticed light streaming in from under the door at the bottom of the stairs that led to the workroom of the shop. He didn’t respond as I pushed the door open, and my jaw dropped at what I saw.

  The entire workroom was in chaos: materials strewn every which way, beads and ribbons littering the floor, shards of glass glittering between the floorboards. But above it all was the overbearing heat of the flames that were beginning to engulf everything.

  “Father!” I called again, frantic that I didn’t know where he was. I coughed as the thick smoke began to fill my lungs, and I ran upstairs to see if I could find him there.

  I threw open the door to his room only to find it in a similar condition to the workroom—things thrown everywhere, and no one in sight.

  I stood there, dumbfounded. What was I supposed to do next? The crackling timbers of the house groaned, and I knew the fire was starting to spread. Shaking my head, I gathered my senses about me and realized I needed to get out of the house and fast. My father was probably already out. That was why I couldn’t find him. At least, that was what I hoped.

  Hachi’s cries grew louder and more desperate as I scrambled down the stairs and turned down the hall for the back exit, unable to look at the workroom. Luck kept the way free and I escaped into the backyard, the heat of the flames chasing me out of my home.

  Hachi lunged at me, pulling at his leash and whining pitifully. I untied him from his little shed and tried to calm him down, petting him and attempting to speak in an even voice.

  I turned to look back at my home. It looked so innocent from outside. The windows were dully lit with what looked like candlelight, and the cool night air dulled the heat of the flames. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought it was just a bad dream that chased me out here.

  As I was staring at the windows and deciding what I should do next, movement caught my eye—a shadow against the firelight. Papa! He was still in there! I must have missed him in my panic.

  “Hachi, go get someone—anyone!” I pleaded with him, hoping that whoever found him roaming the streets would bring him back to the store and render some kind of help. Hachi looked up at me with his big dark eyes, licked my hand, and refused to leave me. “Please, I’m going back in! I have to find Papa!”

  Gulping a deep breath, I reentered the groaning building. The movement I’d seen came from the farthest window, so that’s where I went.

  Thick smoke was accumulating, and I wagered that the outside of the building was starting to look less innocent. In the back of my mind, I hoped someone would look in our direction and realize we needed help, but it was the middle of the night. No one would be awake, unless they were drunk and haunting the streets, which wouldn’t help me at all.

  In my haste to leave the house, the door to the workroom had closed behind me. I pushed against it, flinching at the hot surface and gasping as it opened before me.

  Surveying the burning room, I spied a path that would lead me to the other side safely, free of debris and flame. Taking a chance, I sprinted across the room, and called out, “Papa! Papa, where are you?”

  I heard no reply and tried to turn the knob that opened the door to the front of the store, but to no avail. Something was blocking it from the other side. I backed up and rammed my shoulder against the door, budging it slightly. I slammed against it twice more, until whatever it was finally gave way and the door flew open.

  Although this part of the store was untouched by the fire, it was just as ransacked as every other part of the house. I wondered why my room had been untouched as I instinctively looked to our inventory of completed masks.

  Every last one was gone. They’d been kept in a locked cupboard, which had been broken open and completely emptied.

  My mind flashed back to the announcement from the Square. Had the Chameleon struck here? None of our masks were for anyone particularly wealthy or high-ranked, but that didn’t matter if one simply wanted to remain unseen. In fact, the lower ranked, the better.

  Panic started to rise in my throat again as I remembered the other part of the warning. My father was still nowhere to be found. What if the Chameleon had gotten to him? Killed him for his mask? My father was well respected in his circles, and his mask would certainly be worth something if this man were similar enough in build to fool those unfamiliar with my father.

  A floorboard creaked behind me, and I spun around. Relief flooded me as I saw my father’s mask looking down at me in the pale moonlight. But that feeling was suddenly replaced with terror as I realized that the eyes behind the mask were strange and cruel.

  The Chameleon.

  “What did you do with the owner of that mask?” my voice rasped out without my permission.

  The dark eyes glinted with amusement, the rest of his face obscured in shadows, as the fire danced behind him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” His voice was smooth, crisp, and low, and he cocked his head to get a better look at me. I backed up instinctively. “He’s in a better place,” he continued in that mocking tone. “I’m sure he’s quite at peace, if you catch my meaning.”

  “No,” I breathed, refusing to believe what he was insinuating.

  “I’m afraid so,” he continued conversationally, as if he were talking about the price of glass beads going up and not my father’s death. “You can go with him if you like. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have much use for your mask, though.” He watched me, as a cat watches a mouse he’s toying with. “Although, it might be fun to try something else . . . ,” he murmured.

  As he approached me, I shook my head mutely until I collided against the wall.

  “Stop trembling, my pretty lady. I’m not going to kill you.” He stopped directly in front of me, and I crossed my arms across my body, trying to shield myself from him.

  “However,” he continued, his hand stroking the smooth surface of my mask just below my right eye, “I would like . . .”

  Without another word, he removed his mask and I gasped in shock, turning away at seeing his bare face. He angled his head and caught my chin in his left hand, forcing me to look at him.

  His face was twisted in a cruel expression, and once I looked, I couldn’t help but stare at him even as my vision blurred from the smoke. I’d never before really looked at a completely bare face of someone outside of my family. I tried not to look at the criminals at the Square, and this was nothing like the simple tattooed foreign faces of the men at the Market. This was a face bare of any paint or ink, almost completely unmarked. It was fascinating in a bizarre and twisted sort of way, and the light from the flames around us threw his features into harsh angles. Everything about him looked sharp—sharp jaw line; straight nose; thin, narrowed eyes filled with hatred.

  The most fascinating part, however, was the pink scar on his face, the one stain on an otherwise flawless stretch of skin. Once I saw it, I couldn’t look away, and the rest of his face blurred into nothing. I knew he’d been Marked, but seeing it and hearing about it are two very different things. The Mark twisted like a chameleon’s tail with another line cutting it sharply in two. I’d n
ever heard of a Mark like that before.

  “You see this?” he asked, noticing my stare and pointing a long finger at the scar beneath his right eye. He mocked me; of course I saw it. “This is the scar that marks me, the only constant thing about me. If they know about this Mark and then find someone with this Mark, they will assume that someone is the one they are looking for—the Chameleon.

  “Now what would they do, I wonder, if they found that Mark scratched into the soot of the fire, or on the wall, and then on you?”

  I couldn’t help myself; I began tearing up from the smoke and fear. I shook my head in terror as I realized what he was going to do. “Please don’t,” I begged, struggling to pull away. “Please.”

  He laughed in my face. “Oh, but this could be fun, framing you. You’d be a great little scapegoat, so defenseless and pretty. And you can still hide behind your mask . . . but for how long? Now there’s the question. And an even better question: what would you do with no mask at all?”

  I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t—not anymore. His hand had crept around my neck and was slowly cutting off my air supply, despite how much I struggled. His hand was like a vice, and I could not break free of it.

  Hachi’s barks—distant, but sharp and growing closer—suddenly cut through the night air. Hope rose in my stomach, but it was short lived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man poke at the fire with a brand.

  “Oh, don’t worry—this will be quick.”

  With one fluid motion, he ripped my mask from my face. I cried out in shame and fear, but he held me fast. My muscles were weak from smoke inhalation and I couldn’t get my arms or legs to obey my commands.

  He held the brand up for me to see, taunting me with the glowing orange tip as he brought it closer and closer. Finally he pressed it against my skin. I cried out in shock and squeezed my eyes shut, incapable of believing what was happening to me. Tears fell from my closed eyes, and I tried to pull back but couldn’t move.

  “Hold still or it will hurt more,” he warned, his free arm still around my neck, his fingers bruising the skin and cutting off my air supply. Tears streamed down my cheeks and mixed with the blood seeping out through the blistering burn, the saltiness stinging as he pulled the brand back.

  Hachi’s barks grew closer, and the fire in the next room grew louder and hotter. I screwed my eyes shut, willing it to all be just a bad dream, but I could still feel the white-hot burn on my face and smell the burning flesh as the workroom went up in flames around us.

  “There,” he whispered, “all done.” He donned my father’s mask once more. “Now run along, pretty one.” He laughed again and ran out, leaving me disorientated and blinking, gasping for breath, my vision blurred.

  The fire was truly starting to spread now, and I could hear the building groan as it caved in on itself in the gutted-out workroom. I couldn’t think straight, but I knew I had to get out of that building. And I couldn’t be seen. And I needed to stop bleeding.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  I saw some scraps of fabric lying around that I could use as a makeshift mask/bandage. I grabbed the cleanest piece I could find and wrapped it around my hand, intending to use it as a bandage when I had more time. I grabbed a couple more lightweight pieces to use as a face cover and stumbled to the door.

  The brisk night air shocked me out of my stupor, and I began to run. I ran like the hounds of hell were after me. I didn’t know where I was going or whom I needed to find—I just knew that I needed to run away.

  I ran until my legs collapsed beneath me and my lungs burned. I was completely lost—without a home, without a family, without a mask, and without a plan.

  So I did the only thing I could do: I curled up in a small alleyway between two buildings and cried myself to sleep, allowing myself to mourn and to hurt.

  I could be strong tomorrow.

  =

  FIVE

  +

  I slept fitfully, my cheek still burning as nightmares and flames plagued my mind. The first time I woke up, I tried to clean the burn as best I could by licking the clean bandages I’d brought and ever so carefully dabbing at the Mark. At least the blood was gone. I couldn’t wipe away the feel of his gaze on my bare face, though. I touched my makeshift mask to make sure it was in place, swallowing hard before exhaustion pulled me back to sleep.

  When the sun was up and I woke yet again with a groan, I decided it was best to start the day. Even if the sun was just barely up, I had a lot to do. I needed to find something stronger than saliva to clean my wound.

  First things first, though. Where was I? That would be a good thing to know. And where could I find some food?

  I stood and stretched, fighting to get the uncomfortable crick out of my neck and back so I could think straight. When I looked around, I nearly fell back to the ground.

  I was sitting at the foot of the outer wall to the palace.

  I’d walked by this place countless times. A thick, stone wall surrounded the entire property, and there were kilometers of gardens and small canals before I could reach the actual building, which was something else entirely. It was a beautiful piece of architecture on the outside, with multiple wings and hundreds of windows, stained glass, and intricate sills. The inside too was a work of art from what I’d heard, with thousands of paintings and sculptures. I’d always known the Royal Family were great patrons of the arts, as demonstrated by the fact that the prince had a different mask with every public appearance. I’d always been awed by this place.

  But now, to be standing here, staring at the great building, I couldn’t help feeling anything but intimidation. Why did my delirious subconscious lead me here of all places?

  It was still early morning, and the roads and canals around the palace were beginning to fill with workers, travelers, and guards. I didn’t know how they generally reacted to maskless vagabonds hanging about the gates, but I could wager a guess that they would ignore me at best, and taunt or harass me at worst. They wouldn’t dare do anything more violent than that so close to the courts.

  I looked down at myself and realized I was still in my nightdress and boots. I frowned, which proved to be a bad idea when the movement pulled at the raw skin on my face. I really needed to find a better way to treat the wound, as well as find some clean clothes. A more appropriate mask would be nice too. What I wore now was no better than a head scarf with eyes cut out. And food, my stomach reminded me with a growl. I couldn’t forget food.

  I could find all of these things back at my home, provided that there was anything left, and that what little remained hadn’t been looted. Thinking back, if Hachi was making that much noise, he’d probably been found by someone and they’d hopefully been able to salvage the rest of the house.

  Was it worth the risk of being seen like this, though? I weighed the options in my head. In my current state, I wouldn’t be recognized, and no one would likely believe my story. Since the prince’s announcement, it was likely that neighbors would be more suspicious of each other—and I had always kept to myself. They would say I had all the means to burn my home, never mind the fact that I had absolutely no motive.

  But if I kept this makeshift fabric mask, maybe no one would really look at me.

  If I did go back, I could get the things I needed and gather some information. And I craved information more than clothes or food.

  I knew my father had to be dead. I hadn’t seen him, but I knew he wouldn’t have left me alone, and the Chameleon wouldn’t have let him live. Despite the Chameleon’s cruel words, though, my father was in a better place if he was resting at peace with my mother. And he knew I would be a fighter, that I’d be able to take care of myself.

  Squaring my shoulders, I made my decision. I would go back.

  I didn’t run. The distance seemed unbelievably far, unlike the night before. I was amazed how far I’d travelled last night, but I supposed there was truly something to be said for adrenaline and fear.

  The canals seemed so qu
iet this time of day, deep in the city and away from the shouts and labor of the dock workers sorting the early-morning catches. The soft lapping of the water against the walls was soothing and, combined with the soft pit-pat of my footsteps on the cobble street, created a relaxing rhythm that was a welcome change from the frantic dash of the night before.

  I wasn’t completely familiar with this part of my district, but I knew that the canal would eventually lead me back to my neighborhood, and to Dr. Vito, my doctor since childhood. I figured he’d seen me since before I was masked, and if anyone would help me, it would be him.

  His red door greeted me when I turned down a street that led me to familiar territory. I took a deep breath before knocking on the door, bracing myself for whatever reaction might be in store for me.

  The door swung open and the doctor peered out from behind it, frowning. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  My shoulders slumped; he didn’t recognize me. “I need your help,” I said hesitantly as he regarded me suspiciously.

  “I’m not taking new patients now,” he said brusquely. “And as I can see you’re not in any immediate danger, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I can’t help you.”

  “But I’m already one of your patients,” I protested, cursing my hastily made mask. A mask maker with any pride at all should never wear such a thing. “I’m Evelina diPietro.”

  With a gasp, he pulled me inside with an arm around my shoulders and shut the door behind us, leading the way to a familiar curtained-off room, speaking rapidly. “Beg pardon, miss, I did not recognize you. Of course you would come to me after that horrible fire. Of course, I understand now. And what of your father? Were you separated? And in your night things, no less! What happened? Sit here and tell me what’s wrong.”