He didn’t give me any chance to answer, swiftly examining the minor cuts on my hands and arms. He flitted about the room before finally sitting on a stool, his pudgy hands rubbing salve on the minor burns on my arms.
“Wait, wait,” I said, trying to explain as I pulled my hands away. “I’m mostly unhurt, save for one thing.” I took another breath as he looked up at my face. “It’s under my mask,” I began, nervous both to remove my mask and for his reaction at my marked skin.
“Ah,” he said compassionately. “I understand, miss. Would you prefer just to show me?”
I exhaled in relief, glad he wasn’t going to make me tell the whole story. While he hadn’t seen my bare face since I was a young girl, surely he’d still recognize me. I slowly lifted the makeshift mask up, wincing, until it rested on my forehead. Then I peeled back the bandage and—
Dr. Vito stood abruptly, knocking his stool over. He spoke in a cold voice, all compassion gone from his face, “Get out of here. This is a cruel game you play, imitating a missing girl. Never mind one I’ve known since birth. I don’t treat criminals.”
“But—” The shame burned in my face, and I struggled to explain, but when the doctor looked at my face, all he could see was a Mark. Just the same as how I’d looked at the Chameleon’s face.
“Out!” he shouted, dragging my arm roughly. “And cover yourself, you filthy thing. I want nothing to do with a Marked girl.”
I had no choice but to run again.
In a flurry of confusion and blurred vision, I covered my face again and let my feet lead the way as I struggled to keep my pain in check. Was I so scarred that even my doctor didn’t recognize me? Or did he see only the Mark and nothing else? I hoped the latter, which gave me some sliver of hope. My Mark could be covered, once it was healed, but there was no saving a scarred and ugly face.
These thoughts spun around in my head as I ran until I finally reached my block. Once there, I was shocked. A small crowd had gathered around my house, and I could hear the gossip from where I stood. No one went in or came out of the building, and I could see that the fire had long been extinguished. I edged closer, trying to hear what was being said by the loudest gossip hens.
“—that dog of theirs, he was tearing up and the down the street in the middle of the night, barking up a storm. I was contemplating shooting him on the spot!” I never liked this particular neighbor. “Thank goodness he finally took off on his own. Thing wouldn’t stop yelping.”
At least I knew Hachi was safe and alive somewhere. He’d be able to take care of himself; he was a good dog.
“—the fire brigade got there just in time. The building should be salvageable; it just needs some support beams built back in and the flooring redone. The glass in the back windows was blown out too. I have half a mind to convince Abe to buy the place and move in there ourselves. I bet someone’s going to get a steal on that place.”
I added another thing on my mental list of things to accomplish: inform someone that I was still alive, so I could reclaim my home eventually. Though I didn’t know how I could convince anyone of my identity at this point.
“Sad thing about Pietro, though.” My ears perked up when I heard my father’s name. “I heard from one of the guards that they found his body floating in the canal. Stripped of his mask and anything else of value. They say it’s likely the Chameleon’s work.”
I breathed heavily, anxious for more and stubbornly ignoring the pain that throbbed in my chest. It was one thing to accept his death as a logical conclusion. It was another thing entirely to hear it as a topic of gossip.
“I haven’t heard anything about the girl, though.”
“You think she’s still alive?” another woman asked.
“Who knows, with that one,” my neighbor responded, shrugging. “She’s always been hardy. And they haven’t found any remains, so there’s still some hope.”
“My money is on her being at the bottom of the canal. They just got lucky finding Pietro.”
“That’s the truth, I won’t deny it. But I think she’s tougher than that. She’ll turn up.”
While my neighbor had faith in me, she seemed to be the only one. I’d be hearing more rumors of my own death by afternoon, no doubt about it.
I bided my time, waiting until the crowd thinned before even attempting to get back inside. I thought about going to the house of the neighbor who’d defended me for help, but I didn’t think I could handle being thrown out again.
Instead, I used the respite to sit by the canal, lying low. I washed the back of my neck and arms in the water, even though that water was far from clean. It was better than being covered in soot and dirt.
Finally, dusk came, and interest in my empty home had waned thin. I crept through the shadows as quietly as I could—which was admittedly not very—and pushed the back door open. It creaked noisily, but the sound was swallowed by the waves of the canal and the foot traffic on the street.
I had wanted to go to my room to wash up and change into clean clothes—or even day clothes—but the blackened stairs looked too unstable to hold my weight.
Dejected, I tried to think of other options for getting some proper clothes. I glanced out the window to where Hachi had been tied up. There was still laundry on the line, far enough from the house to have escaped the flames. What a stroke of luck! I gratefully snatched up a clean shift and shirt and returned to the house to inspect the state of the kitchen.
I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach felt completely hollow, and I was growing weak. Thankfully, the fire hadn’t made it past the brick of the kitchen entryway and the room looked more or less intact, if somewhat eerie from the shiftings and creaks of the rest of the building. I found some rolls and jam and fruit, and quickly filled my stomach before heading to the workroom, anxious to find a real mask. I would’ve worn one of my old ones, but I couldn’t access my room where I kept them, and I didn’t want to be recognized.
I found one mostly completed mask hiding beneath an overturned, charred cabinet. It had neither lining nor a finished setting glaze, but it would suit my needs just fine. It was even a comforting green. It had been intended to be the base for a formal Ball Mask, but it would do for an everyday one for now. Better yet, it sat low over my cheekbones, and if I could manage it, it should cover my Mark while it healed.
Mask in hand, I found the medical salve we kept with the herbs in the kitchen and carried both up to the table where I could work comfortably. Under the dark cover of night, I could use the pump in the yard. I prepared a bowl of clean water, fetched the soap, and sat down.
I unwound my wrap and then peeled the covering from my skin, wincing slightly. I dampened my wash-cloth and dabbed at the wound, cleaning it until no blood came away on the cloth and praying that it wouldn’t get infected. I had no way of knowing how sterile the brand had been, but the Mark seemed to be clean enough to avoid infection.
I dabbed at the raised skin with some of the salve and taped a white cloth over it, using as little material as possible to hopefully keep it concealed under my mask.
Walking over to a window to see my reflection, I covered my face with the new mask. A small bit of the fabric still stuck out from the bottom. I would have to wind another veil of sheer fabric across the bottom half of my face until I could remove the dressing, or until I could make another mask.
I sighed as I glared at the offending mask in the glass. Another mask required materials and time that I didn’t have. I could redo the one I was currently wearing by adding more fabric or mâché to the bottom. I’d have to see what was left in the workroom.
Before hunting materials down, though, I allowed myself to shed a few bitter tears one last time as I stared at my marred reflection—my face would never be the same. It wasn’t as bad as I feared initially, but I’d never be able to remove my mask for anyone without fear of condemnation.
After this, I swore to myself I would never cry for myself again. I would be strong. I would not let the Chameleon
define me.
Taking a deep breath, I reentered the workroom, this time really taking the time to survey the damage.
The fire had destroyed the walls and one of the support beams that held up the opposite end of the building where my father’s room had been. In the workroom, material littered the floor in varying degrees of charred debris. Many of the ribbons and lace were surprisingly untouched, though anything of real value was gone.
I collected some ribbons and thread to take to the kitchen to alter my mask as best I could and left the rest of the room untouched, exhausted and unable to look at it any longer. The moon was bright, but the night was too dark for me to really do much, and I didn’t dare light a lantern.
Instead, I slumped over the table and let sleep and exhaustion claim me.
* * *
When morning came, I woke with the sun. I redressed my new Mark and went about my morning with such regularity that it once again felt like the past two days had been nothing more than a bad dream. But then I’d see the workroom and its gutted starkness or try to go up the stairs to my room, and that provided a vivid reminder that I was not dreaming.
Today would be the last day in my home. I didn’t know where I was going yet, but I knew I couldn’t stay. There were too many unanswered questions and uncertainties.
Once I had cleaned up and looked like a respectable citizen again, I prepared to leave by packing a knapsack with as much food as I dared and tucking money into hidden pockets in my skirts and sash. The only personal effect I allowed was that locket Aiden found for me so long ago. It would serve as a good enough proof of identity for those I knew. I wore it under my clothing, though, so no one could identify me before I wanted them to. I also took the masks I’d received from Iniga, which had thankfully been unharmed. I didn’t know what I was going to do with them yet, but they would undoubtedly come in handy.
Then, with one last look around the place, I left my childhood home behind me.
=
SIX
+
I followed my feet to the pier. It was already bustling with activity—the market was still going on after all. One more crime from the Chameleon, but the world still carries on, I thought bitterly.
A gaggle of children burst into my path, their faces painted in shades of bright blues—the sign of children from fishing families. From cheekbone to hairline, their skin was coated in a thin layer of blue paint, even their eyelids. The whites of their eyes shone with excitement and one girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve smudged a streak of blue across the back of her hand. She must have recently reached twelve, the age when children started wearing paint.
She giggled and pointed at a pair of young men eating on a ship’s deck. The other children gathered around her, giddy and slightly scandalized. The two men wore no masks. Instead they had a cluster of tattoos inked directly into their skin around their eyes. They were from Saran, after all, a country to the north of us where the strange people lived almost bare-faced.
The young men noticed their audience and stood to get a better look at the little blue faces. One of the men winked, sending the youngsters into a fit of giggles before they ran off to tell their friends and families.
I used to be one of those children who came to stare at the strangers; every adult of my country used to be one of those children. No child could resist a scandal, and these foreigners were as good as nearly naked. Only the uncivilized and poorest of people went without a face covering, and Saranians were barely a step above them with their inked faces.
I didn’t know what I was doing there.
My stomach growled.
At least there was something I could do for that.
I dug out some of the cheese I’d managed to rescue. My fingers brushed against the palace masks, and I took those out as well, making sure there wasn’t anyone around who’d recognize them for what they were. Both were formal masks that covered the top of the forehead to the chin, with a thin beaded veil falling an inch or so below the jaw line. The masks were easily recognizable as belonging in the palace. They were dark silver, clearly low on the totem pole, but still in the color spectrum of public service to the government since whoever wore it worked in the palace. A simple silver ribbon lined the edges and crushed glass sparkled attractively over part of the surface. There were also some small engraved curls along the right side.
The first was stained beyond repair. The fabric needed replacing, as well as some of the beading, and even if I’d had fine enough material, it was burned at the workshop. I placed it back in my bag.
The second, though, was promising.
The ties were nearly torn clean off, and the lining was all but gone. Otherwise, it looked pretty good. I could work with that. The ribbons were still in good shape; they just needed to be resewn into the lining. Thankfully there was enough of that along the edges that I could rig it to work. And while a palace servant would want the most comfortable mask available, I could not afford to be so picky, so the current lining would have to do.
After studying the mask for a long moment, I shoved it back in my bag. I would have to be crazy to even think of wearing the mask myself. I would be no better than the Chameleon.
And yet . . .
It wasn’t like I’d stolen it. Iniga gave it to me, and it had been given to her. She wouldn’t be in any trouble.
And I wasn’t stealing anyone’s identity in particular . . . just an anonymous scullery maid or laundress or something.
It could work.
It was insane, but it could work.
Finishing my scanty meal, I pulled myself to my feet, brushing off my skirts. I frowned—I would need better clothes if I were to pass as a palace servant.
Maybe if I could just get in there, I could grab some clothes as well.
A twinge of remorse pricked in my gut. It was so easy to fall back on theft when I had nothing else.
But I couldn’t ask anyone for help. Iniga would be risking her position if she snuck me in, and I didn’t want to rely on her charity when I could fend for myself.
As for Aiden, I had hoped to see him when I’d gone back to my home, but he was nowhere to be found, and I didn’t know where to look for him. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to do anything for me that I couldn’t do myself.
And it would kill me if he looked at me the way Dr. Vito did.
As the doctor’s face flashed across my memory, I made my decision.
I would hide, and I would fend for myself, and I would do it on my own.
* * *
I took a deep breath, steeling myself as I gazed up at the imposing gates of the palace. Great stone kaku-dōrō lanterns stood on either side, flanked with statues of lions growling at those who dared to pass by. They were much more intimidating when I didn’t have Iniga to lead the way through them.
The trick was to look like I belonged. The problem was I clearly did not.
I picked at my skirt, trying to concoct an excuse for my dress. The servant’s silver mask was on my face, and it felt suffocating being unable to breathe deeply beneath the veil. At least my wound was completely covered.
“Hey, you there!” one of the guards called out. He muttered something to his companion and then took a few steps toward me. “What are you doing out here dressed like that?”
I looked down at my clothes once more, my head spinning. “I, uh, fell in the canal.” That might have been convincing if I had been wet. “And so I borrowed clothes from a friend of mine who works in the artisan district where I was running errands,” I added quickly when the guard frowned.
His expression softened, and he looked me up and down. I struggled to keep from fidgeting under his scrutiny, trying to look annoyed at being stopped. When he finally shrugged, I wanted to sigh in relief.
“All right. Go on through,” he said, waving back at the gate. “I’m sure you need time to make yourself presentable before dinner.”
“Yes. Thank you, sir!”
He chuckled. “You
’re lucky you’re a pretty one. And you can thank me by bringing me my dinner! Name’s Matteo—I’ll be looking for you.”
I gave him a confused look but didn’t bother waiting around for an explanation. I didn’t understand all the comments about my being pretty, seeing as he couldn’t see me at all. And if he could, he would certainly be singing a different tune. My mask was lovely, but it was a servant’s and nothing extraordinary, which was my usual rule of defining beauty.
I’d learn later that beauty is measured in a different fashion in the palace.
I hurried inside, pausing when there was no one around to see me. I was completely lost in a matter of minutes. Even if I could go to Iniga’s workroom, I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to get there.
Walking around somewhat aimlessly, I searched for someone with a mask similar to the one I wore, or a sign of a laundry.
“What are you doing, looking like that?” a scandalized voice asked from behind me.
I spun around, my hand instantly checking to be sure my mask was secure. “What?”
A girl approximately my age, with stick-straight, dark brown hair and narrow gray-green eyes glared at me. Her uniform black mask seemed to be a size too small. It had large eyeholes so as to cover as little of her face as possible while still being proper. A sure sign of a flirt. “You’re a mess,” she announced.
“I fell in the canal,” I said, narrowing my eyes back at her, daring her to challenge my alibi. I might be intimidated by the palace guards, but I wasn’t about to let some silly girl scare me away.
“And you thought you could still serve in that?” She motioned dramatically at my soot-stained clothing.
“I was going to the laundry, but I got turned around. I haven’t been here very long,” I said defensively.
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