by Jane M. R.
A casual leg dangles back and forth from the shadow, head rested against the frame and watching me with eyes which are the only things I can see beyond the mask.
“Hello,” the thief says.
I reach for the candle beside my bed.
“Is light necessary?”
I pause, withdrawing my hand and instead bunch the blanket around me to stay warm against the breeze. “What do you want?”
“Would you find it strange I’m feeling protective of you?”
I find it strange and annoying. I have so many questions and it is simply exhausting being teased by the answers the thief knows but won’t give. “I’m touched.”
“You don’t sound like you are even worried about the danger on your life.”
Honestly, I wasn’t a hundred percent convinced the thief wasn’t making all that up about my life being in danger, and for a thief to get “protective” of me starts to chaff, like I really needed a second mother. “How did you get in my room?”
“The same way I got into your future safe. Only easier. Can you believe they leave the key hanging on the wall beside it?”
“Huh? That sounds dumb. Look, thanks for your misplaced duty of ‘protecting’ me, but unless you’re going to give back my mother’s necklace or stand guard by my side night and day and taste all my food for me then your protection is useless. Who knows? My potato soup was probably already poisoned. I might be dead on the morrow. So you are free to leave.”
“What do you plan to do with the key now that you have it?”
The only other sure way to get the thief out of here is to push her out the window I wish she’d closed because it’s getting bloody cold. “Like I’d tell a thief who can pick the lock to where I hid the completed key. For all I know, you are working for the people whose keys you stole. Why else would the key to the Whaerin vault be found in plain sight for you?”
The air in the room brittles, like it might cut the one who breaks it first. Dark laughter hisses out of her.
“Work for them?” Her voice carries the words on a pitch high enough to penetrate the walls. I worry my mother might hear.
She jumps from the sill and begins rummaging in the drawers at my vanity. I reach to stop her but she pulls out a box of matches and strikes one so the head blooms. Yanking the black mask off her face, she holds the match up until it reflects like hot tears in her eyes.
I look away from her mutilated face, guessing at her real name even before she says it.
“I am Joseara Isendell,” she says. “I died in a fire a year and a half ago.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BRINELLA
Her face is pock-marked and angry; scar tissue red. Plump lips had been melted away and she has no eyebrows. Patches of ash brown hair fights for growth over her rumpled scalp.
That brittle silence still spreads across the room like a thin layer of ice. “You’ve heard of the Isendell family?”
I shift, careful not to look at her face without being obvious about it.
Joseara replaces the mask and sits on my vanity stool, dropping her voice. “Durain thought he was the last one, thought the burden was all his to bear. He didn’t know. How could he know that there are multiple families who have been silent watching all these years?” She pauses as if waiting for me to question. “Well, there were multiple families. Until untimely accidents, sicknesses, and fires killed them. I don’t know how many are left.”
“So… your family died…?”
Joseara silences. I can’t tell if the girl’s eyes are locked on me or on the past.
“This secret,” she starts again, “I heard first from my grandmother. She told my father and I overheard when I should have been asleep. My father began questioning the church after that, telling them what he had heard; essentially speaking out against the other families –”
“What other families? The families who had the keys?”
“These families have been very good at keeping their secret for so long, and they do it by killing those who would speak the opposite. The next day, our house burned. Everyone in it died.”
“Everyone…?”
“Everyone,” she affirms. “And even then, I still didn’t understand the rumors about this ‘secret’ totally until you showed me the white cube.”
“Really? How do you know what it is? What is it?” I’m crawling across my bed as if to reach across the space and strangle her for more.
“My family died because they asked questions. The less you know, the more convincing you’ll be that you know nothing if you are questioned. For the same reason I won’t tell you what secret you are heading out to uncover.”
I press my face into my sheets and shriek. “Then why are you here?”
“Just another word of caution, so you can see what has happened to those who knew just a rumor, not the entire key.”
“You’re the one who made that possible!”
“Because if I didn’t help, you’d steal them yourself like your idiot cousin tried to do and you’d likely be dead by now… like him. And I genuinely want you to release what has been kept secret for three hundred years.”
“I’m releasing something?”
“I told you I’m not answering your questions.”
“Then stop goading me!” I’m weary with all this mystery crashing together in my head. “So you’ve given me your warning. What else do you want?”
“I want to know what you plan to do next, so I can help you.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Perhaps I took more money than I should have from the vault and I do have a guilty conscience. But then… I just want to know that my family’s death was not for a fantasy. So tell me, what is your plan?”
Honestly, I’m relieved to know I have a cohort in this. I could use the help. “My parents have put a stop to my wild gallivanting. I’ve been signed up to take an art class twice a week. In the note Durain left me, he said to follow the pull… of the key, I guess. I figure I’ll need a week to follow it if I am to be close to successful. So… I was going to ‘go’ to my class, get “kidnapped” again by the gypsies, and then after a week I’d “escape”.”
The thief laughs, and even though I’m aware my plan is ridiculous, I don’t like it being so obviously mocked.
“Here,” Joseara says, “I’ve got a better one. There are a select few who know who I am and that I’m alive. They have likewise been affected by the other families who sought to burn out rumors they started. They are all for this cause, just scared to do anything about it. Your parents already know me as… what was that name you called me?”
I really want to know who these “other families” are because assuming they are Crisy, Jaicom, and the dress shop lady who’s name I also forgot is too unbelievable. But then, I really don’t want to know. Because it might be them. I fumble with the edge of my blanket. “I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“You did too!”
Joseara fans a hand in front of her face. “Anyway, your parents know me. I even gave them a fake name for my father which I at least do remember. I will ask one of my friends to act as my father and we will come to your house and ask your parents if you can come with us to Bristol for a week. Eh? What do you think?”
I would have a good alibi and a good story… and I wouldn’t get married as soon as I came back from having been “kidnapped”. I nod at once. “I’ll take it. When can we start?”
The door to the room clicks, making us both start in panic, but then soft footsteps shuffle away. Joseara climbs out of the window without another word, and that is highly unfair because I had to use a sheet last time. Maybe she’s a wizard.
Varseena comes in five minutes later. My weekly cold baptism is ready for me downstairs and my I Am Eligible For Marriage rose oil.
Art class is early morning. Breakfast concluded, I mount my horse and ride into town, tasting my first unescorted freedom since the kidnap. I’m glade Joseara intervened. The more I think about my o
riginal plan the more stupid if feels.
At class, I actually enjoy painting. I can paint my emotions and dreams and frustrations on a canvass disguised as art. I can’t do that with a violin. It cries when I try and everybody notices.
Joseara is waiting outside in the same untiable dress, her blond wig tumbling down a face smoothed with clay and colored with makeup. The clay makes her cheeks abnormally plump and a closer look reveals the same small fissures along her mouth and eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I mount my horse and she walks beside me. When we are out of town, Joseara says, “I found someone. He’ll come over in a few hours to ask.”
“That’s perfect. My mother was wondering when you’d come for dinner, but I guess lunch would still be okay. Oh, by the way, I told her you had gone to Bristol a short while back to visit your sick grandmother.” I look up at the sky. “I think that’s all the stories I said about you.”
“You lie terribly.”
The dining room is already prepared for lunch when we enter and my father is sitting with my mother at their accustomed chairs. My mother looks up. “Hello, Madrin,” she says, and I am vastly relived that she reminded both of us what Joseara’s fake name is.
“Hello. I hope it’s okay if I join you for lunch today.”
“Of course.” Janella has this astute skill to where she can show obvious disapproval (today it is Joseara’s untied dress) with her eyes but still greet people with a sincere smile.
Joseara sits next to me and we wait for the cook to walk by each plate and deposit a scoop of coleslaw and a bowl of herbed potato cubes, filling our glasses with chilled peach tea.
I watch Joseara out of the corner of my eye, noting how hungrily the girl eats while trying to do so in a controlled manner. Will this girl be doomed to skulk and steal the rest of her life? I clench my fork harder than necessary.
“Father, Madrin is going to Bristol for a week with her father and has invited me along.”
My father looks at my mother who returns the stare. Whatever silent conversation passes between them, my father looks at me, and then back at his food. “That sounds like quite the opportunity, Brine. But we haven’t even met Madrin’s father yet.”
“My father is coming over in a few hours to meet with you,” Joseara speaks up. “We’ve moved around so much that I haven’t been able to retain any friends so my father would like for Brine to come along, if you are willing. I know I am still a stranger to you, so I’ll understand if the answer is no.”
I watch my mother, and when our glances briefly connected I understand that it isn’t so much the issue that Joseara is still a stranger but that she is untied.
“Of course you are not a stranger,” my mother says with a smile, only because it is the proper thing to say, “and we would love to meet your father. Would he like to join us for dinner?”
“He has to make sure everything is packed for when we leave for tomorrow, so he will decline.”
“Well,” my father starts, and I’m glade because I’m literally holding the edge of my seat, fearing I’ll have to implement Plan Original. He finishes chewing his food and swallows. “I don’t have a problem with Brine going, dear. Of course we will still meet with her father.”
My mother does not respond.
After lunch, Joseara and I go to my room and I engage in painting while she watches out the window. A short time later, a man comes walking up the coach way and disappears into the house. A moment later Varseena intrudes upon my room.
“Madrin, your father is here.”
“If only it were true,” Joseara mumbles after Varseena leaves
I follow Joseara to the top of the stairs and look down upon a man standing in the foyer, looking at the daguerreotype, clutching a black fedora in his hands. His gray hair curls in gentle waves to his shoulders. He is thin and his gaunt face almost betrays the possibility that he might be malnourished. Gray stubble peppers his jawline and neck. He looks generally unkempt but his clothes are clean and neat. It actually looks fitting for Joseara. Since she is not tied into a dress, it would mean a macramist could not be afforded.
This man’s appearance shows that they are a clean “family” even if they are not a rich one.
“Hello, father,” Joseara says. I notice she half chokes on the word.
The man turns with a huge grin on his face. “Sweetheart.”
Joseara descends and my father and mother emerge from the drawing room. Joseara goes to the stranger and allows him to put a skinny arm across her shoulders. “Hello,” he says to my parents. He reaches out a hand to my father, who shakes it. “I am Corden Asterfel. I am pleased to finally meet you.”
“The same. I am Fabrin and this is my wife, Janella, and our daughter, Brinella. You have a very sweet girl. We are glad they found a friendship.”
“Indeed, sir, likewise. Now I am here to speak of this trip to the city that I’m sure my daughter has mentioned?”
“Of course. Come with us.”
Corden lets go of Joseara’s shoulders and follows my parents into the drawing room.
“I’m going to wait outside,” I suggest.
She agrees and we step out, seating ourselves on the porch swing on the veranda.
I try to look at Joseara more closely from the corner of my eye. The girl’s expression is placid and hard to read. The clay mask over her face has dried further and shallow canyons crackle across her cheeks. The peach colored powder has faded and wore away and obvious patches of gray puckers out. Lots of black charcoal surround her eyes, perhaps in hopes to steer gazes away from her cheeks that, no matter her efforts, are obviously modified. I’m certain my parents noticed but it would be rude to ask why she thought it necessary to mask her face, especially since she isn’t tied and that topic is always taboo.
“I did leave you money. In the vault,” Joseara says. “There is so much there that it would be impossible to tell that anything was taken. That is, until they count it.”
“How much did you take?”
Joseara presses hands into her lap. “I’ve been saving up money to buy a horse and ride away. Far away. Now I think I have enough to do that. I didn’t want to leave before, because this is where I was born, where I grew up with my family. It’s hard enough not having a family anymore, but it would be worse to no longer have access to the place of their memories. So I’ve stayed. I’ve gotten used to this life style, actually, even if I have to dare to go into stores dressed like this with clay on my face to buy clothes and sometimes food.”
I feel awkward, like I’m eavesdropping on her deepest thoughts. Weird, even, like she is trying to thread us together with some friendship.
“And now that I have enough money to buy my way out of here, I don’t know if I want to go. I…” She’s looking at me now. My face warms. “I might have more than just memories to keep me here.”
A friendship? Is that what she’s implying?
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I nod, letting her know I am listening.
The front door of the house opens in that moment and Corden comes out. Laughing and with a final handshake to my father, he approaches us. Looking behind him to make sure my parents are back inside, he returns with a grin.
“I should be an actor,” he says. “I almost convinced myself!”
“So they are letting me go?” my heart races.
“Yes. You sure you don’t want more than a week? I could have gotten you two.”
“We don’t want to take more than we need,” interjects Joseara before I could blubber out for him to run back in there and ask for three. “She might need that second week for another time.”
Okay. That makes sense. I look around at us. Interesting, really. A thief, a homeless stranger, and me in conversation about a trip to Bristol neither of us are going to make.
“Your father will take you to the train station where I will meet you,” Corden says. “When he leaves, I will lead you to the river where my
self and Joseara will care for your unnecessary baggage in your absence.”
“Thank you, Corden.” I refrain from hugging him.
He smiles softly at me and I’m briefly reminded of Jesaro, which warns that I am a bad judge of character. But that opinion about Corden changes when he says, “No. Thank you for taking on this task that’s been kept secret for over three hundred years.”
So he is on my side. And still provides yet more cryptic answers to questions I’m not allowed to ask.
“Good luck out there tomorrow. For the next week,” Joseara says, turning away from me. “When you come back, if ever you need me for anything, hang a sock outside your window. I’ll check it every day.”
“Dirty or clean?”
I pull a smile out of her and she walks down the road side by side with Corden.
My mother hoodwinks me into the drawing room where my father is waiting and sits me down like she’s going to interrogate me.
“So we’ve agreed to let you go,” she says bustily. “But Madrin does not have a macramist so who is going to tie you into your dresses?”
Another obstacle not yet thought of. “Is it such a crime to go untied for just a week?”
My father’s cheeks pale, and though I want to continue to defend that I don’t need a chastity dress to keep me chaste, I retreat from my question. “I heard Madrin say there are macramists available in Bristol for a couple shillings a tie.”
“Are you certain?”
Despite whether I am certain if my lie is true, I’m going to be wearing trousers for the next week anyway. “Yes.”
My mother looks at my father. “We should send Varseena with her –”
“No!”
My parents look at me. A rush of panic shivers through my previous excitement. “Give the poor woman a vacation. She’s only been tying me every day for…” How long since Durain’s funeral? Technically, I should have been getting tied every day for the past year and a half. But my father understood my heart. His status I borrow has helped my reputation so Valemorren was kind enough to turn at least one blind eye. “Since Durain’s funeral. Give her this break, too. There are macramists in Bristol, likely with more complicated knots than anyone here. I promise, Corden will help me out since he knows we are a tied family. Unless you did not find him respectable, and if you didn’t, then why are you sending me with him?”