by Kesia Lupo
‘Enter,’ Grandmother says, after a pause.
An older male servant in yellow livery – my grandmother’s steward – slips inside, bearing a silver dish with a letter resting on top. ‘Sorry to disturb you, my lady, my lord,’ he says, bowing. I watch his eyes catch on the bloody basin, the red-soaked rag. ‘But this is marked as urgent.’
‘Come here,’ Grandmother says brusquely. The letter is sealed with purple wax, and as the servant steps closer I make out the mask insignia of the temple of Mythris.
Grandmother picks up the letter and breaks the seal. She doesn’t take long to read it, but as she does, I watch the blood drain from her face.
‘That will be all,’ she says to the steward, her voice weak and tremulous. She doesn’t sound like her ordinary self at all.
When the servant has bowed again, and turned away, the strength appears to drain from her fingers and she drops the letter on the smooth polished marble of my bedroom floor. The door clicks shut and, as if released from the obligation of holding herself straight, she rests her face in her hands.
‘Grandmother?’ I lean forward too, unsure how to respond. I have never seen her in despair before. I have never watched her shoulders tremble, as they do now, the rings on her hand clinking faintly with the movement. Is she crying? The shiny black hair in her mourning ring – Patience’s hair – catches the low moonlight beaming through the glass, between the leaves of the pale bone roses. When I touch her hand gently, I am shocked at how cold it is. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Your cousin has died. You are the sole heir, now,’ she says, her voice heavy but clear, suddenly devoid of all but a crushing seriousness. She doesn’t normally speak to me in this tone. For all her severity, her voice has always had a lightness to it, as if I were the butt of a disappointing joke she was telling herself. But there is no humour in it now. ‘It all rests on you.’
‘What?’ All of a sudden, my heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears.
Grandmother scoops up the letter and stands up, pacing towards the glass doors and pushing them wider. The ponderous flowers of the bone roses slowly, gently turn towards her, attracted by her magic as they are never attracted to mine. ‘Constance is dead.’
My stomach twists. My cousin has been the heir to the Wishes for as long as I can remember – even though she’s never travelled here. I’ve never met her, nor has Grandmother, but somehow her existence has been an unquestioned comfort to us both. She was always the stronger, the more talented – I was always measured against her and always fell short. But I was never really supposed to compete. Not when these islands are destined to be ruled by women. She was the heir. My role was to help her fit in.
I approach the balcony doors, realising with horror that Grandmother’s face is streaked with tears in the moonlight. ‘No more sneaking into the city at night, Livio,’ she says softly. ‘Your life is too precious. Do you understand?’
Elisao’s face rushes through my mind. You can trust me. If Constance is dead, is Vico dead too? Can I continue my second life now that … now that …
I am the heir. There’s no way I can do this. My magic isn’t strong enough. I have too many secrets. I can’t give up everything I’ve grown to love. I open my mouth, but no words come.
‘Livio. Do you understand?’ Her voice is stern.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly.
Once my grandmother has wiped her few tears from her eyes, she steps outside on to the balcony. From here, she turns to face me. The light of the lamps inside is so warm it is nearly red, turning the gold of the sun medallion at her neck into a dark, bleeding wound.
‘We must pin our hopes on you, Livio.’ The bone roses behind her shudder, as if in relief. ‘Gods help us all.’
FOUR:
An Unexpected Guest
Beatrice
When I wake, I am in the nursery on my bed, and Nurse is dabbing my face with a cold damp cloth. Candlelight flickers as my vision sharpens. The night is close and hot, still, but a breeze is teasing through the room, wafting the curtains open to reveal dark clouds drifting over a dazzling night sky. Nurse blinks her brown eyes, lined with fine wrinkles, and smiles at me faintly.
Perhaps … perhaps the whole thing was a bad dream.
‘You gave us quite a scare, little Bea,’ she says in the voice she uses only for me. Then, glancing over her shoulder, ‘She’s awake.’ She turns back to me. ‘Beatrice, dear, I’m going to fetch you all something to drink. Don’t move.’
I don’t think I could move if I wanted to. My limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. My mind, too.
Valentina and Ofelia lean over me, their identical faces etched with a mixture of concern (Ofelia) and annoyance (Valentina).
And that’s when I realise it was real. My stomach twists, shock spiralling through me, hard and cold as a corkscrew. ‘Did I … did I ruin it?’ I ask.
‘Nearly,’ says Valentina sharply. ‘You knew how important it was. Everything was at stake, Beatrice – our whole lives. And yet you just can’t help yourself, can you? You always have to be the centre of attention.’ She’s angry, now that she knows I’m going to be all right – I don’t have the energy to take offence. ‘For goodness sake – why did you do it?’
‘She didn’t do anything,’ says Ofelia, glancing crossly at our older sister. ‘She fainted! It’s not her fault. Listen, Bea, everything’s all right. The ceremony was a success. We are the mascherari sisters now – the Contessa has confirmed it. The mask-making powers live on for another generation. Whatever happened to you, it doesn’t matter now.’
Relief unravels inside me. I allow myself to shut my eyes for a moment. But what did happen to me? ‘Didn’t either of you feel … anything? See anything?’ I say, my voice soft. I remember the figure at my side – the dark, brooding presence …
Ofelia nods slightly. ‘I did feel something. A sort of … rushing feeling. Like a current flowing through me. But see anything? No.’ She frowns. ‘What did you see?’
But Valentina speaks, saving me from answering. ‘I thought I felt my fingertips tingle,’ she says, glaring at me, ‘but it might just be because your iron grip had cut off all circulation.’
I smile ruefully – I know she doesn’t mean it. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
Ofelia squeezes my shoulder. ‘Nothing’s wrong with you. You were exhausted – emotional. That’s all. But you’re fine now.’
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the whole thing was an invention – a kind of waking dream.
Just then, Nurse returns, bearing a small tray loaded with glasses and a pot of hot sweet tea – I can smell the honey even from across the room. A bowl of young greenish figs from the tree in the garden are arranged in a shallow bowl. She sets the tray on the low nursery table and pours out the glasses.
‘Now, bambinas. I know you’ve had a terribly difficult night – but … I’m afraid there is a little more sad news.’ She helps prop me up, guides my hand around the warm glass. It feels so heavy, but I manage to lift it to my mouth and sip. ‘You’ll be expecting it, of course,’ she adds. ‘As was I … but that doesn’t make it any easier.’ The sugary herbal tea lingers on my tongue. I feel its strength slide into my blood. Not my blood, now, I think. Mythris’s blood. I am his tool, his puppet. And the thought makes me shiver. Valentina and Ofelia perch on the end of my bed, their weight tilting the mattress. Ofelia nibbles on her fig; Valentina sets her tea on the windowsill. We all know what Nurse is about to say.
‘I’ve packed my things and I’ll be returning home before dawn, because … well, because that’s what happens, I’m afraid. I did ask the Contessa if I might stay on, even if it’s only for a few days – but any break from tradition is thought to be unlucky.’ Her voice is brusque and cheerful – but tight as a harp string. ‘So, they said no. And I suppose … I suppose this is goodbye.’ Her eyes are shining in the candlelight.
Ofelia flings her arms around Nurse’s neck, holding her close. ‘I wish yo
u could stay,’ she whispers.
‘There, there, dear. I wish I could too.’ She pushes Ofelia away gently, squeezes Valentina’s hand. She understands that Valentina does not care for hugs and kisses. But then, in a low voice, she says something we don’t expect. ‘Girls, listen. I’ll be living on the top floor of the old grain store at the bottom of Silver Street, round the corner from the fish market. It’s my husband’s old property. You’re like daughters to me. I feel better knowing you can find me if you need me.’
My eyes are stinging. It’s true: Nurse has been more of a mother to us than anyone. She’s been with us forever, since the day we were born – and even though we haven’t needed a nurse for many years, not really, she has been employed to care for us until we inherited the mascherari powers. It’s tradition. And tradition holds our lives together, stitching through our days and nights like an ancient, unbreakable thread.
And, with the same hand, it breaks our lives apart. Now, Nurse will leave. Now, we will leave the nursery and never return. Now, we will go to the mask room at night, not the cellars beneath this house. Now, we will create the real, living masks – the True Masks.
Now, Katherina, Elina and Zia are gone forever.
As she turns to me to say her goodbyes, I study the familiar lines of her face, her kind eyes and grey-streaked hair. She plants a kiss on my cheek and, as she does, I smell the almond oil she rubs into her curls.
‘Remember where to find me, little Bea,’ she says softly – then she straightens up. Her gentle warning rings in my ears, and I am reminded of Katherina’s unsettling command. You should run. Did Katherina know I wasn’t suited to this life? Did she know I would feel trapped? And now, does Nurse know it too?
Of the three of us, I’ve always been the one who longed for stories of the world beyond these walls, beyond even the city walls … But I can’t leave. I never can. I’m bound here, now, by blood as much as a duty.
‘Now, you girls need your rest. You’ve a big day tomorrow night. The rest of your lives will begin.’ Her eyes gleam in the candlelight before she blows out the flame for the last time. ‘Goodnight.’
When Nurse has gone, I lie there silently, feeling the world churn and change, sweeping me into a new rhythm.
After a while, footsteps sound on the stairs, male voices – low and urgent. Several men, by the sound of it. They enter the room next door: the room where the three bodies lie on the bed. Then more footsteps as they retreat, burdened this time and murmuring instructions – and then silence.
I sit up and peek out of the curtains. A huge hearse waits on the driveway, illuminated by moonlight. The men carefully slide the three long shapes inside, and the carriage, at last, bears away our predecessors, the night swallowing them up. Before dawn, their bodies will be fed to the flames to prevent their spirits wandering back in confusion. I am suddenly, painfully aware our world is never going to be the same again. I wish I had appreciated what we’d had – the small freedoms. The lightness. I thought change could be good for me, but now it feels as if my future is falling around me like a shroud.
Valentina’s breathing is even and deep. But Ofelia is awake.
‘Beatrice?’ she whispers. When I turn to face her, she raises her covers, and I slip into her bed. ‘What do you think we would have been,’ she asks as I nestle against her, ‘if we weren’t mascherari?’
My stomach turns. The age-old question – I’ve thought about it time and again over the years, yet never spoken it aloud. But before I can reply, Valentina answers from across the room. ‘We shouldn’t talk about that,’ she says. ‘The masked god wouldn’t like it. We should be grateful for the future we’ve been gifted.’ But her voice is wavering, lacking conviction. Gods, the girl’s hearing is supernatural – even when she’s sleeping.
‘We’re just talking,’ I say gently. ‘Surely that’s allowed? Just this once?’
‘Come here,’ says Ofelia – and for once, Valentina doesn’t argue. We’re too big to squeeze longways into one bed, like we used to when we were small, but we sit up and press side by side, our backs to the wall, Ofelia’s covers draped across our legs.
‘Actually … it’s hard to imagine what I could have been,’ Ofelia says softly. ‘I don’t know enough about the world.’
I’m sitting in the middle and – in a rush of affection – I loop my arms around their shoulders, pulling them both close. ‘Silly, it’s easy – especially in your case,’ I say. ‘See, you would be a great puppet actress, throwing voices from behind the stage.’ I smile as I imagine it, resting my cheek against the top of Ofelia’s head. ‘Maybe you would write plays too. You’ve always had a talent for storytelling.’
I feel her smile against my shoulder. ‘I’d like that,’ she says. ‘And I could make the costumes too, paint the puppets. I’d be an all-round puppeteer! Go on – what about Valentina?’
‘Valentina …’ I muse, now leaning against her instead. ‘I can see you studying history at the university – you love history. You could be a professor some day – it’d be perfect. Your students would be so terrified of you, they’d never miss a class.’ I squeeze her to show her I’m half joking.
‘Or after university you could become a lawyer!’ Ofelia adds, giggling. ‘You always win an argument.’
Valentina snorts. ‘That actually sounds like me,’ she says grudgingly. ‘But what about you, Beatrice?’
I pause. A million ideas rush through my mind. So many beautiful, unique futures – all of them impossible. Overwhelmed, I shake my head. ‘I can’t tell,’ I reply. ‘What do you think?’
‘An explorer,’ says Ofelia, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘You pored over that book of maps until it fell apart! You’d love to see the world, wouldn’t you? Go to places no one had ever been before.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a career.’ I laugh, though I feel a little cold with longing.
‘Perhaps a navigator on a ship,’ says Valentina quietly. ‘That’s more practical, isn’t it? But you’d still get to travel.’
I’m silent for a moment. ‘All these paths, closed to us the moment the Contessa’s guards came for our mother.’
Valentina laughs harshly, pulling away from me and sitting on the very edge of the bed. ‘Beatrice, our mother was a fishwife. Somehow I doubt these paths were ever really open to us at all.’
I shrug. I don’t see it like that. Lack of money and opportunities inhibit freedom, yes, but they’re hardly comparable to the limits placed upon our liberty by the Contessa. I can’t help feeling that somehow, in that other life, I’d have found my way. But Ofelia’s right: Valentina always wins an argument, so I let it lie.
Ofelia squeezes my hand. ‘What would you have preferred? Fishwifing or mask-making?’
I can’t help giggling a little at that.
‘Come on. We really should sleep now,’ says Valentina, returning to her bed, lying flat on her back and pulling the covers up to her chin. But Ofelia pulls me down next to her. We lie still for a while, until Valentina starts snoring softly, and my thoughts grow thick with the seeds of dreams. Then Ofelia speaks.
‘They’re really gone, aren’t they? And one day, the same thing will happen to us. When one of us dies, the others will too. One soul split three ways.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. I wish I could find some comforting words for her, but I can’t.
‘Did you see how they fell?’ she continues, her voice so quiet it nearly fades into silence. ‘All at once, like … like toys. Like a child just threw them down in a rage. Tired of them. Is that really our fate?’
I find her hand and squeeze it, feeling her body shuddering as she cries against my back. I shut my eyes and pray for oblivion – it can’t be long until dawn.
FIVE:
Cutpurse Lane
Livio
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed exactly where Grandmother left me, a puppet left hanging on its strings. I should crawl under the covers, beg for oblivion. My nose might be fixed, but it’s painf
ul, and I’m breathing through my mouth, gulping the air as if I’ve run for miles. Rest sounds good, physically. But the events of the night are running through my mind like an engine I can’t stop: the fight, the cloaked figure, the swirling graffiti sun, the Inheritance of the mascherari sisters, my cousin’s death …
Why can’t I shake the feeling that every one of these happenings is a vital link in a long chain that’s snaking round my ankles, stealing my freedom?
When the clock in the hall strikes two, I snap out of my trance. In one smooth, decisive motion I stand up, walk to the balcony and push the doors open. I breathe in deep, then swing down on to the trellis.
I’m not ready to give up on Vico’s life just yet. I’m finding Old Jacobo.
I walk past the palazzo square, downhill towards the docks, but veering off right before the water … and here I am – in a warren of streets known as the jewellery quarter. Once, apparently, the name suited it: a tangle of cobbled lanes decorated with bow-fronted windows glittering with gems. The statues and running fountains inset into the charming stone walls lent the place an air of aristocracy. Or so I’m told: I wouldn’t know. Ever since I first visited this place, three years ago, ‘the jewellery quarter’ has been a fiercely ironic name for a place no one with enough money to buy jewellery would dare to venture.
Well, no one but me. I walk down the centre of the street, away from the windows and doors, the moon lighting my path. A stone figure dancing on a fountain, long dried-up, leers from a bare wall nearby.
It’s quiet here. Quiet enough that my footsteps ring out on the stones. Prostitutes and drunks haunt the streets by the docks – but this … this is a place of business. I’m aware of figures behind closed windows, lowered voices muttering. But my face is familiar here: I should be safe.
I reach the corner of Cutpurse Lane and hesitate. I glace up at the street sign: officially, it’s simply Purse Lane, written there in curling black letters, but years ago someone scrawled a bold CUT over the top, and – as it’s more accurate anyway – it’s held that name ever since. Smoke curls into the air from the shadows, and I smell the bittersweet tang of blacklung, an expensive imported drug I’ve never known anyone but Old Jacobo enjoy.