We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  ‘Apologies, Mascherari, for disturbing the masked god’s work. We require the mask room for a Choosing.’ I notice someone behind the High Priestess – a tall young woman in plain robes stands nervously, her head bowed and hooded, fiddling with her sleeve. The skin of her hands is white as milk.

  We were warned about the Choosings. Occasionally, we were told, the ceremony in which talented novices of Mythris were permitted into the mask room to select a mask is by necessity performed by cover of darkness.

  ‘Of course,’ Valentina says. ‘Give us a few minutes.’

  Downstairs, we tidy our things a little, retire to the small, dark antechamber and wait.

  It’s not long before we hear footsteps on the stairs, voices in the mask room. Purple light slides under the door as the High Priestess passes. I fidget. Ofelia yawns. Valentina sits still as stone, her face serene in the moonlight filtering through the window high above. I stand up and press my eye to the crack in the door.

  ‘Beatrice!’ Valentina hisses, her serenity shattered in an instant. ‘Get back here!’

  ‘Shh,’ I reply softly.

  The High Priestess and the young novice are standing in the centre of the room. The girl pushes back the hood of her robes. Her hair is a fiery, beautiful red, cascading down her back in loose curls. As she lowers her arm, she winces, gently touching her side. An injury?

  ‘Are you sure you’re well enough for this?’ the High Priestess asks.

  ‘Father thought so,’ she replies with a tight half-smile. ‘He said it has to be tonight. I’ll be all right.’

  The High Priestess shakes her head slightly, as if she disapproves but doesn’t care to admit it. ‘Then let’s begin.’ She kneels on the stone floor. ‘Come, kneel next to me.’

  The girl does as she’s told, facing away from our little antechamber.

  ‘Now, as I’m sure you know,’ says the Priestess gently, ‘there’s a good chance this won’t work – mostly, it doesn’t. All we can do is pray for the masked god’s favour. Whether he chooses to guide you or not is up to him.’

  ‘Beatrice,’ Valentina hisses again from behind me. ‘You’re not supposed to—’

  ‘Move over,’ Ofelia whispers, closer to me. I shift down slightly, kneeling on the floor to allow her room to bend over me and press her eye to the gap.

  Valentina exhales her disapproval sharply.

  ‘I understand,’ says the red-haired girl, her voice quivering with nerves.

  The High Priestess starts a low, sonorous chant in a language I don’t recognise – and yet, I feel it repeat every so often, the rhythms of the phrases growing familiar to my ears even if the words are senseless. I feel Valentina join us, at last, leaning round Ofelia to peer through the top of the door.

  Finally, the chanting stops.

  ‘Mythris,’ says the High Priestess in a calm, steady voice, ‘your novice, Carlotta Rosso, kneels beside me in the hope of your favour and guidance.’

  The mage-light dims and our lamps flicker, as if a breeze has swept through the room. Although the lamps remain illuminated, the darkness in between appears to deepen – velvety and thick. Suddenly, it feels hard to breathe. I remember the Inheritance ceremony, the presence I felt pressed up against my ear. My ears start to ring, nausea trembles in my gut, my lungs constricting as if bound by an invisible cord. Is this Mythris? Is it happening again?

  I do feel dizzy now, darkness edging my vision – but I’m already kneeling. I gently rest against the door, closing my eyes. I breathe deeply, willing the feeling to pass. My fingers are tingling and, as I crack open my eyes, I watch in terror as a small spark of light jumps from my palm, lands on the stone floor and dies. I glance up. Ofelia and Valentina have their eyes pressed to the gap: they haven’t noticed. They seem totally fine.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I feel better now, though – well enough at least to be sure of my hold on consciousness. I press my eye again to the gap in the door.

  The red-haired girl is standing now, though the High Priestess continues to kneel, head bowed, lips moving in prayer or spellcraft, I can’t tell. The girl is scanning the walls, slowly turning, step by step, as she peers at the masks. When she’s facing our wall, I glimpse her face – tight with hope. Her hands are curled into fists at her side. What’s she waiting for? Can’t she choose her mask now?

  I notice it before she does.

  One of the masks, half hidden in the shadows, is glowing. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel Valentina and Ofelia stiffen in surprise as they notice it too.

  We’ve had it all wrong, I realise: it’s not the novice who chooses the mask, at all. It’s the other way round.

  The mask is a Grotesque – hung on the wall above my desk. My stomach twists. It’s one of mine – the first one I made. A blue spark fires from its face, flitting through the darkness – and another … and another. As if it’s reaching out for her.

  The girl notices the mask at last, and all of a sudden, her body is strung tight with visible tension. She steps towards it. I can feel her excitement as she gets closer, summoning a mage-light and holding it up to the Grotesque.

  Now I can see it properly. A crying face – a beautiful one, its expression calm and sad in equal measure but changed, now, by whatever magic has been activated by the girl’s presence. I lean forward even further, pressing my eye right up to the gap in the door. The mask’s surface is decorated with a swirl of grey and blue, which brings to mind an early morning mist over the sea. Gems sparkle across its brow like droplets. The girl opens her hand. The mask lifts from the wall, drifting towards her with an odd circular motion, like some celestial body orbiting its sun.

  As she holds it in her hands, she turns it over, wonderingly.

  The High Priestess stands. ‘Excellent, Carlotta – Mythris has shown you great favour. Your father will be happy.’

  ‘He wanted me to have a Bestial,’ says Carlotta. ‘He won’t be happy at all.’ But her face is glowing with delight as she stares down at the mask in her hand, and I can’t help feeling a shiver of pride. I made that. ‘Can I wear it now?’

  The High Priestess’s mouth twists into an indulgent smile. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What will it do?’ Carlotta breathes, already lifting the mask to her face but hesitating.

  ‘Try it. The masks are all different, even within their types. You’ll experience some enhancement of your natural powers. And ultimately, when you wear the Grotesque, you should be able to sense and manipulate the emotions of those around you.’

  Carlotta presses the mask to her face – but her back is turned towards us. ‘Oh,’ she says, voice slightly muffled. ‘Everything looks so …’ She trails off as she glances towards the High Priestess. ‘There’s colour all around you,’ she says.

  ‘Not colour – thoughts or feelings. You’ll learn to read them in time – even to change them. But don’t try anything yet, Carlotta. Wait until it feels like you aren’t wearing anything at all, until you and the mask are one.’

  Carlotta continues to turn until she – and the mask – finally come into view. I blink in wonderment, inhale sharply. The surface of the mask has liquefied, the beautiful weeping expression coalescing with her own features as she gazes at the door hiding us. Mist appears to rise from the mask’s surface. Tears fall down its cheeks. It’s really moving. I knew it would happen, but somehow actually seeing it is different. I hear Ofelia gasp, too, her weight shifting … and suddenly we three are hurtling forward, the door swinging wide and banging against the wall.

  I’m pressed between my sisters and the floor – for a moment, I can’t breathe. Then, Valentina is hauling me up roughly by the armpit, holding Ofelia’s arm in her other hand.

  ‘My apologies, High Priestess,’ she is murmuring. I can hear the mortification in her voice. ‘My sisters …’

  The High Priestess arches her brow as she averts her eyes. ‘It is not I to whom you should apologise, but our god.’

  ‘Of course.’ Val
entina sounds as if she’s about to cry.

  Carlotta is staring at us through her mask – at me? Then, she’s ripping it off her face, the pale freckled skin beneath flushed. Her eyes narrow as they meet mine – then, as if remembering who and what I am, she glances away quickly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says the High Priestess.

  Carlotta blinks. ‘I’m not sure …’ she says. Her eyes drop to the mask in her hands. ‘I thought I saw something … different.’

  The High Priestess sighs and gently grasps Carlotta’s arm. ‘Come. Let’s go.’ They head towards the door, mage-lights bobbing behind them. On the threshold Carlotta turns slightly, as if she’s wishing it was all right for her to look back … But it isn’t, so she carries on. Their footsteps fade as they climb the steps.

  We hold our collective breath until the door at the top clicks shut. Valentina, Ofelia and I stay in the antechamber for a few long moments, staring at each other in the dark.

  ‘Oh blessed Mythris,’ Valentina says, burying her face in her hands. ‘Why did you do that, Beatrice?’ she murmurs.

  I blink, my mind elsewhere. I’m thinking about the spark in the darkness, the way Carlotta looked at me. But I muster enough annoyance to retort: ‘We were all watching.’

  She raises her head. ‘You started it. I suppose at least you weren’t stupid enough to lean on the handle.’ She glares at Ofelia, who snorts.

  ‘If they didn’t want us to see the Choosing, they would have made us go elsewhere,’ she says. ‘And why shouldn’t we see it?’

  Valentina glares at her. ‘If the masked god wanted us to see it, he would have had us sit in the same room instead of behind a closed door, you fool.’

  My younger sister blushes. ‘What’s the harm, Valentina? We’re the mask-makers – doesn’t it make sense for us to know what we’re creating?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s like the High Priestess said – we disobeyed the masked god’s wishes. We deserve some kind of punishment.’ She lifts her chin defiantly. ‘I don’t think any of us should be attending the puppet theatre tomorrow.’

  Ofelia snorts. ‘You do what you like,’ she says. ‘I’m going. And Mythris knows I’m not going on my own.’ She grabs my hand.

  I run my other hand through my hair. What did the novice see when she looked at me? The Priestess said that when she wore the mask, Carlotta would be able to sense and manipulate emotions. Could she tell I was different to my sisters? Am I so different? I guess part of me was hoping that, inside, they’re as much in turmoil as I am. But maybe I’m more alone than I thought. They’re staring at me, now, waiting for me to take sides – but I’ve forgotten what we’re even arguing about.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get back to work?’ I suggest softly.

  Valentina blinks at me. Ofelia sighs demonstratively. But neither of them protest as I lead the way back to our benches.

  We emerge from the mask room a few hours later. The sun has risen on the Contessa’s fiftieth anniversary of rule. Tonight, the puppet theatre awaits. As we pass the palazzo square, I hesitate to watch two dozen workers erect a giant wooden framework in front of the library. A stage has emerged at one end of the frame, and reams of material, bundled up in thick ropes, await their purpose on a series of carts nearby.

  Back at home I try to sleep, as we’re supposed to during the day, tossing and turning in Elina’s bed for an hour or two, thinking of everything that’s passed. Yes, I have the magic of Mythris in me now … but if it was the mascherari powers causing sparks to fly from my fingertips, wouldn’t my sisters have felt it too? Wouldn’t Carlotta have fixed her gaze on all three of us, rather than on me specifically?

  I abandon the idea of rest entirely when Ofelia sneaks into my room. ‘I wonder what the new play will be like,’ she says, curling up next to me on the bed. ‘The letter didn’t even say what it was called!’

  ‘It’ll be something like the Evil Seductress’s Grisly Revenge. Or The Bloody Murder at Midnight,’ I say, mouth quirking as she thumps me playfully on the arm. It’s true: puppet plays are unfailingly bloodthirsty – it’s always struck me as oddly wonderful that sweet, kind Ofelia loves them so much. Nurse would buy her the penny scripts from the market, and Ofelia would put on private performances in the nursery at every opportunity. I didn’t care for the stories, but I enjoyed it anyway – she’s good at the voices.

  I try to share Ofelia’s excitement. But as the day fades and we change out of our nightgowns and into our ordinary uniform of black dresses and veils, a quietness settles over our preparations, and even Ofelia can’t keep hold of her joy. Something about the stiff black clothes casts a darkness over our moods, too. Perhaps we’re both thinking about the conversation we had yesterday, my suggestion of escape, and how – at least for me – destiny seemed to close its hands even tighter around us afterwards. When we shadow our faces with the veils, our transformation is complete, and I feel myself shrink. We look completely … ourselves. Looking like this, everyone will know who we are: we will never truly escape the prison of our lives. People will avert their eyes. In the puppet theatre, in the special seats the Contessa has reserved for us, we will stand alone, a circle of emptiness spreading around us like a stain.

  ‘We should check she really doesn’t want to come,’ I whisper, nodding to Valentina’s room as we step out on to the landing. There’s no sound from inside.

  Ofelia frowns but nods her agreement. I knock hesitantly. ‘Valentina? We’re going out – for the puppet theatre. Are you sure you’d rather stay here?’ After my second knock, I open the door slightly. Valentina is in bed, the covers pulled over her body and most of her head. Only a dark tight braid of hair is visible, snaking over her pillow.

  ‘Just go,’ she calls. Her voice sounds high and strained. ‘I told you, I’m not coming. I will be spending my time in prayer.’

  ‘Valentina … we made one mistake,’ I try. ‘And this is only one night. The masked god can forgive you that, can’t he?’

  Nothing. I blush, find myself thinking back to Ofelia snatching the invitation. To us, it was fun – just a game – but was Valentina truly hurt? And yesterday night, tumbling into the mask room … these small humiliations are felt deeply by my older sister. Valentina is a lot of things – but more than anything, she is proud.

  ‘I know stealing the invitation was unkind, but it was just for fun. We didn’t mean to upset you. And—’ I try, but she cuts me off.

  She sits up, pushing the covers off her and glowering at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘You’re right. It was unkind – and immature. Just like your behaviour in the mask room last night. As the eldest sister, it’s my job to be the adult, to be an example to you both, advise you and show you how to be. But you make it nearly impossible. I’m sick of both of your childish attitudes and have no wish to spend any more time with you than I must. Now, leave me alone.’ Her voice is prim, and I feel irritation rising in my chest along with pity and hurt.

  ‘Valentina …’

  ‘Go,’ she says, her voice cracking slightly. She lies back down, pulls the sheets over her head. I close the door, maybe a little louder than I need to. I take a deep breath, then join Ofelia at the top of the stairs, shaking my head. She hesitates, her expression at once hardening and brightening. Suddenly she grabs my hand and pulls me into the nursery, opposite Valentina’s room, the door squeaking slightly as it opens.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss, a little shocked at her flippant breaking of an unspoken rule: no one should be in here, not until the new triplets are born. But at the sight of the old, familiar room – can we only have left it a matter of days ago? – my shock is swallowed by sadness and nostalgia at the life we once lived here. The walls and ceiling are painted light blue, dotted with yellow stars, suns and moons; and the four beds – three for the triplets, one for their nurse – are bare, their wooden frames arced over with white dust sheets. A paper mage-light chandelier floats over everything, a huge boat with yellow sails surrounded by tiny fish, bir
ds and puffs of cloud, the whole thing draped over with a dust cloth too – the mage-lights now faded and gone. It was always ironic to me: a boat chandelier in a room of children who were going nowhere. Someone has rolled up the rug, and the pale wood floorboards are exposed. The room smells musty already, and the sunlight arcing through the window illuminates the floating dust like a kind of magic.

  Ofelia shuts the door softly and spins to face me. ‘Why should we have to dress like this?’ She tugs in annoyance at her long veil and dark dress. ‘Everyone can tell who we are. We stick out.’ Her voice is low, a mere whisper. ‘We can’t even pretend to be normal, dressed like this.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ I agree, frowning. ‘Besides, we don’t have any other clothes. Why are we here, Ofelia?’

  She pulls off her veil, and underneath she is smiling. ‘Follow me,’ she whispers. ‘I’m glad Valentina isn’t coming. She would never have let us do this.’

  ‘Do what?’ I’m worried, even as I follow her across the room, treading softly. ‘Ofelia …’ One of the four beds is slightly larger, set into an alcove. ‘Nurse’s bed?’ I ask. In a flash, I remember her dark hair and warm brown eyes, her gentle voice. I miss her. I wonder how she is.

  ‘Come on, help me,’ my sister says.

  Ofelia is reaching underneath the bed, fiddling around. I kneel beside her – but with the sheet lifted, I can see there’s nothing under there but dustballs. ‘Ofelia,’ I start. ‘What—?’

  She grabs my hand. ‘Here, push down.’

  When we both push together, there’s sudden click, a creak. One of the floorboards tilts upwards. Ofelia tilts the one next to it, too – and something is exposed, something covered in what I can tell is years and years of dust – though a few recent-looking finger marks show around the edges. A wooden chest.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, dropping to my knees. ‘How did you know it was here?’

  ‘I found it months ago,’ she says, her eyes glittering. ‘Priestess Alyssa sent me to fetch an extra cloak or blanket – she was cold.’