We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  I think I remember the day, last winter. The cold doesn’t reach Scarossa, not really, but sometimes when the wind is sharp and the clouds roll over, you can half imagine how the bite of frost must feel in the north. ‘Nurse kept a few spare things under her bed,’ I say.

  Ofelia nods. ‘So I looked under here and I noticed the loose floorboard. I couldn’t resist having a peek at what was inside. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but now …’ She smiles. ‘Now, it feels like fate.’

  I nearly laugh with shock and joy as she plants new fingerprints in the dust and lifts the lid of the chest, exposing the brightly coloured materials within. But I don’t. I press my hands to my mouth in silence.

  Together, we lay out the clothes on the narrow bed. They smell musty, but they’ve been packed with a sprig of ancient, sweet-smelling lavender. Three white cotton petticoats. A bright red dress of old silk, a little damaged at the sleeves – the stitching unravelling – but beautiful nonetheless. A lovely light blue dress in linen, printed with white flowers. A deep green velvet gown with wide bell sleeves, stitched with bright yellow foliage. Three silver necklaces: one draped with a constellation of nine glittery stars set with white glass, a popular design like Anna-Maria’s; one hung with a single sliver of moon; the last with a pretty blue pendant in the shape of a flower. At the bottom of the chest, we unearth three pairs of shoes: lace-up brown boots with dainty heels; a pair of silver-buckled black slippers in a style that I’m sure was last fashionable decades ago; and plain dancing shoes in green velvet, matching the green dress.

  I know at once that they are not the clothes of a rich woman – but to us, they’re magnificent. Three full outfits. I wonder what is the significance of this? We run our fingers over the dresses as if they’re made of gold. We’ve never worn clothes like these. We’ve always worn plain black dresses, ever since we were babies, and slept in plain white nightgowns. It’s tradition.

  ‘But why?’ I breathe. ‘Why are they even here?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a while … I think they’re disguises, Bea. I think a set of triplets decided they wanted a second life, one outside the mascherari compound. Maybe they bribed a servant to bring the clothes, then used them to escape into the city every once in a while.’

  I feel my heart lurch, and I glance over at Ofelia, unable to disguise the hope in my eyes. But her mouth straightens and she frowns.

  ‘Now, Bea, I’ll have none of what we talked about before. I’m not suggesting deserting our duties altogether. But I’ve been thinking …’ She strokes the long skirts gently, lovingly. ‘As long as we complete our duties, I can’t see the harm in exploring the city outside every now and then. You were right about one thing – this life is full of darkness. Whatever superstitions people have about us, they aren’t true. And doesn’t everybody need a little light? Wouldn’t that make this fate of ours easier to endure? Perhaps we will even take more pleasure in our work this way, produce better masks. Be better mascherari. Because we’ll have balance.’

  ‘Should we?’ I say, my words lingering in the air. But I already know we shall. ‘How will we get away from the chaperones?’

  Ofelia’s already thought it through. ‘We’ll wear our veils and cloaks over the top. It’ll be busy in the city – we’ll find a chance to slip away and stow our black clothes somewhere safe. They’ll never recognise us in these outfits. We’ll have a lovely time, then pick our cloaks and veils up afterwards and come home, claiming we were simply separated from the chaperones and got lost in the crowds.’

  Or, I think to myself, we could just run down to the docks. Get on a ship. Sail across the wide blue sea and never look back.

  ‘Valentina will be cross if she finds out,’ Ofelia adds. ‘And maybe the Contessa too, but I think she’ll be angry at the chaperones rather than us. She needs us to make her masks, doesn’t she? What’s the worst she can do?’ She shakes her head. ‘Besides, they won’t find out. We’ll be careful.’

  I’m already nodding.

  ‘The red and the green are the prettiest,’ Ofelia says, gazing down at the dresses.

  ‘You found them. You pick your favourite.’

  She chooses the green velvet with the matching slippers. I help her into a petticoat and then slip the dress over the top, fastening the little buttons at the back – it fits so beautifully, it could’ve been made for her. We choose the moon necklace for her, and I fasten it carefully around her neck. When she turns around, she is transformed. I undo her severe plait, and her dark hair spills over her shoulders in shining waves. I can’t help the way my eyes prickle with tears. I wipe them fiercely.

  ‘Silly Bea,’ Ofelia says gently, but her eyes are shining too. ‘Your turn now.’

  We dress me in the red silk. This dress fastens with ties, like a corset, and is pleasingly tight around my waist without feeling stiff or constraining. Once it’s on, I turn up the sleeves, slightly, and you can’t even tell they’re damaged. In the heeled boots, I stand a little taller, too – and the nine-star necklace glitters across my collarbones.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Ofelia says gently. And of course, I know I do: after all, she is my mirror. And her face is glowing with excitement.

  We stuff our old dresses and sensible shoes into the box and push it under the bed, not bothering to hide it in the hole in the floor – after all, we’ll have to replace it all later, and no one would have reason to go looking there. My hands are trembling as we pull on our black cloaks and veils to hide our dresses. We’ll have to step carefully to hide our shoes. We hear the doorbell ring, our housekeeper answering. The chaperones are here.

  Except for this night, every night in between now and my death will be the same. Perhaps we’ll find a day, here and there, in which to escape into the city again … but I already know it won’t be enough. Not for me. Because for the best part of my life, I’ll be trapped in my tight, dark fate like a body in a coffin, buried under the earth. Unless things change, I might as well be dead already. I shudder.

  So for now … just for now … I will live.

  I wipe my palms on my cloak as we step outside, praying the soft wind leaves the folds of black intact. One gust, and our disguises would be revealed to the world. I’m starting to doubt whether this was a good idea, but Ofelia flashes me an excited smile from under her veil.

  I smile back, pushing aside my worries.

  Our chaperones are two women in the yellow uniform of the Contessa, the great sun symbol bordered by nine holy stars emblazoned in red on each of their backs. Masks are tucked into special pockets on the insides of their jackets – if I glance to either side, through my veil, I can see the glimmer of beading on one, a tuft of feather on the other. If the Contessa is sending two of her True Masked guards, she is clearly worried about our security … but I try not to think about that.

  Near the mask room, a sheet of paper blows gently into my skirts – I bend to retrieve it, mid-step, and realise it’s the front page of the daily bulletin. Scanning the headline, I raise my eyebrows and glance over at Ofelia. ‘Lord Livio is the Contessa’s heir,’ I tell her, hesitating. Our two guards hover beside us uncertainly. I frown down at the words, thinking back to my conversation with Valentina. ‘This is huge …’ I mutter.

  Ofelia rolls her eyes at me. ‘Valentina will be in hysterics. Come on – who cares about all that?’ She snatches the paper from my fingers and throws it to the wind. Then, she grabs my hand, pulling me round the corner into the palazzo square.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  The square is thronged with floating mage-lights and is uproariously busy, buzzing with people and colour and stalls selling delicious-smelling food. Opposite the palazzo itself, in front of the library, the huge marquee has now been completed. It’s easily the size of our house, though its walls and roof are blue velvet dotted with golden stars.

  ‘The puppet theatre!’ Ofelia says, clapping her hands.

  ‘The performance starts in half an hour,�
�� says one of our escorts, the taller of the two women, her eyes fixed somewhere over our shoulders. ‘And the Contessa has reserved you some very good seats. Shall we?’

  We nod, catching each other’s eyes beneath our veils. Between here and there, we will have to find a place to slip away, blend into the crowd. But as we walk down into the square, a pool of quiet spreads around us, people drawing back to let us pass. Eyes are averted, voices lowered.

  We are horribly conspicuous, like a well pulling everything down into darkness. I feel blood rush to my cheeks.

  If I were those people, I would wish we hadn’t come.

  Ofelia grabs my hand suddenly. She’s noticed a scuffle breaking out beside a jewellery stall to our left – someone unhappy with their purchase, perhaps. The jeweller has snatched up her wares and is holding them to her stomach defensively.

  The customer, a brawny northern-looking man with pale skin and a shaved head, isn’t interested in arguing any more – he wants to fight. He overturns the table, sending crystals and trinkets crashing and skittering across the ground in a crash that shakes the air. The crowd presses in, and Ofelia grabs my hand, drawing us backwards.

  It’s like the gods are on our side. Our chaperones are rushing towards the commotion, and when the customer raises a fist to attack the jeweller, the taller of our guards grabs his arm. He turns to her, scowling at her uniform. He’s not going to back down quietly.

  Now’s our chance.

  Ofelia pulls me, but I’m already hurrying to the nearest side of the square. We draw curious glances at first, but the fight is attracting more attention than us. My heart is hammering as we slip into a side alley, which winds into another. Here the houses are so close that the balconies on the third floor are almost touching. The abrupt quiet is surprising, as if we’ve been suddenly submerged in water.

  ‘Quick!’ Ofelia says. ‘We can hide our cloaks here.’ She’s already bundling her veil behind a stack of empty crates – I follow her lead and then, hand in hand, we walk back towards the square transformed, our faces flushed from adrenalin. We hesitate for a moment, glance at each other, then plunge into the colourful crowd.

  Wherever our chaperones have gone, we don’t see them as we slip between the people of Scarossa. Everything is different, now – brighter, closer without our veils. Instead of the crowd parting for us, we are part of it. A stranger jostles me, and a thrill runs over my skin as I clutch Ofelia’s hand. I’m terrified, elated. Eyes are drawn to us, not repelled. We’re just a pair of twin sisters, pretty and excited and on our way to the puppet theatre. We join the queue to the sparkling tent flaps, drawn wide open, welcoming us in.

  The performance tonight is free, by the grace of the Contessa, and it feels as if everyone in the city has piled into this marquee. We find seats near the back, climbing several steps to the level where a few rows remain empty, and gaze down on the stage. It looks quite small from here but is brightly illuminated. Ofelia squeals when she sees the puppeteers’ company sigil – a large hand in black silk on blue, with trails of stars emanating from its outstretched fingers.

  ‘They’re called the Night Company, run by Giovanni Mezzanotte,’ Ofelia says. ‘They are the finest puppeteers in the world,’ she explains when I look at her blankly. ‘Most of the time they’re touring, but when they’re here, they usually only perform in the palazzo. Anna-Maria said they’ve only just returned here from the City of Kings – performing for the King himself!’

  ‘Will we really be able to see everything from all the way up here?’ I ask, gazing down on the distant stage.

  ‘For performances like this, the puppets themselves will be very large compared to our toy puppets at home,’ Ofelia replies. Her eyes are glittering in excitement. ‘They can be four or five feet tall. They make them hollow, out of light wood or sometimes metal, so they’re not too heavy to handle. Often, they’re enchanted too. The Mezzanotte family has a magical bloodline, and the company contains lots of mages – more than any other, they say. Their special effects are supposed to be dazzling.’

  I look at her excited face, smiling affectionately at her enthusiasm, and she elbows me in the ribs.

  As the theatre fills, the energy and expectation grows. I feel an echoing energy building inside me, and I watch as the Contessa and her grandson file into a grand box to the left of the stage, which is draped with golden velvet and emblazoned with the red-star-encircled sun of their house.

  At last, the huge floating mage-lights dim, and an answering hush falls over the audience. The stage is lit up brightly instead – by candlelight, a softer, gentler and somehow more lifelike kind of glow.

  Music starts. A trumpet flares up a familiar tune against a background of violins, and Ofelia claps along with the rest of the theatre. Beneath the clapping, whoops and stamping feet are murmurs of anticipation. At last, a huge banner unravels, declaring in elaborate letters the title of the play: The Hand of Fate.

  Ofelia squeals – the audience cheers. I beam at my sister, her exuberance infectious. The play is one of her favourites – an old, established classic.

  As the music quietens, the banner is dropped, pooling on the floor beneath the stage, and in the split second it takes for this to happen, the puppets have appeared.

  A figure steps across the stage – a woman in a fine red gown. Her movements are at once fluid and jerky, an unsettling cross between lifelike and inanimate. Her wooden feet, hidden under the long skirts, clack-clack-clack against the boards in a strange galloping rhythm. A sword is strapped to her back, gleaming silver.

  I can’t even see the strings holding her up.

  The light grows brighter, and the backdrop scenery springs into view: a desert, beautifully rendered and glittering with sand; a harsh blue sky overhead; cacti leaning into the distance. It’s the kind of landscape you can find on the less populated islands of the Wishes, a landscape that must’ve been here before Scarossa was built.

  I wonder if the dark hair cascading down her back is real human hair.

  I jump as a chorus of voices emerges from somewhere behind the stage, clear and ringing.

  ‘Hail, citizens of the Wishes, these holy ancient isles! Our story begins over two thousand years ago, before the gods and the king came to Scarossa, in the time of mages and heroes, when Scarossa’s only deity was Fortune.’

  Music rises, a sweeping score of violins, the moan of a cello. The woman on stage lifts her hands – the air between them sparkles and glows with beautiful yellow magic like fire. The audience gasps as the lights float upwards, separate outwards into constellations. They’re stars. The puppet appears to watch the magic, her head swaying as the glittering lights gently shift and turn in the darkness. Ofelia shivers next to me as images flit across the conjured stars – impressions of two figures embracing, one figure falling to its knees in death.

  At this apparition, the puppet onstage appears to stiffen and cry out. She turns from the sky – the magic falters and falls. The lights onstage brighten. The music stops.

  The woman stalks across the stage – already, I have nearly forgotten she is a puppet. She drops to one knee as if in prayer, facing the audience. ‘I am Alana, Queen of the Wishes, the greatest mage in the world, and I have seen the future in the stars. My apprentice and lover, Ruggio, is destined to fall in love with my mortal enemy, Bradamante, and die young, killed at my enemy’s hand. Fortune has decreed it. Fortune.’ Her face can’t show expressions, but somehow I feel her anger, hear the way she spits the word as if it’s a curse.

  Drums start up, a low, thrumming war-beat that reverberates in my very bones. The puppet stands up, squares her shoulders. ‘I cannot let this stand.’ The music grows in volume and drama, the whine of violins rising again from somewhere beneath us. ‘What does Fortune do but sit on her throne of stars and declare that things shall be thus? What right does she have to decide? No more of this tyranny. I declare war.’

  All the lights black out, candles and all – the theatre fills with gasps and mur
murs.

  All of a sudden, that energy is rushing through me again now, stronger than it did last night in the mask room – I gasp. I feel ill, faint, my pulse sounding in my ears as the drums start up again somewhere in the theatre. Not here, not now. A voice is speaking from behind the dark stage, but I can’t listen any more, I have to focus on suppressing this, on not letting go. I clench my fists to ground me, my eyes darting around. There’s no way I can slip out – we’re hemmed in by people, all of them staring rapt at the dark stage. I’ll have to get through this, like I did before, leaning my head against the mask-room door. I press my hands together, willing the feeling to die down – and it does, a little. Perhaps I can keep this under control. Perhaps it’ll be all right.

  The stage lights blare on again, and the scenery has changed. Now, a young man stands at the base of a tall sandstone tower – not simply painted into the backdrop but actually on the stage, stretching up to the height of two men. He wears a suit of bronze armour, visor raised, revealing a handsome dark-skinned face. The mage Alana joins him as he examines the building.

  ‘Alana, my love, your mortal enemy Bradamante is on our doorstep – shouldn’t I be fighting at your side rather than hiding in this tower?’ Ruggio demands.

  ‘This tower is impregnable, sweet warrior. Unscalable, unbreakable, fortified by magic. In here, you will never meet Bradamante. She will never be able to kill you, as Fortune has decreed.’ She turns aside and, in a voice intended only for the audience, adds: ‘Nor will you give your heart to her, betraying mine.’

  But Ruggio shakes his head. ‘You have taught me many things, Mistress. But one is that you cannot fight Fortune. Nobody can. I will not go. I will face our enemy – if I die, so be it.’ He lifts his chin. ‘I am not afraid. But I will not sit out the battle in this tower like a coward.’

  The air fizzes with energy. Sparks surround Alana like a halo as she draws her sword. ‘You will, or I will make you. I will not let you die.’