by Kesia Lupo
‘Sit down, dear.’
‘They’re dead,’ I blurt, unable to hold it in. ‘Valentina and Ofelia are dead!’ She stands up and folds me in her arms, and I feel like I’m about to cry – but somehow, the tears won’t fall. Instead, a horrible knot of tension twists inside me until I shudder silently in her arms.
‘Oh … sweetheart …’ She pulls away, tears in her eyes. ‘Sit down, now, and then we will talk. You’ll be needing this breakfast before you hear what I have to tell you.’
She refuses to say another word until I’ve sat at the wooden table and eaten two pieces of dark bread, a small bowl of figs, and drunk half a pot of sugary tea. I’m hungry, my stomach groaning emptily, but somehow the food tastes of nothing, and a grainy, dusty texture coats my mouth. It’s a chore to finish the meal.
‘Now then,’ she says, pushing my plate to one side. ‘You must be wondering what on earth is going on.’
I nod. Thunder rumbles outside, the clouds roll across the big windows. I can hear the sea churning along with the food in my stomach.
She reaches for my hand. ‘You have figured out, by now, that you are not who you think you are. If you were, you would have died along with Valentina and Ofelia.’
‘One soul split three ways. One cannot live without the others,’ I whisper. ‘But what can you mean?’ I catch sight of my face in the darkened window – my sisters’ faces look back. ‘We’re identical triplets. How can I be different?’ I think of what crossed my mind earlier. ‘Were they twins, and I, somehow, a third sister born from the same womb? Is that possible?’
‘It’s not that, my love.’ Nurse breathes deep. ‘The truth is, bambina, the middle child of those triplets did not survive. When the Priestess of Imris left, and the two younger mascherari sisters, all three of the babies were living. But minutes later, the middle child …’ She averts her eyes, and I realise she is weeping. She dabs her eyes. ‘It was so mysterious … and it happened so fast. The Contessa, Katherina and I, we could not save the baby.’
I hang on her words, my heart fluttering with the suspense.
‘The Contessa turned to us. It was morning, by then, the room was filled with light – but her eyes … they were the darkest thing I had ever seen. She said she could not let this happen. She told Katherina to take the dead infant and create … and create a True Mask of the babe’s face. She told me to remain in the nursery with the other two babies. She would handle the rest.’
I can’t speak, struck dumb with what I am hearing.
‘We protested, of course. Katherina especially. To create a True Mask based on a real face is a crime, as you know, explicitly forbidden by the masked god. But the Contessa was determined. She said it was worse to let the chain of inheritance be broken. One deception, she said, and then next time it would all return to normal – no one would know. Not the temple, nor the god, nor even the imposter herself.’
I can barely breathe. My world is crumbling as I sit there, wordless. Nurse squeezes my hand and continues her tale.
‘And so, off Katherina went in the sunlight, carrying the dead child in her basket. And when she returned, at dusk, the Contessa brought another child into the nursery. That child was you, Beatrice – only a few days old. We laid the mask over your face, and ever since …’ She rubs a curl between her fingers.
‘I’m wearing a mask? That’s impossible. I can’t be.’ My voice is tight with panic.
Nurse’s face is sad and serious.
Lightning streaks across the sky as my heart breaks, and I lift a hand to my face. No, I think. Not my face. ‘Then … who am I?’ I manage, my voice broken and hoarse.
‘That, my dear, I do not know. The Contessa swore us to secrecy on what we had seen, of course, and she told us nothing that we did not need to know. But I always knew her great deception could not go undiscovered. You cannot trick the gods.’ She shakes her head. ‘I thought the truth would be revealed on the night of the Inheritance. I was convinced the masked god would not grant you the mascherari powers, along with your sisters. But he did. The Contessa’s plan worked … for a short while.’
I rest trembling fingertips on my cheeks. Horror creeps over me as I let the truth sink in: I am touching not my own flesh and blood but materials that lay upon the face of the dead triplet, the triplet whose life I stole … I snatch my hands away as if they’ve been burned. My head is reeling, and I don’t know why but I stand up suddenly, the chair thumping back on the wooden floor.
‘Beatrice … please. Look at me.’ Nurse stands too, holds out her hands and rests them around my face, forcing me gently to meet her eyes. ‘You, Valentina and Ofelia are like daughters to me. I love you and I want you to be safe. Now is your chance to start again. If you take off that mask, you can board a ship to wherever you please. I will pay your fare. Nobody will know who you are.’
‘Nobody will know who I am,’ I echo faintly.
SEVENTEEN:
What the Heart Desires
Livio
I leave Grandmother, my mind heavy and disoriented, and glance up the stairs towards my room, where Hal is likely still waiting for me. No time to apologise. No time to explain.
I walk straight out of the palazzo.
My heart is thundering along with the sky, the warm rain lashes down around me – and although I glance over my shoulders several times, no one is looking at the young man in plain dark clothes, heading for the city.
I’m soaked through by the time I’ve crossed the square, my ears ringing. Down in the jewellery quarter, the wind buffets through the narrow streets like a trapped bull.
The quarter is different by day – tired, small and run-down, none of the air of mystery and excitement it holds in the dark. The boarded-up shops and empty windows are sad, not threatening. A few pedestrians walk hurriedly through the streets, clutching hoods and soggy baskets as the wind whips their cloaks. A woman leans out of an upstairs window to grab a blown-out shutter and pull it into place. The cobblestones shine as I slip down to Cutpurse Lane.
I’m so hunched over against the storm, I don’t notice anything amiss until something hard crunches under my boots, and I look down to see shards of scattered glass. I glance up, a few steps from Old Jacobo’s den. The pawnshop’s window is smashed, its door hanging off its hinges.
I watch and wait for a few seconds. Everything is silent and still – whatever happened here, it’s over now. The rain patters on the rooftops in an endless random drumbeat. I peer through the broken window. The clutter of pawned items, normally arranged neatly on shelves in the window or behind the counter, lies strewn across the floor. Beyond, the shop is dark.
When I step inside, papers swish under my feet – old receipts and ledgers. I pick my way to the counter. A smell assaults me – wet and iron through the rain dripping down my nose – and now I’m afraid, truly afraid, of what I’ll find in the back room.
I push open the door. The armchairs where Jack and I sat days ago are ripped up as if they’ve been attacked by wild beasts – the stuffing spilling out in clouds of yellowish wool. The table is cracked down the middle. The mirror is shattered.
On the far wall, a huge sun glowers down at me, daubed not in its usual black but in dry, crusted red.
Blood.
My stomach twists in anxiety as I wonder whether, somehow, it was speaking to me that put Old Jacobo in danger. I hope he’s all right – pray to the nine he got out before any of this happened. As I stand staring at the wall, I’m sure I hear a noise somewhere near – upstairs or in an adjacent room. Voices. Footsteps.
If he’s alive, Old Jacobo can’t help me now.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I walk fast through the storm and, thank the nine, I don’t think I’ve been followed. Even so, I’m stuck. I can’t go home. There’s only one person left who can help me – and he, rightly, hates my guts.
But I’ve no choice – I’ll have to take my chances. My feet are already carrying me there, as if they knew the truth bef
ore I cared to admit it.
I’ve visited Elisao a couple of times in his apartment in the student quarter. The houses here are tall and crooked and extremely old. Elisao’s family is of middling wealth, and he has a room to himself, high up on the fourth floor. As I stand outside his building, a tile slides from the roof with the force of the wind and smashes on the paving stones at my feet.
I squelch up the four steps to the front door and study the cord for the bell to his apartment. The last time we spoke … Holy twins. I feel a sting of shame at everything I failed to tell him, at the promises I made and broke within a day. I wonder if seeing me will cause him pain – or if he simply won’t care. I wonder if he’ll punch me in the face. I’d deserve it, if he did. Gods, I can’t do this. I turn away – but as I do, the door opens and Elisao is standing on the threshold, spectacles slipping down his nose, brown eyes widening. He’s dressed in a long brown rain cloak, hood pulled up, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Then, we both speak at once:
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I was on my way—’
We stop. Can’t help smiling at each other, just slightly – and for a second, it’s like old times. Then Elisao’s face grows serious.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I want to talk to you,’ I say.
‘I can see that.’ His voice is harsh, icy. ‘Doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Please?’
Something in my face convinces him to step aside. I swallow as we enter the cold but blessedly dry hallway, the door swinging shut behind us. He doesn’t invite me upstairs, though. Silence rings in my ears.
‘What’s this about?’ Elisao says gently but firmly.
I force words from my throat, but they’re strange and stilted, my eyes fixed on the puddle spreading around me on the flagstones. ‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t – I was about to …’ I run a hand through my soaking wet hair, feeling water dribble down my spine, and take a deep breath. ‘Everything’s gone to shit, Elisao. I know this is a bit rich after how we left things, but …’ I glance up at him. ‘I really need your help.’
Four floors up, in his small, high-ceilinged room, Elisao lights the fire he’d already built in the grate. The warm cheerful glow disguises the cracks in the ceiling, the scuffed paint on the rattling window frames. An iron bedstead is pressed up against the far wall, a desk scattered with books and papers beside it. In front of the fire, a low threadbare couch beckons invitingly. I stand just inside the door, dripping.
‘Look, I think we’re going to have to get you out of those clothes before you catch a chill,’ Elisao says, his voice brisk and matter-of-fact. His spectacles have steamed up, so he sets them on the desk, blinking – his light green eyes are brighter without the lenses. He hangs his cloak on the back of the door, drops his satchel on the bed. ‘We can hang them in front of the fire. You can borrow something of mine to wear in the meantime. And … I’ll make us some tea.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. As he bustles around the room fetching tea supplies, I peel off my clothes until I’m in my shorts. Without looking at me, Elisao brings me a threadbare towel and a big old darned nightshirt. Once I’m dry, I slip it over my head, grateful for the worn, soft material.
At last, we sit down on the couch, side by side – and still, the words won’t come.
‘You’re so quiet,’ he says. ‘You’re really starting to worry me.’
I swallow. Where to start? Facts. Start with the facts. ‘I went to find Old Jacobo. But the shop is trashed. There’s one of those suns painted on the wall – in blood. I … didn’t know where else to go.’
Elisao blinks, pales. ‘Gods, things are worse than I thought. What do you think it was – some kind of gang feud?’
‘Not exactly. It’s bigger than that.’ I take a deep breath and start to explain everything that’s happened. Everything. Anything less would feel wrong. I tell him all about Shadow, the two branches of astromancy, the visions and the sandwolves, the assassination attempts, the masked temple, how the mascherari sisters were killed last night. I take a deep breath. ‘Grandmother is going to seek help from the King – but she wants me to hide here in the city. I guess she’s afraid that if we’re together, and the assassins find us, the Santini line will be wiped out entirely. So that’s why I went to find Old Jacobo, to ask him to hide me. And that’s how I ended up here.’
Elisao stares at me. I think he’s processing everything I’ve said, but then he comes out with: ‘So I’m your second choice?’
I can’t help laughing at that, and though he doesn’t join in, he smiles sheepishly.
‘Elisao, I didn’t even think you were a choice, after how I left things. It was sheer desperation that drove me here. I thought you’d hate me. I was about to run away when you appeared on the doorstep right at that moment.’
‘I couldn’t hate you. Now that I know everything that’s been going on, I can almost understand why you left it the way you did.’ He half smiles, then adds briskly, ‘So, what is it exactly you need? A place to lie low?’
‘Yes. Some place to stay. And I have a task to carry out this evening, at dusk. Something tells me my clothes won’t be dry by then, so I’ll need something to wear.’
‘A task?’
‘Don’t ask me why, but Grandmother wants me to burn the mask room.’
Elisao frowns. ‘But if the mascherari sisters are dead, the masks are powerless.’
I shrug. ‘It’s what she wanted. She was very insistent.’
‘I’ll help you,’ he says. ‘You’ll need a look-out.’
‘No, Elisao … You’re already doing enough for me letting me stay here. It could be dangerous.’
He grins. ‘Sounds exciting. Seriously, I insist.’
And slowly, I smile in return, feeling a surprising relief flood through my body. It’s at this moment the kettle boils over, steam hissing on the hearthstone. He leaps to his feet. Now it’s he who’s nervous and quiet as he pours the water into the pot, heats the cups. I feel … unburdened. Calm. As I watch him, that knowledge fills me again – nothing I can voice, nothing I can even arrange into words. Except …
‘Eli, stop,’ I say.
He sets the tea things down and turns towards me, his eyes full of doubt. I remember what he said in the palazzo square the night I thought I was leaving him for good. It’s high time I replied.
‘I love you too,’ I say.
There’s a moment of stillness. He steps closer, his eyes bright – and without hesitation I lean forward and kiss him. A sense of home fills me – of peace, of love. And longing, too. I pull him closer. A teacup rattles on to the floor, rolling across the floorboards as we sink into each other on the couch.
When we pull apart, I gaze into his eyes, and I know this is real in the way a kiss with someone else could never be.
He says, breathless, ‘You really love me too?’
I nod, smiling. ‘I wanted to say so before … But I knew I was lying to you – about who I really was … except …’ I smile as I realise something. ‘Vico always was the real me. It’s Livio who was the lie. That’s how it felt, anyway. Like I was never the self I wanted to be, except in this life. With you.’
‘But you’ll always have to choose, won’t you? One or the other?’
I shake my head, a smile spreading across my face as I realise the one shining silver lining in this whole big mess. ‘The masks are gone, the bargain with Mythris is broken, the masked temple’s knives are out, Grandmother is pleading with the King, and the whole foundation of Scarossa is threatened by a crime lord. Elisao, all bets are off – the world has turned upside down. Maybe I can be whatever I want to be – as long as I survive.’
And as we kiss again, I really think it’s true.
EIGHTEEN:
Decisions
Beatrice
Nurse draws me a bath in the copper tub set in front of the fire. She leaves
me to soak while she sets out for the port: she’s determined to buy me a berth on a ship to the continent.
‘I’ve a sister in Port Regal, little Bea. She’ll look after you.’
I’m leaving this place forever. And isn’t that what I’ve always dreamed of? A new face. A new future. The chains of destiny broken at my feet. A ship sailing on an open sea, into a new world – a world of possibility.
But my sisters …
Grief fills me – cold, dark and heavy. I sink down into the hot water until I’m fully submerged, breath held, eyes shut, feeling sobs rise in my chest as the images replay over and over in my mind. If I had only woken sooner, before he … Before …
My lungs start to burn. I surface, heat streaming from my scalp as I let out my breath and rub my face.
Not my face: the dead sister’s face.
My hands freeze, repulsed.
Take off the mask. Nobody will know who you are, Nurse had said.
‘Including me,’ I whisper into the steam. I won’t know who I am, either. And if I leave Scarossa, I’ll never find out.
The Contessa alone knows the truth. The Contessa, who started everything because she couldn’t bear to lose her power. The Contessa, who stole the life I should have led and trapped me in another fate. The Contessa, who granted me my two beloved sisters and then failed to protect them from her enemies. Despite the heat of the water, my muscles are tensing up.
Who gave the Contessa the right to play god like she did? To treat my life like it were just another move in her game of power and politics? I remember how she looked at me during the Inheritance – the expression of cold concern, as if I were a chess piece she was considering toppling. She didn’t know what effect the ceremony would have, and – as long as the transfer of power worked – she didn’t even care.