The Illusions In Between

by J M Robison

  The sentry snorts and sits up. I dash down the dark corridor, Joseara right behind. We tuck ourselves into a niche and hold our breath.

  “What are you doing?” the man shouts in Italian at Brynn, who cries. She’s bound not to understand. “I don’t have another bed for you, and I better not hear you complain about it, either. Now shut up so I can sleep.” He tromps to a corner of the chamber and unbuttons his pants to urinate.

  “What now?” Joseara’s hot, panting breath asks in my ear.

  I don’t know why she’s asking me. I don’t have an answer. Only that we can’t go back to Brynn.

  The man throws another “shut up!” at Brynn and lies down. I and Joseara sneak away in the dark echo of Brynn’s sobs.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Joseara

  I relocate us up and over the wall. I can tell magic unnerves Darik, but he doesn’t complain. Out loud, anyway.

  I can’t get Brynn’s crying out of my head, but I shove the ache it gives me aside. There’s nothing more I can do for her, except use the information she gave me–likely, information Zadicayn already has–and use that information to try and find Zadicayn.

  Our feet back on the stone, I finally face the question I’ve been avoiding since I woke up: where am I to sleep? Where am I to get food and water? I’m no stranger to thieving, but it must be after midnight, and no shops or venders remain in the streets to steal from. Another reason why I’ve clung to this masked man next to me. He’s been a steady source of firm-footed reality since I woke up.

  “Do you know of a safe place to sleep?” I ask. “And food?”

  “Do you have money?”

  I scud my boot heel across the stone. There is no currency in the Fae Realm, and Zadicayn was gracious enough to provide for me. I never bothered thinking I needed money of my own. “No.”

  He takes an unnerving amount of time to answer, and I can’t place why.

  “I…” he begins. And stops. He clears his throat and looks at the sky several times before inhaling a massive breath. “I don’t want you to think me…um…” He scratches his head, though I don’t think it’s because it itches. “The Italiano word is promiscuo, it means—”

  “Immoral,” I mumble, heating when I say the word because I have no idea where he’s going with it.

  “You know Italiano?”

  “The English word is promiscuous.”

  “Promiscuous.” He pronounces the last s with emphasis. “Si. I don’t want you to think me promiscuous, but…the only safe place I know of to sleep–and has food–is…my own.”

  He clearly stated he wasn’t being promiscuous–and I hear the awkward honesty in his accented voice–but I still warm under the statement. We are only strangers. I don’t even know what his face looks like.

  But I’m tired, hungry, and he looks it, too. “If you don’t mind…”

  “The room is really small. So, if you don’t mind…”

  I shake my head. As long as it’s out of the wind, and dry, I don’t care if I’m tucked beside a toilet.

  He walks forward. I follow behind. A bridge and three turns later, we stop in an alley between two tall buildings. Without a word, he climbs up the side of one of the buildings, hand-over-hand on pipes, window frames, and missing bricks, until he slips through a hole in the wall on the second floor as if he’s done it a hundred times.

  His head reappears through the hole. When I don’t move, he calls down, “You need help?”

  I shake myself out of my stupor. I doubt Darik will harm me while I sleep, since he did, in fact, save my life while I slept under the holds of the drug, but now it feels remarkably more sensitive sharing his sleeping space. I’ll be in his domain. Whether or not he knows of my knife, I’ll have it regardless.

  I climb up–also having done something similar a hundred times–and accept his hand as the last hand-hold so he can pull me inside.

  It’s pitch dark, save for the grimy moonlight filtered through thinning rain clouds. I remain by the hole in the wall I crawled through, waiting for direction. A scratch yields a tiny flame, which Darik’s illuminated hand shoves into the glass lantern. The wick takes and flares to life, lighting up all four corners of the room big enough for a blanket, a cupboard, and me. It looks like a broom closet repurposed into a bedroom.

  Darik pulls his mask away from his face just enough to put the flaming congreve in his mouth–snuffing it–then throws the stick out the hole in the wall to join the pile of trash below. Likely all his. He sets the lantern on the cupboard and looks up at me. I try determining what his face looks like by the color, shape, and size of his eyes.

  “I apologize for the poor accommodations,” he says with an embarrassed mumble I don’t think he intended. “I wish I could do better.”

  He’s using bigger English words. He said his father was English?

  I hold reservations now about sleeping in here, but I feel obligated to do so since he’s done so much for me already, and he did bear the apparent shame in showing it to me. His guarded posture says he’s embarrassed by this gift. The best I can do is be grateful and show respect.

  “Is this room safe?” I ask.

  “Very.”

  “Dry and reasonably warm?”

  “…Reasonably.”

  “Then I love it. Grassie.” I hope, anyway, that that’s the word for thank you. I’ve invariably picked up words from other languages, though I can’t say I know exactly what they mean or if I even say them correctly.

  “Grazie,” he corrects with a playful voice, distinctly rolling the r, which I didn’t do. I hope he at least grins at my attempt, though I can’t see beneath his mask. I’m curious why he wears one, too. Maybe for scars similar to mine?

  He drops the blanket-sack he acquired from the underground chamber he found me in and pulls out the crossbow, tin cup, and food. My eyes lock onto the chunk of bread. He hands it to me. I turn around so I can pull down my mask and eat it.

  “Acqua? Er…water?”

  I nod with the bread still clamped between my teeth and reach behind me for the water bag he hands over, keeping my unmasked face forward. I drink it all, despite it tasting of industry chemicals. I cram the rest of the bread in my mouth, swallow, and belch. There is zero point in pretending to be a lady. I haven’t been one in seven human years.

  However, I’m not promiscuous, so I won’t undress in front of him. Though, with several days of sleeping and living in the same clothes, I really want to. I know I smell bad, but the scent already in this small room will mask it. Or add to it. Either way, he won’t blame me for it. One bad habit I picked up while living in the Fae Realm: normal necessities like washing were no longer necessary.

  I replace my mask and turn around, sitting on the hard wood floor, and rest my back against the chipped plaster exposing red brick. Even with my knees pulled in, I damn near touch his own toes where he leans against the opposite wall. If I spread my elbows, I’ll bump into the cupboard on my left. I’m not ready to approach the sleeping arrangement yet.

  “I wish there were better words to express my sincerity than ‘thank you,’” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Was my pleasure.”

  Having brought back a blanket from my underground prison, and the one already in his room, he holds both up. “Do you want the slavers’ blanket or mine? I can’t attest to the sanitary of either.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  He hands me the slavers’ blanket, which makes me bashfully curious why he thinks theirs is cleaner than his.

  He blows the lantern light out. I catch a glimpse of stubbled olive skin when he lifts his mask before darkness fills the room.

  He shuffles around for a moment and then settles along the opposite wall. “What are your plans now, since you couldn’t rescue…Brine?”

  “Brynn. She told me Zadicayn would likely be lured to the Pantheon, so I’m going there tomorrow in hopes to find him so I can give him this amulet.” I tap my chest where it h
angs under my shirt.

  “Would you like my help?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say too eagerly. As long as this English-speaking, Rome-knowing man is volunteering, I’ll take it, and I don’t feel bad or selfish for doing so.

  “Oh…I forgot to mention…I have work in the morning.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Below us, in the clock shop. Pays for my poor lodging in this…room, and I’d rather keep it.”

  “All right. Join me when you can?”

  “Si.”

  I hear scuffling across from me, and cloth brushes my nose. My eyes have adjusted to the dark. I watch him remove everything but his shirt and pants. He leaves on the mask and hood covering his head.

  “The toilet is out this door and down the hall.” He knocks on the door as if I can’t see it, though it’s in reachable distance from where I sit if I stretch out my hand.

  “Okay.”

  He lies down and reclines on an elbow and faces me. Angled diagonally from corner to corner, he’s taken up the only place to lay down. He inhales deeply. “We’ll have to sleep close.”

  Real close. I bite my thin bottom lip and flick a glance to the hole in the wall as I heavily consider sleeping elsewhere. Maybe I could sleep in the hallway. In the water closet.

  “I’m…sorry. I’ll find you somewhere else to sleep.” He tosses the blanket off.

  “No! No…this is great. Thank you. Grazie.” Those are not the words I feel, but I remove my boots and days-old socks, wrap up in the slavers’ blanket, and slide my back into his chest before I can further think of something awkward to say or do. Still reclined on his elbow, he doesn’t lay down right away.

  Shame flares in me because he knows I don’t like this. I ache with worry that he’ll demand to find me somewhere else to sleep. I’m tired enough I’ll be asleep in moments, so I only have to bear this for that long.

  He lies down, but I don’t relax, doing my best to ignore the hard lumps all up and down my back.

  “You going to sleep with your mask on?” I ask, to help soften this moment we’re both stuck in. Mostly, I just want to see his face, even if it is scarred like mine.

  “Are you going to sleep in yours?” His voice vibrates across my shoulder blades.

  “Well…yes.”

  “Then I will sleep in mine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re sleeping in yours.”

  “That’s not a good reason.”

  “What’s your reason?”

  I fight with a response, heat flaring in my body he’s bound to feel. I try telling myself it doesn’t matter what he thinks. I try bringing back word-for-word what Zadicayn had to say about my face, but I can’t draw up the courage–or carelessness–to show him. I’m terrified Darik will think less of me if he sees it. Zadicayn may have scars, but they are not the same as mine. He still found a lovely girl to marry.

  I decline to answer, wiggling my body into a position that does nothing to get me farther away from Darik, though that was my intent. He doesn’t press me for an answer, and I am grateful. I think he’s childish for not removing his mask since I won’t remove mine.

  I scoot back a little bit to get more comfortable.

  “Tssssss!”

  “What?”

  “My…broken rib. Sorry. It’s all right.”

  We’ve both danced around the obvious question: why. Why is your rib broken? Why do you rescue girls? Why can you climb so well? What is it you do during the day and night?

  And, I’m sure, for me: why do I climb so well? Why won’t I remove my mask?

  Once we answer that question, we’ll be less than strangers, and I don’t want to build up any attachments in Rome. Strangers are safe. I almost laugh, but then he’ll ask why. Just this trip I bemoaned to Zadicayn my loneliness and desire for a romantic relationship, and now I’m sleeping with a man I’ve known for five hours, whose face I’ve never seen, and whose day-to-day I do not know.

  I’m almost to sleep when he drapes his arm over my waist.

  “Sorry,” he grumbles. “I don’t have anywhere else to put it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brynnella

  My cell door opens but I don’t turn.

  “Get up,” Carlo says. “We’re going out.”

  I do as commanded. Today’s the seventeenth. For better or for worse, I will see Zadicayn tomorrow. One relief I have is even if I do nothing but stare at the wall and breathe, time will still move on without any effort from me.

  I’m taken into the same room where I was dressed for my painting, and I’m dressed as elaborately now as I was then.

  Carlo levitates us up and over the back wall of the fortress, and I’m escorted into the carriage waiting in the trees. I’m starting to believe the day is a do-over from my first time out, that I’m forever stuck in this limbo of not knowing what’s to be done with me, Zadicayn, or my son.

  The carriage moves forward.

  I recognize the same bridge we cross, but after that, there’s no keeping distinct separation between the buildings we pass, so we could be going back to the painter or somewhere new, and I wouldn’t be able to tell. I see a sign out the window we pass that says “Al Pantheon” and an arrow.

  We arrive somewhere, and I’m escorted out of the carriage. The carriage waits for us as we go inside. It’s a dress shop, with colorful arcs of fabric positioned on shelves against the walls. In my anxiety, I almost laugh. I’m reminded of my first dress shopping experience with Mother, just after Reuben’s funeral.

  Reuben’s funeral…which is what directly landed me in Rome, with this man, waiting for my husband. It occurs to me that if Reuben hadn’t died, I’d be married to some higher-class Englishman and living a normal, English life. Despite my current predicament, I don’t regret this. I’d marry Zadicayn all over again, even knowing he’d die in front of me.

  A woman who must be the dressmaker steps out. “Signore Vizzardelli. Buongiorno.”

  “Buona, Signora Ferrari.” Carlo points to me as he speaks, and I catch his last Italian word: donna. I promise myself that when I get home…when I get home, I will learn Italian, that way, after I learn the language, I can look back to now and when I replay these memories, I won’t feel so helpless.

  “Si, si.” The woman waves at us and we follow her to a back room.

  I’m made to stand on a pedestal, and Carlo excuses himself to wait outside the room while I’m undressed down to my long white chemise. I’m measured with acute practice and discretion and helped back into my cumbersome dress and petticoats, but at least they don’t tie like English dresses. I’d worn small bustles before, but none quite as large as what Carlo has me wear. I feel vastly overdressed for what I see on the streets.

  If Carlo is to be seen in public with me, clearly he wants me dressed to match his social class. I don’t know what he does when he’s not Illuminati, but it’s clearly impressive. I think it’s more likely connected to the party at the Pantheon tomorrow night.

  Dressed again, Carlo escorts me out.

  Yesterday’s rain drizzles on us today and doesn’t look like it’ll let up soon. My large hat protects my hair from the worst of it. Just as I’m about to step into the carriage, I glance up when I see a smatch of blue from a coat across the street.

  Zadicayn’s green eyes flick to gold and connect with mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Zadicayn

  It takes one heartbeat to recognize Brynn beneath brown curls, large hat, and several layers of petticoats.

  “Zadicayn!”

  Despite Carlo standing next to her, she runs at me, which, I’m certain, is what blew apart any chance I had.

  Carlo snatches Brynn and looks at me at the same time. He thrusts her into the carriage and slams the door as I dash forward on heart-pounding instinct. He shouts at the carriage driver, who cracks the whip, and the horses tear down the road as if it’s collapsing behind them. I skid to a halt and Carlo whirls on me.<
br />
  I don’t have my amulet. He has his demon.

  My eyes flick up to the carriage bearing my wife further away from me, and back to Carlo whose fists clench and unclench. He’s not attacking me. I’m not attacking him. Stuck in a stalemate where he thinks I have my amulet and so isn’t attacking first, is the very reason he hasn’t attacked me in my hotel room yet.

  There’s nothing left for it. He’s going to figure out I can’t use magic right now and I’m done for. I turn around and run.

  He’s close enough I hear his heavy boots thunder on the stone behind me, panting like an animal hungry for meat. I briefly consider turning around and overpowering him, but I’m not of a muscular physique and if his demon doesn’t overpower me, Carlo himself would. Right now, I focus on escape. It’s made clear to me now that the Illuminati don’t want me to work for them. They just want me.

  Rome’s many alleys, ascending and descending stairs, create distance between Carlo and me, since I know where I want to turn and Carlo is only reacting to it. I’m losing adrenaline. I need to find somewhere to hide, or I’m going to slow down, and he’ll grab me. I’ve gained a few turns ahead of Carlo to where he won’t see me dash inside the open doorway to the building on my left.

  I sprint inside, skidding to a halt as I nearly crash into a life-sized plaster statue of a naked man, classic for Roman art. The room is full of these naked statues in different poses. In my quick assessment, I don’t see any doorways but the one I entered. If I step out now, Carlo is bound to be right there and see me, and my one and only chance will be lost. The only advantage I have at this moment is Carlo doesn’t know I’m in here, but it won’t take long to figure out.

  I’m undressing before I’ve completed my thought. I shove my clothes in a crate containing chiseling tools and completely submerge myself inside the massive barrel of white paint next to it. I climb out again and set foot on the ground just as Carlo enters the room.

  I hold absolutely still, closing my eyes, and hold my breath…which is easy to do since paint has pooled inside both nostrils. His boot heels click against the floor, and if he doesn’t see me blended in with the other naked statues, he’s bound to hear my heartbeat. The floor is already splashed with large sections of paint, so the fresh pool beneath me won’t be out of the ordinary.