by J M Robison
“And then…we go home.”
He nods. “All that and I never get to see your face?”
His question spikes prickly anger through me. I throw it back at him. “All that and I don’t get to see yours?”
We lock eyes, his brown gaze swiveling over my mask. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
My heart thunders. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life remembering this as an Italian stranger who saved my life, made room for me to sleep in his closet, shared his food and water, and waited with me on a roof for a man he has never met. I want to have a face I can tag onto this memory. It may be the only nice memory I have of a future I’ve lost.
“Fine,” I concede. “You first, since I’m certain you’re the ugly one.”
“Horrendous, actually.” His eyes narrow as if to judge my other-than-honest tone about agreeing to show him mine, then pulls the hood and attached mask off his head.
My breath hitches, and heat flares in all the ridiculous spots on my body. I swallow. Bloody hell. Having slept with him last night makes it now feel so much more personal. Black hair in a ponytail, thick eyebrows, and high cheekbones beneath olive skin. I see a lot of his Italian mother in him. I don’t even need to know what she looked like.
“Yep,” I say in a nervous breath. “Ugly.”
He grins, and my heart sinks to dangerous grounds. There’s no way I’m showing him my face.
“Your turn,” he says.
I flutter my eyelashes. “I changed my mind.”
His mouth makes an astonished O shape. He leans in closer, speaking in a low tone and keeping his eyes locked on mine. “I’ve already seen it.”
Indignant rage sears through me, but I catch myself with reason before I unleash it on him. “You’re bluffing.”
“I peeked beneath your mask while you slept.”
“It was dark. And I would have felt you lift my mask.”
“Burn scars, right? From your chin to the bridge of your nose? It was dark, but the deep pock marks on both cheeks cast enough of their own shadow for me to see, and both lips are nothing more than unsmiling lines.”
My heart stutters, and all my rage burns into the cold ash of grief. Now he knows. I lay my face in the crook of my arm. And sob.
“Joseara…” He scoots closer and slides an arm across my back. “I’m so sorry. I just…didn’t want to remember you by your mask, and I knew you’d never show it to me otherwise.”
“Now you think I’m ugly!”
“I also thought you were a witch, but I was wrong about that, too.”
I hold my sobs for a brief moment, trying to figure out how he could be wrong about me being ugly.
He drives on before I can object. “Joseara, everyone wears a mask, whether or not they know it. It’s the rare honor any of us have to trust someone enough to peel off that mask and show the vulnerability beneath.”
“But––”
“And beneath that mask of yours, I see a beautiful woman trying to find her way through the darkness, darkness only she sees, and is able to defeat, only if she starts believing in the beauty in herself that can outshine it.”
Stunned, my mouth opens and closes several times while I try to find a rebuttal. This is not the reaction I had expected. Had planned for. And while I try figuring out how to explain why I don’t deserve his kind words, I realize I’ve stopped crying.
It’s hard being mad at him when he uses that Italian accent while talking about beauty, though I still try. I reach for another excuse to keep both anger and sadness from draining away because I don’t understand this new feeling replacing them. “But you looked without my permission,” I growl.
“So did you.”
“Did what?”
“Looked without my permission.”
“Looked at what?”
“At me while I got dressed this morning while my back was turned.”
For absolutely the first time in my life, I’m glad for my mask as heat sinks into my cheeks so high I feel it in my eyes. “I did not.”
“If that’s the case, then ask me again in that same angry tone why I looked beneath your mask without your permission.”
I clench my jaw so tight my teeth hurt. He has absolutely no proof that I looked, but damn if I don’t feel that burden on myself to prove otherwise.
I fail to deliver on his request, and he laughs richly.
Resigning to my accusation–and desperate to come back to something I control–I punch him in the shoulder to get him to stop laughing. “At least let me explain what happened to my face.”
He stops and clears his throat, though an irritating grin lingers. “I’m listening.”
I try reining in my words so I won’t waste my heart on a stranger, but it’s either now with him or never with anyone. I dump it all on him: the rumors about a wizard locked in a forgotten castle; the fire that burned my face and killed my family to quench those rumors; my near-death by Aklen’s hand because I helped free that wizard. I’ve lived in the Fae Realm ever since.
I lose my senses to him completely, and I admit it was worthless looking for a husband, or even a lover, in the Fae Realm, because you can’t feel pain in the Fae Realm, which also translates into ecstasy during intercourse. Just like the weather. It fluctuates slightly from one extreme to the other. Never too hot. Never too cold. A steady limbo of perfection.
He doesn’t say anything the whole time, patting my back when I cry again, and I fear now I’m only crying to have him keep touching me. The climate between us shifts as we both align into something common with the other. I don’t know how to handle this feeling, only that it’s dangerous and on uncertain foundations.
“Sorry,” I conclude. “I didn’t realize how much I’ve kept inside.” I exhale. How does one start a normal conversation about this? “Now, you tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you live in a closet, work at a clock shop, rescue girls. What happened to your bandaged hand, and why your rib is broken?”
I see his reservations as well, but if he doesn’t dive into his own history, I’ll hang him on the declaration of mine.
He looks out across the square. Banners, ribbons, and bows are being hung from the nearby buildings around the Pantheon for the party tomorrow night. “My family moved here when I was eleven. Mother died on the ship. Father abandoned me.”
“Why?”
His face twists up. “It’s more likely he was killed by cut…cut gola. What’s the English word?”
“For what?”
“Cut…” He draws his finger across his throat.
“Cut-throat.”
“Si. Likely killed by them. All I know is he never came home. But I claim abandonment so I’ll fall in special favor with Sant’Ivo.”
“Saint Ivo?”
“Patron saint of orphaned and abandoned children. That is why I saw Brynn and her baby that day. Her kidnapper wanted to orphan up her child.”
“I see.” I giggle. “Do you really receive special considerations from Ivo?”
He hasn’t replaced his mask. He half grins. “I do.”
“I wonder if there is a patron saint for me?”
“Saint John.”
“That was quick.”
“Patron Saint of burn victims.”
I bite my thin lip. If Darik receives special attention from his saint, maybe I’ll become religious, so I can petition Saint John for favors.
We talk long after it gets dark, too dark for me to see Zadicayn even if he were to stand directly below me and look up, which only gives us more opportunity to talk at greater lengths and with greater details.
He teaches me an Italian phrase, Credo che sto cadendo nell'amore con voi, but he won’t tell me what it means. I have him say it many times because I love how Italian sounds on his tongue. I teach him one of Zadicayn’s favored Old English words: fopdoodle. I won’t tell Darik what it means either.
I’m energized by Darik’s presence and wa
nt to stay awake longer with him, but I remind myself of why I’m in Rome in the first place. I must sleep if I’m to be awake and alert for Zadicayn and Brynn tomorrow. I’m awash in peace that everything will work out perfect. Zadicayn will come to the Pantheon early; I’ll hand him his amulet; Darik will lead us back to Brynn; we’ll free her; retrieve her baby, and be on our way back to England before it gets too dark.
“I need to sleep now,” I say with massive regrets.
He nods. “Okay.” He blinks. “Had I thought ahead, I would have brought two blankets.”
“It’s warmer when we share.”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shrugs and wraps the blanket around him, lays down, and opens his arms. I slide in. He tucks the blanket tight around me, and I lay on his arm for a pillow.
Maybe we both know we don’t have a chance at anything real, that this is the closest either of us is going to have and it may not happen again, so we share it together.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zadicayn
I’m jittery with anxiety and fear, so I don’t sleep. I didn’t sleep well last night, either. Or eat. My eyes have dried up in my head, and I’m faint with weakness. Not how I should show up to see Brynn tonight, but I can’t help it. Hand-in-hand with that comes the stark reminder that Brynn did not have my son with her. I can barely move off the bed because of how much I ache with hate for Carlo.
I sit up and scrub my face with my hands. Both are dry and raw from the paint being scraped off with a pumice stone, the paint still clinging to the deep grooves and lines around my mouth and forehead. The remaining oil went into my hair. It’s mostly black again.
I look at my reflection in the mirror and see a boy who’s been without food and water for three hundred and twenty-four years. No way to show Brynn how I’ve been taking care of myself. No way to show up and rescue her if I don’t have the strength to do it.
I force myself to eat the bread Jaicom bought along with the oil and stone, filling the rest of my belly with water. I feel better.
Jaicom finally wakes up, looking at me as soon as he opens his eyes. “I didn’t do such a bad job removing most of the paint.”
“Still have my waist down to deal with later. I’m going to the Pantheon.”
“I haven’t heard the six o’clock morning bell yet.”
“I don’t know what to expect, so I’m going to do something they won’t expect.”
“I have a feeling they are much more prepared then we are.”
I don’t answer Jaicom. I don’t care if he comes with me. I dress and stride to the door, twisting the knob.
Locked.
Right. Jaicom locked it when he came back. I snatch the key up from the table by the door and shove it in the keyhole. I twist one way and then the other. The key won’t budge. The door remains locked.
“Jaicom…”
“Uh?”
I feel like a fopdoodle. “Would ye unlock the door? Its mechanics are apparently too great for my Old English understanding.”
He grumbles and pads over to the door barefoot, replacing my hand on the key with his. He strains every which way, taking turns to jostle the knob. “The lock is seized. No matter. We’ll pound on the door.” He hammers the wood. “Hello? Anyone out there? The lock is stuck.” He hammers again.
“I’ll go out the window.” I walk to the opposite wall and flip the metal clasp holding the double window closed in the middle. I push. The windows don’t budge.
A cold fear slides under my tunic. They are much more prepared then we are.
“Hello! Help us!” Jaicom continues pounding and hollering at the door.
I look at the window but don’t see how else it might remain stuck. Much less complicated than the door. I brace both palms against the center of the double windows and push hard enough to break something. The windows don’t open. Or break.
I force myself to believe it’s just a bout of bad luck and not because the Black Magicians have sent their demons to hold us prisoner. It’s not made to open, due to the possibilities of illegal and uninvited entry. So, the owner has nailed it shut all the way around. That makes sense. I still have to get to my wife, however.
Jaicom’s distracted with the door, so he doesn’t witness me pick up the small marble bust of some ancient Roman and hurl it at the glass. It bounces off with a distracting clack.
Jaicom whirls around. “What in the bloody hell are you doing? I’m not paying for that window!”
Rage swells in my chest. A broken window is the least of my concerns. I sweep the bust off the floor and throw it at the glass again. It bounces off.
“Ah…” Jaicom folds his arms, one eyebrow quirked. “I’m…confused.”
I try again. Same thing.
“Let me try.” Despite his previous declaration about paying for the window, he picks up the bust and throws it at the window. Clack! Thump. “I don’t…”
I inhale through my nose and force it out through my mouth. I do it again. And again. Forcing calm into my limbs though my fists pulse in and out.
“Zadicayn?”
Words won’t come to my mouth. Only breath hot enough to be smoke. Varlith. But I can’t even call him because I, once again, need my amulet to do so. This stress has me fearing I’ll start hallucinating and seeing Eudora again. But I don’t reach that breaking point. My tolerance only grows.
I force another breath through my nose and push it out through my mouth. I’ve cleared up enough bad air to think logically.
“Black Magician demons, Jaicom. One is holding the door locked. The other is keeping the window.”
Jaicom turns to the door, then spins around to look at the window. “I don’t see them.”
“Only their magician can see them. But they’re there. I should have known they’d be this well planned. They knew which hotel we slept at on our first night because they delivered the note. Of course, they’d follow us to know where we slept after that, and what we did.”
“Use your magic.”
It’s come to physical restraint to stop myself from punching Jaicom. But making yet more excuses is going to have him guessing. “I tried magic on the door already. And the window. They know I have more superior magic than they, so they’d be ready for that. Fae magic isn’t a cure-all. As long as the demon does what he’s told, they are quite formidable. These ones are doing what they are told.”
I hope it’s enough to get Jaicom just to accept it. Either way, he doesn’t question further, even though if I had my amulet I could spell myself and Jaicom through the window and onto the street. The Black Magicians wouldn’t know that, of course. They have no idea exactly what my magic can and can’t do, so they’re striking at guesses. Without my amulet, it would be easy for them to believe the limits of my magic.
“So…we’re locked in here.”
Saying yes dooms the only chance I thought I had to rescue Brynn and avoid the inevitable confrontation with the Illuminati. So I don’t say anything.
“Right.” Jaicom turns around. “I’m going to try the door again.” He pounds away on it, hollering, “Help! We’re locked in here!”
I slump on the bed. Pantheon, 8 o’clock evening time. At the exact eighth toll of the evening bell, that door will unlock. And I’ll march right into the trap the Illuminati set for me. Because I have no other choice.
I never should have left the undercroft.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Darik
If Joseara has hair, she keeps it all under her hood. I’m a bit disappointed, as I’ve always wanted to get caught up in a woman’s hair. Such a thing has always been included in the shirtless vision of myself with the beautiful donzella I rescued.
I raise my head to the sunlight glowing cold across the rooftops and chimneys. I see my breath. We did stay warmer under the same blanket. I don’t want to get up and make Joseara cold, but I know we’re both hungry, and we need to start watching earnestly for Zadicayn. The Pantheon party is tonight. Workers
have already resumed setting it up, despite dawn has not crackled over the stones in the piazza yet.
As easy as I can, I slide away from her, but she still wakes.
“Where are you going?” she mumbles, wiping her eyes.
“To get food to break fast.”
“Okay.” She tucks her head and feet inside the blanket. I can’t see any piece of her.
I stretch tight muscles and look for a way down the building. I walk to the back of this small part of the flat roof. It curves right to a door. I try the handle, and it opens to a descending staircase. The stairs are old wood, likely only used for maintenance on the roof when leaks drip on the owner’s head.
I descend through art galleries until I reach the foyer. The door is locked. I should have just scoured the roof top for a way down. I’m getting lazy. Prompted, I think, by Joseara’s presence. The owner likely won’t be in for a few more hours. I’ll come in through this way on the way back.
I trudge back up the stairs to the roof and climb down by way of a drain pipe and window frames.
I watch for the Camorra, but the streets and piazzas are populated to the point where they would have to be bolder than usual to lay hands on me. Either case, I only go down the streets where I see mounted polizia. There’s a lot of them, mostly riding around the area of Piazza del Rotonda. Security for the party? Relationships between the lower and upper class have been strained. Small bouts of protests have come and gone, though I feel everyone is waiting for just the right mood to snap and send Rome up in flames.
I steal two apples and a breadstick from two street venders.
The gallery I tried to exit through earlier is unlocked, and I walk inside like a customer, then slink away to the stairs and make it to the roof without being noticed.
Joseara’s eyes light up when I hand her the apple and half the breadstick. “Thank you.”
I want to ask Joseara if she’ll consider staying in Rome a bit longer, but I’m reminded of the closet I sleep in and no steady source of income to feed more than just myself. Where I once filled my life with purpose, I now see my shortcomings. I try not letting my suddenly soured mood show, and I sit next to her, looking out across the piazza. Tables are set up inside large roped-off sections, people walking in and out of the Pantheon whose heavy doors remain wide open. There’s only one way in and one way out of the Pantheon, and that is through those doors.