Masks (7 page)

The Masking

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Mara stumbled down to breakfast, yawning and stretching, once again wearing the staid blue skirt and white blouse her mother preferred, though she hadn’t gone so far as to put on shoes. To her delight, her father stood at the counter, his back to her.

“Daddy!” She ran up behind him and threw her arms around him. “Eat breakfast with me!”

She felt him stiffen, freezing in the middle of whatever he was doing. She squeezed him tighter.

“Let go of me, sweetie,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

She gave him a final squeeze, then let go and stepped back. He turned around, a steaming mug of black-bean tea in his hand, and she almost gasped: unshaven, with dark shadows under his eyes, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I wish I could, Mara, but I’ve got too much work to do.” He didn’t seem to want to meet her eyes: his gaze slid past her, and he started toward the stairs.

“My Mask, right?” Mara called after him.

He stopped, one foot on the stairs. “That’s right,” he said after a moment.

“What does it look like?” Mara knew that by tradition no one knew what their Mask looked like until the moment it was presented to them, but she was desperate to keep her father talking to her, starved for the sound of his voice. “Is it beautiful?”

From where she stood, she could just see the mug of tea in his right hand. It trembled. “It is what it is,” he said at last, still without looking at her. Then he resumed climbing the stairs. A moment later she heard his workshop door close—and lock.

Mara blinked back tears.
At least when I’m Masked, I’ll have my father back
.

She went to the sideboard, where her mother, who seemed to be out, had left cheese and bread and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. She took an egg, a chunk of cheese, and a slice of bread back to the table, poured oil into a small bowl, dipped the bread into it, and chewed on her breakfast while also chewing over the conversation with the boy in the cellar the night before. By morning light, his fears about the Masks seemed silly, and so did hers. So Sala had been a bit standoffish. So what? People changed. Sala really
did
have more responsibilities now. She was officially an adult, and adults
were
different than children, weren’t they? It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just the way things were.

Before you know it, she’ll be married
, she thought.
Before you know it, so will I. And then we’ll have children of our own . . .

Again she pushed that uncomfortable thought aside. Time enough to worry about
that
later.

Much
later.

The important thing was that when they were both Masked, she and Sala could be friends again. As for all that stuff about the Masks changing people . . . nonsense, and she knew it. Her
father
was making her Mask, and he would never make something that would harm her. He might be a bit preoccupied right now, but she knew he loved her. She had a lifetime of memories of cuddles, of storytelling and laughter, of running to Daddy for comfort when she’d skinned her knee or been stung by a bee, to prove it.
Whatever he makes for me will be beautiful
.

As for “Keltan,” well, he was . . . delusional, that was the word.
All that crazy talk about the unMasked Army. The unMasked Army is a myth!
She felt sorry for the boy, risking his life for nothing. And she
would
keep her word and not tell anyone she’d met him. He might be crazy, but she didn’t think that would matter to the Watchers, and she didn’t want him to end up hanging on a gibbet outside the Autarch’s Palace.

She shuddered at the thought. Ugh. Not the best thing to think about at breakfast. She pushed away what was left, half a slice of oil-soaked bread and a good-sized chunk of boiled egg, got up, and took the dish to the sideboard. She put the leftover food into the compost, then pumped water into the bronze sink and fired the rock-gas burner underneath it. As the water heated, she looked out at the bright blue sky.
Another warm day
, she thought, and her arms and legs itched at the thought of wearing a long skirt and long sleeves. But she felt guilty about sneaking out the night before, and promised herself she’d be extra-good all day to make up for it.

Besides, she only had two short tunics: one was wadded up in the garden shed, and the other was crumpled up under her bed, black with coal dust.

The water wasn’t as hot as her mother would have made it, but hot enough for Mara. She turned off the burner, took the hog’s-bristle brush from its hook just below the windowsill, and began scrubbing her dirty dishes.
I’ll have to figure out some way to wash that tunic
, she thought.
And my sheets. They were black when I—

“Good morning, Mara,” her mother said from behind her. She jumped, then turned to see her mother smiling at her from the archway leading into the front room.

Mara forced a laugh. “You scared me!” She hoped she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. “Good morning, Mother.”

“Come in here,” her mother said. “I have something to show you.”

Mara dried her hands on the blue towel hanging on a peg beside the window and went over to her mother. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes,” her mother said.

Mara blinked at her, then giggled and said, “All right.” She closed her eyes. Her mother took her hand and led her into the front room.

“Now . . . open them.”

Mara opened them, and gasped.

In a patch of the bright morning light that poured through the diamond panes of the tall windows stood a dressmaker’s dummy, wearing the most beautiful dress Mara had ever seen.

Shimmering green, sparkling with tiny glittering stones sewn into the fabric, it seemed almost to float above the dummy. It had a high waist and a low back and no sleeves. A shawl, so delicate it might have been made of blue smoke, its fringe glittering with more of the tiny gems, more drifted above than hung from the shoulders. On the floor beneath the dummy rested two silver shoes, with open toes and high heels.

Mara took it all in with an open mouth, then suddenly remembered to breathe. “For me?”

“For you,” said her mother. “For your Masking.”

“Oh, Mommy!” Mara flung her arms around her mother and squeezed her tight. “It’s beautiful!”

“Would you like to try it on?” her mother said.

“Would I!”

She dropped her skirt and blouse where she stood, then, wearing only her thin drawers, pulled on the dress. Her mother watched her, a strange expression of mixed amusement and sadness playing around her lips. When Mara had everything on, tottering a bit on the heels, the shawl over her shoulders, her back feeling daringly exposed, she looked at her mother and said, “How do I look?”

“You’re beautiful,” her mother said. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “My little girl . . .”

“Get Daddy,” Mara said happily. “He should see—”

Her mother wiped her eyes, and shook her head with a smile. “No. He won’t tell me anything about your Mask. Says he wants it to be a surprise. Well, let’s make
this
a surprise for
him
. The first time he sees you in it, let it be on your birthday.”

Mara laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face.” She looked down at herself. “I wish I had a mirror.”

“Milady has only to ask,” her mother said. Mara had been so taken with the dress she hadn’t even noticed the tall, cloth-covered object in the corner. Her mother pulled the cloth away, revealing the full-length mirror that normally stood in her parents’ room, a marvelously clear glass that had been a gift from a wealthy merchant in appreciation for a particularly fine Mask made for his Gifted daughter.

Mara looked at herself, and her breath caught in her throat. “I look like a grown-up!”
Well, a very
skinny
grown-up
, she amended. She needed to fill out quite a bit more in certain crucial areas before she could
really
show off the dress to its best effect.

“Wait until we have your hair done properly, and add a necklace and bracelets,” her mother said. “And then the Mask . . .” She paused. “You know that the Autarch will likely be present for your Masking.”

Mara’s breath caught. “What?” She turned to look at her mother in wonder.

Her mother nodded. “It’s true. For the last few months he has made a point of attending the Maskings of the Gifted. Your father attends many as well, of course, as a guest of the family, and in appreciation for his work. He has seen the Autarch many times.” She started to say something else; then stopped. “Many times,” she repeated after a moment.

Mara stared at her. “I never dreamed . . .”

“It is a great honor,” her mother said.

In that moment, Mara’s fears about the upcoming Masking evaporated. And the next few days, passing in a whirlwind of preparation, left no time for doubt. There were visits to the hairdresser, the manicurist . . . after which she began wearing shoes; she didn’t want to damage her toenails, which suddenly looked prettier than she’d ever imagined toenails
could
look . . . and the caterers. Two other children would be Masked at the same ceremony, but each family would hold its own separate reception afterward: and since Mara was the daughter of Tamita’s Master Maskmaker,
her
reception had to be top-tier, indeed.

Yet through all the planning, the decorating of the house with strings of silver sequins and garlands of preserved passionflowers of red and yellow and white, one person remained conspicuously absent: her father.

“Are you
sure
Daddy is all right?” Mara asked her mother as they worked in the kitchen just two days before the Masking. “The last time I saw him, he looked so tired.”

Her mother, polishing silver at the washbasin, remained silent for a moment. “I told you,” she finally said. “He’s not ill. He’s just . . . preoccupied.” She put aside a gleaming knife and picked up a tarnished fork. “And I think I know why.”

“Really?” Mara had her own polishing task: to make sure none of the crystal goblets had even the tiniest water spot to mar their glittering perfection. She lifted the one she held up to her eyes, peering critically through it at the window. “Why?”

Her mother moved on to a spoon. “It’s you.”

“Me?” Mara put down the goblet and stared at her. “Huh?”

“You’re his little girl,” her mother said. “But after the Masking . . . well, you’ll still be his daughter. But you won’t be a little girl anymore. You’ll be an adult. You’ll wear your Mask whenever you go out, and before you know it there’ll be some young man courting you, and then . . .” She sighed. “It’s the way of the world, and there’s nothing to be done about it. But it’s hard. Hard for me, too. But I think it’s even harder for your father. For
all
fathers.”

Mara picked up the next goblet and rubbed it with her soft white cloth. “Was it like that for your father?” Mara had never known her grandparents, who had died before she was born, but she knew her mother’s father had been a dye merchant, the success of his business bringing the family north to Tamita just before her mother was Masked. His warehouse still stood down by the Gate, although she didn’t know who owned it now: she’d seen big black wagons roll out of it, but had no way of knowing what they carried.

“Yes,” her mother said sadly. “He was different, after I was Masked. Like he didn’t know how to talk to me anymore. And I guess I didn’t really know how to talk to him after that, either. And before we ever figured it out, he and Mom got sick, and . . .” She pressed her lips together, and resumed polishing the silver, harder than ever.

Mara said nothing more about it, but in her heart she swore she wouldn’t let that happen to
her
.
The Masking won’t change me
, she promised herself.
And it won’t change our family. We’re still a family. We’ll
always
be a family. Nothing can change
that.

And then, as if time had suddenly leaped forward, it was the day of the Masking itself.

Mara saw her father again at last, in the front room as she and her mother came down that morning after spending an hour on Mara’s hair and makeup. His expression when she appeared in her beautiful dress was not at all what she expected. She saw a flash of the pride and wonder she’d hoped for, but then it vanished, as though shutters had been slammed closed across a brightly lit window. All that remained was the same withdrawn look of fatigue she’d seen a few days earlier at breakfast.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, but almost as if the words hurt him.

“Isn’t she?” her mother said. “My little girl. The Autarch will be—”

“The Autarch won’t be there,” her father said. As Mara’s mother gasped, he turned away and picked up his Mask from the stand by the front door.

“What?” her mother cried. “But the Autarch has come to almost all of the Gifted Maskings for the past—”

“Almost all,” her father said. “Not quite all. And this one . . . he has chosen to stay away from.” He settled his Mask on his face, and only then turned to look at them again, his expression hidden by the smooth copper surface. “But there will be another distinguished guest,” he continued. “Ethelda, the Chief Healer of the Palace. Healer of the Autarch himself. She will attend in the Autarch’s place.”