Persia11

Once they exited, I stood with my arms crossed and studied the curtain draped over the mirror.

Throughout my life I'd had a morbid fascination with my reflection. It was a source of confusion for me as a child, as I felt no different than anyone else until I saw my own face. It was then that I was reminded of why the crowds shrieked with terror, or why strangers wrinkled their noses in repulsion as they dropped bright coins into a Gypsy's dirty palm.

With each passing day I tired of their reaction, of how in a matter of minutes they perceived me as the pinnacle of evil. I was no longer a child when I was cast as the son of the devil in a sideshow exhibit and my patience waned.

Many times I had stood before a mirror, barefoot and in tattered trousers. I stared at my bruised, dirty chest, the scratches down my arms, and the mask covering one side of my face. I would hold my breath and rip the mask away, staring hard into my own expressionless eyes.

Sometimes it was worse than I expected, sometimes I forced myself to believe it was only a face. Regardless, it was a way to punish myself the longer I looked, the more distorted the image.

Deep inside, I felt the person within started to match the beast on the outside.

Shazeen dangled her feet over the arm of the chair and her clattering anklets drew my attention. She offered a weak smile when I looked at her, then swung her legs over and padded toward the mirror.

She pulled down the curtain and allowed the fabric to pool at her feet with a soft woosh. Despite standing at a distance, our reflections were captured together. She studied herself briefly, trepidation in her gaze. I had no idea how she could look in the mirror and not be satisfied with the woman staring back.

When she caught me studying her, she looked over her shoulder and smiled briefly, then turned and headed toward the balcony, where she disappeared through the curtains. I allowed myself a futile moment to watch her through the fabric before I turned my attention back to the mirror and took a deep breath.

There was a purpose to the Daroga covering it, but I had no idea what. Yet.

"The air is chilled," Shazeen suddenly announced.

Her voice startled me. "Then step inside," I suggested. Her blatant observations were maddening.

Rather than listen, she pulled out her chair, sat, and took up a pencil. I narrowed my eyes and watched as she began scribbling on the sheet of paper I had previously used.

Shaking my head, I turned and built up the fire. From the corner of my eye I watched her remain on the balcony. As the blaze intensified and the front of my body became almost uncomfortably warm, I considered joining her, but had no desire or use for her company.

Despite declaring the night air cold, she drew for a while, her body hunched over the table, chin resting on her palm. She had an ungodly style and I cringed at the sight of how she sat and held onto the pencil.

I had learned through observation, which extended much further than my ability to sketch. The only true benefit of standing at a distance was seeing the world in a fashion its inhabitance ignored. There were subtle ways to appear well-bred and even well-educated, as I had learned from observing the opera stage workers, costume designers, and maids, who were a combination of imbeciles in rags and geniuses in disguise.

For the most part the well-dressed aristocrats flooding into the theater hid their lack of intelligence behind fine clothing and repetitive but polite conversation. Silence garnered them respect, these little puppets of their social hierarchy.

"Would you teach me to draw?" she asked as she brushed her hand over the page. She looked directly at me when she spoke.

I nodded and realized I had been blatantly staring while deep in thought. "If you wish."

She gave a sly smile as she examined her work and rested the tip of the pencil against her bottom lip. I held my breath and watched her as she looked over her work. Something about her wholly fascinated me, created an ache in a barren place I hadn't noticed before.

"You said you were not an artist," she said. She removed the pencil and dropped it onto the table, which made me abruptly straighten.

"I said I am many things," I answered roughly.

She pushed her hair over her shoulder and considered my words. "Then what makes you a teacher, toy?"

I lifted my chin and crossed my arms, annoyed by her questioning and my lack of skillful silence. "Experience," I replied.

She grunted but didn't turn to face me. "And you are a man of worldly experience? Would you be willing to share this with a woman?"

I turned from her and stared at—of all things—the empty bed with its disheveled blankets. She was a foolish woman asking foolish questions, but this one I couldn't answer. Limitations constantly surrounded me, stark reminders of why I was caged and forced away. Despite my intentions, I was best at observing and a novice at sharing.

A sense of shame hit me worse than my father's hand or that of any other who had beaten me down. Her question seemed to be the sharpest blow I had encountered.

None of what I had seen or done in my brief lifetime was worth sharing. She knew this and chose to use it against me, which angered me greatly.

"You spend a great deal of time in your head," Shazeen observed as she walked back into the room and fanned herself with the paper she had used to scribble her artwork. "Why do you choose silence over speaking?"

"You've said nothing which engages my interest in conversation."

She blinked at me, but in no way seemed deterred. "You should ask questions," she said, her tone oddly soft.

"I suppose you're now hot," I muttered as I crossed my arms and turned away, ignoring her words.

She shrugged and placed her paper fan onto the chair near the fire. She stared at it a moment, then looked at me. "Comfortable," she said. "The fan is unnecessary."

I grunted. There were many luxuries that seemed unnecessary and I lacked most of them.

"You should listen if you have no desire to speak," she said.

I snatched up her artwork from where she'd discarded the paper and carefully unfolded it. In place of a drawing she'd hastily scribbled a note and surrounded it with dark lines. On the back was part of the design for the puzzle box, which she had apparently decided to destroy in favor of her own artistry. The note read:

Some ghosts see out of you.

I looked up from the note and narrowed my eyes at her. She met my gaze, then peered toward the mirror before staring back at me. Folding the paper, I discarded it into the fire and walked to the balcony, where I gathered up the drawing materials. The key, I noticed, was missing.

I had just turned my back for a moment when the door swung open and hit the wall with such force I was surprised it didn't crack the stone. Startled, I inhaled sharply and whipped around, finding an unfamiliar man with long, black hair storming into the apartments. He paused, his posture imitating a bear at its full height before the beast prepared to charge.

Shazeen sank to her knees automatically and placed her hands behind her head as the stranger stood over her. She saw me step forward and shook her head, rendering me still and silent.

"Worthless little whore," the man said between his teeth.

She bowed her head as the man roughly grabbed her by the wrists and tossed her to the ground. He waited a moment for her to fight or protest, then reached down and grabbed her by the hair.

"Where is he?" the Sultana questioned as she strode through the doorway.

The man paused, still holding tight to Shazeen as she sat with her legs sprawled out. "He is not my concern."

Arden followed behind the Sultana, the box I had created clasped in his hands, his distraught gaze trained on Shazeen as the man dragged her around the room. She made no attempt to struggle, even when he purposely wrenched her back and forth.

"Here," I answered as I pulled the curtain aside and paused just within the room.

The Sultana offered a wave of her hand at the stranger. "Remove her."

Shazeen looked back at me, then toward the mirror before she disappeared without a sound of protest.

"Your gift is not at all to my liking," the Sultana said once the stranger dragged Shazeen away. Her voice was low and harsh, dripping with malice.

I pulled my gaze from the door and studied Arden, who looked remarkably tense. He stood with his head to the side and I knew he was listening for Shazeen to scream or call out for help. He met my eye and shook his head, though the gesture was barely noticeable.

"May I inquire what is not to your liking?" I asked as I glanced at the Sultana.

"It doesn't work, you grotesque imbecile," she said, biting off each word. She held her arms straight at her sides, gloved hands balled into fists. "Did you honestly think I would continue with this petty, childish nonsense?"

I decided if she intended to kill me, I would not meet my demise in silence. Her incompetence was not my doing.

"It doesn't work or you have not yet discovered how to open it?" I brazenly questioned.

She breathed so hard her veil rustled. Beneath her coverings I imagined a dragon ready to exhale fire and incinerate me for my insolence. With a flick of her wrist, Arden stepped forward and shoved the box toward my chest as though he feared it would burst into flames.

"Open it," she ordered.

I looked down at the box and harnessed my erratic breathing, knowing this simple secret was all I had remaining.

"No," I answered flatly.

Arden made a sound of disgust on my behalf, but the Sultana remained silent. I hated that I couldn't see her expression, but I assumed her gaze tore through me as she seethed.

"You refuse?" she fumed.

"Indeed."

She laughed then, her tone wintery. "You will be a pleasure to undo," she said, her voice hinting at delight.

I shrugged. Years of watching performances from an opera box and rehearsals from the high places within the theater flooded my mind. I separated myself from the promise of torture and loosened my tightly held frame in preparation for my role.

"Then the secret dies with me," I said, masking my trepidation.

She didn't move or utter a sound. Behind her, Arden watched intently, his wide-eyed gaze switching from me to the Sultana, the lone audience member riveted by the unfolding plot.

At last she grunted. "Your drawings will betray you," she replied.

"The instructions were destroyed," I answered.

To my surprise, she stormed forward, grabbed the box from my hands, and kicked me in the thigh mere inches from where she had stabbed me. The pain was enough to bring me to my knees, but I swallowed a groan and forced myself upright.

"There is no lock, no key…explain this," she ordered.

"You saw the design yourself," I reminded her, barely able to stifle the throbbing pain coming in waves.

My plan faltered, but I reminded myself of actors forced to trudge on while sheep lowed from the wings, horses relieved themselves on stage, or props and scenery fell—with and occasionally without my childish assistance or trickery. This was no different; I needed to act my part no matter what stood in the way.

She stalked past me and set the box on the balcony ledge. I watched in silence as she rummaged through the drawings left on the table. With an inhuman growl of frustration, she tore the sheets of paper and left them scattered on the ground, then grabbed the box and shook it.

"Flog him," she ordered. "Tomorrow morning at dawn, flog him until he reveals how it opens."

She started toward me once more. "You will answer me," she said, her voice low and trembling with rage. "I will deliver you to the very edge of life and death at dawn. You will writhe and gasp for mercy, beg on bloodied knees for your god to claim you, but you are under my command. Is that understood, insolent toy?"

I held my breath until she stormed past me and slammed the door shut. When I turned, I found Arden hadn't exited. He looked at me and frowned but didn't speak.

"I won't answer her," I said, affirming the decision to myself more than speaking to him.

"Yes," Arden said as he opened the door and walked out. "I know."

oooOooo

Sleep wouldn't find me. I remembered my first night within the opera house, when every unfamiliar noise startled me. I had been too afraid to close my eyes, too untrusting of the young dancer who had guided me into the cellar and promised me amnesty.

"Hurry," she had pleaded as I ran with her down damp, musty paths into the depths of the theater where no one dared to tread. "You can stay here safely for a few days."

I hadn't believed her, but I followed her nonetheless. The first night had felt dismal, like a trap. I waited for the authorities to track me down, to pull me from the shadows and to find and question Madeline. I feared her punishment more than my own, as she was just a girl who had set the beast free.

Days had turned to weeks, which stretched into months. What was intended as a few days became years. I had grown restless in my solitary kingdom, bored by the silence in the deep part of the earth where I dwelled.

I had never longed for the opera house and its jungles of ropes, catwalks, and changing scenery more than in that moment. A world away, I wondered what the actors were rehearsing and if every mishap was presumably still my doing. I longed for simple mischief and a fabled identity. I longed for arguing with Madeline over second acts, her dancers running wild along the catwalk, and the books she brought me.

A cold bead of sweat trickled down my brow as I lay on my side and stared at the mirror. The fire had died down considerably, the room cast in deep shadows. The subtle noises in the background couldn't compete with the voices vying for my attention.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat hunched over, clutching my knees. My leg resonated with heat and pain, my pajama pant leg soaked in fresh blood.

Some ghosts see out of you.

Shazeen's written words refused to be ignored. I suspected she was either dead or close to it by now and this was the only part of her remaining. Her foolishness angered me.

She should have kept her distance rather than intruding on my life, sat in silence rather than engaging in conversation. There had been many nights while in the company of Gypsies where many men and women sat no more than an arm's length away and ignored me completely. When I was of use, I was noticed, but when their pockets were full and my duty done, I could become invisible. Their ability to shut me out from conversation as well as existence was a difficult punishment to accept.

I wondered if Shazeen was meant to aggravate me or if exiling her in my company was to be her ruin. Perhaps it was both.

I wiped my hand over my face and shuddered. My eyes were dry and heavy, but I stared at my troubled reflection and wondered why I still existed. Perhaps amongst life's miracles there was a need for destruction and misery and it was my fate to fill that lot.

Dawn approached. I steeled my nerves and took several deep breaths, but my heart refused to steady. I had grown accustomed to being hit and clubbed repeatedly, spit on, choked, and kicked. This, however, would be different.

Not an ounce of mercy, Shazeen had said.

I limped toward the mirror and studied my reflection, at the man who had refused to die as a child. This life had served no purpose and I frowned, wanting desperately to be something of use.

Something small and sharp pierced the ball of my foot and I stepped back quickly, squinting at the piece of metal caught in the rug. Three small bells held together on a delicate chain played a soft melody once I freed them from the threads holding them down. With a sigh I put the little bells and chain into my pocket and frowned, feeling a sense of pity for her.

I stood there until the shadows turned to golden light flooding the room and the birds crowded the gardens below the balcony. Long before the Sultana sent her men to retrieve me, I heard the voices down the hall, muffled and urgent.

Like a statue I remained before the mirror, the dark, bloody spot on my pajama pants soaking down to my knee. I undressed and donned dark trousers and a long-sleeved shirt I suspected would be of no use to me. I fit my mask into place and knew this would be removed as well, perhaps the first step in torture.

The door opened, several men entered, and I made no attempt to struggle as they grabbed my arms. The Daroga appeared with them, his hands folded, a worried look on his face. I knew he had come to oversee my torture and death—if death was allowed.

"There was a dancer," I said to him. "At the opera house in Paris."

He nodded once and listened.

"Write to her. Tell her the ghost is well," I said quickly.

Despite my hopes she would forget me completely, I knew Madeline matched me in one trait: stubbornness. If I demanded she stay far from my lakeside apartments, if I instructed she should not return for a week, she would come to me the following day and say she had forgotten something.

I'd never made a remark, but it seemed perfectly ironic how a woman could remember an entire list of dried goods and supplies without writing it down, yet when she was asked to stay away, suddenly needed to return with a shirt she conveniently forgot.

"What is her name?" the Daroga asked as he followed behind me.

"Madeline," I said. "She married a man named Giry."

I hadn't cared for him, though truthfully my assessment was based on seeing him march through the theater as though he owned the damned place. He'd taken Madeline as his wife once he'd served his time in the Navy and decided it was time to start a family. I didn't care for the way he spoke of her, as though she had no purpose in his life other than giving him sons who could follow in his footsteps. I doubted he was pleased with their frail daughter.

"What is her relation?" the Daroga questioned.

I hesitated. She had protected me in my desperate hour, fed me when I thought for certain I would starve to death, and come to me moments before madness took hold. She had braved the corners of hell only I had dared to travel. She had been my only source of company, the lone person who had kept my secret.

"No relation," I mumbled, feeling foolish for wanting the Daroga to contact Madeline. She had a husband and a daughter; I was not her concern. "Just…an acquaintance."

With that, I was escorted toward the prison cells and a barren yard drenched in fresh blood and distant, echoing screams. The vacant courtyard smelled of urine and decay, the high stone walls impenetrable.

Torture awaited. I took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping I had strength enough to die.