A/N Thank you to my three followers and one favourite. I hope to hear from you, maybe. Also, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Warning for slight mature content later on.
Part II
Tehran, 1851
The Persian Court was more spectacular than Zítra had ever imagined it would be. Jewels inlaid into the walls, the floor, ribbons of gold threaded through the stone, and incense hanging in the air like a stifling cloud.
"Where has he gone now? His audience is in less than half of an hour." the Persian muttered irritably, fear in his green eyes and the way he wrung his hands.
"That way," Zítra sees a swirl of black out of the corner of her eye, easy to spot amongst the colours.
"Damn him, damn him," the two hurried after the shadow, reaching a door inlaid with precious metal. The Persian pushed it open, and swore loudly. "Get down from there now!"
The magician was perched on top of a jewelled throne like a great black raven, turning a diamond calmly over in his hands. "Such a beautiful place, don't you agree, Daroga?"
They watched with a mixture of horror and awe as he pulled what looked like another diamond out from under his cloak, fitting it neatly into the gaping space left behind by the real thing. "Would you care for a diamond?"
"Come down from there, please," the Persian has a hand against the wall, breathing heavily and eyes darting. "If you are discovered, all three of us will be put to death."
"Oh Daroga, what a truly boring little fart you are at times," the magician slowly descended the steps, and Zítra stifled a giggle behind her small hand. The magician's eyes darted to her, and with look that was almost approval he swept out of the open door. "We're late."
The Shah of Persia was seated in amongst roses, his bejewelled hand caressing the fur of a sleek Siamese bearing a diamond-encrusted collar. At sight of the magician, it jumped up, winding around his legs and purring after giving a quick, scornful glances towards the Persian and the girl clad in turquoise. Other cats materialised from the rose-bushes and joined the first, mewing and fighting for attention.
The Shah narrowed his eyes. "Fascinating. I have never observed them to do that…never. Daroga!"
The Persian bowed and left. The Shah's eyes turned to the pale-skinned girl who had taken a step closer to the magician. "Who is this?" he demanded.
"My assistant," the magician replied smoothly, and Zítra felt herself stand a little taller. Since the incident on her birthday, he had been teaching her various tricks and ways she could help set up some of his performances.
"How old are you, girl?" his eyes travelled up and down her body, and she resisted the urge to hide behind the magician's cloak.
"Thirteen, sir," she bunched her fists into the material of her dress.
"You may walk behind us," the Shah rose to his feet. "Come, my friend. We have much to discuss."
The next day, the magician was summoned to the harem. Two black eunuchs escorted him along long, winding corridors, and Zítra trailed behind in a cloud of jasmine and green silk, given by the Shah.
They were kept waiting in a small, cage-like courtyard for over an hour. The magician paced up and down with slow, deliberate steps, and Zítra began to dance, balancing on the tips of her slender feet, the silk trousers billowing as she spun and twirled.
As the set of the magician's shoulders began to get tenser, the curl of his lower lip more furious, the eunuchs closed in with their weapons raised high. He glared at them, and sparks of blue, green and gold erupted from his fingertips, leaping up in a circle of flames around them.
There was slow, mocking applause from the balcony, and Zítra ducked behind the magician, hiding from a pair of snake-like dark eyes gleaming out of a handsome face that struck fear into her heart. "I trust that you have not journeyed all the way from Russia to show me fireworks," she drawled, trailing a hennaed hand across the marble of the balcony rail.
"By no means, madam." The magician stares her down, and Zítra peeks out from behind his cloak. "That was a mere trifle designed to amuse tiresome children."
"Then if that was a mere trifle, I ask you to remove your mask. Now."
Frightened at the enjoyment in the woman's eyes, Zítra clapped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut. If the magician exploded, shouted and raged, then it would be the death of both of them. She'd not been at the court long, but she understood that.
There is the noise of leather hitting stone, and the screams of terrified women. "The next woman who screams shall be beaten to death for her stupidity," the khanum snapped, vicious and relentless. "Go now, all of you."
Her eyes narrowed as she saw a flash of green silk, and chestnut hair. "Who is that behind you?"
His hand came back, almost touching Zítra's arm. "My assistant."
"I was not aware that you needed an…assistant," the khanum leant forward, and the magician stepped aside, revealing Zítra to the woman's malevolent gaze.
"I do not. She is a dancer, and has been with me for the past months," the magician says lazily. "I have grown fond of her."
"Fond…" the khanum laughed. "Well, little girl, you shall be allowed to remain with your master." She turns her gaze back to the unmasked face of the magician. "And if your imagination matches your face, you shall be the second most powerful man in Persia."
The magician was seen to consider it for a second. "Is that a prophecy, or a promise?"
"That, my friend, is entirely for you to decide."
The second that they were alone in their apartment, she turned to him, her hands on her hips. "I don't like the khanum," she stated matter-of-factly.
"Keep it to yourself, then would you?" he grunts, sinking down on the divan. "Go on. Amuse yourself."
She turns to go, a question nagging at the tip of her tongue. "Did you mean it?"
"What?" he doesn't move.
"That you are fond of me?" she lingers in the doorway, and he groans, twisting to look at her with startlingly amber eyes.
"You will find I am not very fond of you after all if you keep asking inane questions, girl," he said severely.
She raised herself on the tips of her toes, her arms spread behind her as though she was about to take flight. "Alright," she said. "Alright."
A year passed in a shower of magic-tricks and performances that got darker and darker as the months went on. The khanum plied her favourite entertainer with hashish, a drug that distorted his already blackened imagination, horrors spilling from his head in rows of mangled corpses and mirrored rooms.
The Persian, growing sick of this chaos and bloodshed, introduced the magician to opium, which stopped the terrible deeds being committed to appease the khanum's lust for torture.
It was just after Zítra's birthday again when the magician entered the apartment in a rage, throwing things against the painted walls in showers of broken china and glass. "A quaint little Persian custom indeed," he shouted. "Has no-one in this godforsaken country heard of a decent period of mourning?"
She stood in the doorway and watched as he raged, perplexed that a man who had so few morals could be so passionate about something that barely mattered to people in this country. A little widowed princess, forced to marry again less than a week after her previous husband's death. No Persians would care about her. It must have been one of his French eccentricities to care so deeply about propriety.
"You will have to perform," the Persian said as he shut the door behind the magician's anger.
"Will you need help?" Zítra asked eagerly as the magician sank onto the divan, the visible part of his face white and set.
"No," he said shortly.
Disappointment tugged at her, and she turned away, the key twirling between her fingers. "Zítra," the Persian crossed the room and laid a hand on her shoulder. "The Shah has asked for you to dance as well," he told her.
"She will not," the magician spoke up harshly.
"Why?" Zítra rounded on the magician. "Why won't you let me perform? I've not been allowed to dance in public ever since we came here! It's not fair!"
"Stop acting like a child," the magician rose to his feet, a menacing black shadow looming over her. "Go to your room."
Her lower lip stuck out in a pout, and she tossed her hair. "I'm not a child."
"If you act like one, I shall punish you like one. Go. Now."
Admitting defeat, Zítra swung around in a whirl of silk skirt and disappeared, slamming the door to her bedroom behind her. The Persian turned wearily to face the magician.
"Erik, you're being wholly unreasonable. Let her dance."
"I've seen the way the Shah looks at her," the magician leans his head against the wall, his feet crunching on shards of broken objects. "I will not have her hurt."
"And if you defy the Shah, both of your heads will end up stuck over the palace gates," the Persian sighs. "You care for her more than it is safe to do so, my friend."
The magician glares at him, and the Persian's forced smile falters under the weight of the younger man's fury. "She is a child, Daroga. Only just fourteen. Too young to be the object of lust for any man."
"You desire her," the accusation is blunt and greeted with stifling silence for endless ticks of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
"I know her," the magician says slowly. "I know that she is stubborn and stupid and kind and good and irritating, and if I desired her, I wouldn't ever act on it. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," the Persian says without hesitating. "I do."
"I suppose I must let her dance, mustn't I?" the magician sighed, raking a hand through his hair and adjusting his mask.
"You cannot deny a songbird of it song any more than you can deny a dancer of movement," the Persian opens the front door with these parting words of wisdom.
"Goodnight," the magician said slowly as the front door shuts behind the bright silk of the Persian's robes.
He told Zítra through the door of his change of mind, but received no reply. Exasperated, he turned away, moving into the room he'd deemed his workshop to attend to his own performance, draping a coffin in black velvet and carefully arranging the illusion he would create on the night of the wedding.
The girl had not re-appeared by that evening, though there was a loaf of bread missing from the larder and a roll of bandages from the cabinet that contained his opium.
For the next three days, she stayed locked in her room. He heard thumps and the sound of her muttering in Czech, but was too preoccupied with his own affairs to pay any attention to her. If she wanted to be reclusive, he'd let her.
On the eve of the wedding, an hour before the feast was about to begin, she finally emerged, clad in the most incredible costume he had ever seen. A tattered, dirty white tutu and torn lace corset hanging by one strap off her slender shoulder. Her old dancing shoes on her feet, the ribbons trailing sorrowfully on the floor.
"Will you help me?" she asked, the first time he'd ever seen her shy.
He nodded tersely, taking the proffered flower crown of faded rosebuds and the face-paint box. She sat down on the divan, tucking her slim legs under her and shaking her tumble of half curls loose. "It needs to be up," she said nervously. "Messy. And the crown on top of it. Then the make-up has to be white, and little red lips and large dark eyes. I can't do it myself, I've never been very good at make-up. I'm a toy dancer, you see."
"Hush," he muttered, kneeling behind her, and carefully untangling the knots in her hair with his fingers. "Stay still."
He was surprising gentle, for a man who had delivered so many death blows with the frightening piece of catgut he called the Punjab lasso. Skilled as well, for in no time, her hair was piled on top of her head, the crown of rosebuds holding it in place and little loose ringlets teased forward to frame her face.
"Turn around." He opened the make-up case, and she shifted, her hands clenched tightly at her sides as he began to paint her face, his eyes narrowed in concentration. When her cheeks were done, she closed her eyes and he picked up a kohl stick, outlined the almond shape of them, his face so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle, trembling touch of the make-up stick on her eyelids.
"Done," he said, forcibly pulling himself away and replacing the final make-up item, the red lipstick, in the box. He stood, his jet-beaded cloak swirling around him, and then she was staring up at him, and she opened her mouth to say something, but he turned away, picking up the velvet bag in which his illusion was held.
He opened the door to leave, and the cold air spilling in from outside did much to relieve her heady smell of jasmine and soap that filled his head with intoxicating thoughts of her freckled cheeks and fluttering eyelids. He was grown man, not a lovesick boy, and with a face like his, he could never hope to desire a woman and be desired in return.
And she is not a woman, she is a little girl, he reminded himself as she tripped down the hallway after him, swathed in a velvet cloak. A young girl who is innocent and kind and trusting and not to be taken advantage of.
The court was in uproar after the trick with the skeleton, the bony finger pointing accusingly at the new Grand Vizier, the father-in-law of the little princess. The magician turned imperiously, and strode to the edge of the hall, curious as to what Zítra was going to do. Accepting as glass of wine, he leant against the wall, his hat tilted low to shield his mask from prying eyes of distinguished guests and the glares of the Grand Vizier's associates.
She appeared to applause in the great doorway, stumbling several steps into the great hall and collapsing to the floor, her legs and arms spread at funny angles, a vision in white against the black marble.
Then the music started and he could only stare as she rose on unsteady legs, crumpling again and again into an heap of painted limbs and tulle skirts, a little toy dancer struggling to regain her balance. As the notes from the harp and piano and violin grew, she became more graceful, her body losing the rustiness and spinning on the very tips of her toes, reaching towards the stars painted on the ceiling and out towards the audience.
She began to move faster and faster as the music grew to a crescendo, twisting and bending against an invisible force and he could feel himself gravitating towards her, pulled in by the beauty of the story she was telling, and he felt tears coming to his eyes for the first time in years as the music cut off and she desperately strained towards him, her blue eyes meeting his, before her legs buckled and she fell to the floor, lifeless and unmoving.
There was silence for interminable seconds, and then the cheers started, louder than even for him as she rose gracefully to her feet and bowed her head in a curtsey. The little princess was crying openly, and moved from her seat to embrace the toy dancer, a dark head and chestnut pressed together.
He choked back his emotions, and swallowed his wine down. Pain tore through his insides, and he began to cough. Out. Now. Air.
He ducked under the high table, disappeared by a side door out into the night, blood bubbling over his lips with every breath.
When the initial uproar died down, and the harem girls moved in to take the floor, hips swaying provocatively as the young bride drew Zítra aside. "You were beautiful," the girl smiled sadly.
"Thank you, Lady," Zítra ducked her head, more of her hair escaping from the carefully upswept pile upon her head.
The princess seemed about to say something else, but the imperious voice of the Shah interrupted them, calling from his throne in the centre of the high table. "Afsaneh! Bring the dancer here!" The princess paled, and made a gesture with her hand.
"Come," she said softly.
Fear began to tug at Zítra as she made the required obeisance before the Shah. She could feel his eyes running up and down her body, and her heart pounding beneath the corset. Where was the magician when she needed him? In fact, she hadn't seen him since the end of her performance, when she could feel his amber eyes boring into her, staring at her with something that could have been desire.
"Back to your husband, little sister," the Shah commanded, raising Zítra with a finger beneath her chin. The princess curtsied again, and disappeared, leaving Zítra and the Shah alone upon the dais.
In a rustle of silk and jewels, the Shah stood, gripping Zítra's wrist tightly. His breath smelt of wine as he leant to whisper in her ear. "I have something to show you, little dancer."
Nodding dumbly with fear coursing through her veins, she allowed the Shah to lead her behind the great table, his fingers digging in tightly to her tender skin as he pushed open a door to a darkened antechamber, shutting it behind them so that they were plunged into blackness.
"It's a good thing your magician isn't here," the Shah's arms encircled her waist, and she almost cried out, but shut her mouth at the last second. This man was the law here, and if she defied him nothing but a slow, painful death would await her. "He is very…possessive of you, little dancer..."
The man's lips began to nuzzle against her neck, pulling the crown of rosebuds askew as he pushed her up against the wall, pressing his body heavily against hers. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and a feeling of shame lodged in her stomach. "Please…" she whispered. "Please, sir, don't do this…don't…don't…"
He ignored her, his clammy palm sliding over her chest and his breathing coming faster with desire. She could feel something hard pressing into her stomach and she sobbed and pleaded to no avail. He pushed aside the tutu, forcing her legs apart. "I've been wanting this for so long," he groaned, and she cried out, shoulders shaking and eyes slamming shut. This was not happening, not happening, it was a dream, a horrible dream and the magician was going to burst in the kill her attacker and…
He finished with her, and her knees buckled beneath her, sinking to the floor like the broken dancer she emulated not an hour ago, the tulle skirts sticking out at an angle. "You're a good girl," the Shah said, his breathing slowing. "My good girl."
"I'm not yours," she sobbed. "I'm not. I belong to the magician, not to you. Never to you."
The door slammed shut, and she curled into a ball, pain burning between her legs and in her chest. "Why?" she whispered brokenly. "Why? Why me? I've been so stupid, and now he won't want me anymore and I'll have to find someone else who can make me a human girl for the rest of my days…oh please, no, please let him keep me…I'll grovel and beg and please…please…"
The door opened a crack, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself, burying her head into her knees. "Little one? Zítra Flor?"
"Who…who is it?" she choked out, her voice muffled by the fabric of her costume.
"Darius, Nadir Khan's servant," there was the sound of someone falling to their knees beside her, and a gentle hand touching her back. "What happened, little one?"
"The…the Shah…he…he made me come in here and…" she wept harder, clenching her hands into fists on the cold stone floor. "The magician won't want me anymore…I'm dirty and shamed and broken and…"
"We'll see what he has to say," the servant said quietly. "Come, child, do not weep. The magician is a good man at heart."
He gathered the weeping girl into his arms, and carried her back through the palace, letting himself into the apartment to the sound of awful retching.
He deposited her on a sofa, laid a blanket around her shoulders which she clutched to herself tightly, tears making black streaks in her white make-up. The door to the bathroom opened, and the Persian appeared, sweat staining his brow.
"What happened?" he looked from his servant to the crying girl with a horrified expression on his face.
"The Shah happened," Darius replied, his normal respectful demeanour lost to anger. "She's a child, master, a little girl, and he took her against the wall of an antechamber. She says that the magician will not want her anymore."
"Erik will not have need for anyone soon," the Persian said grimly. "He has been poisoned, and now wishes to travel to Ashraf, to give the final plans to his master mason."
Zítra's head shot up. "Poisoned?" she croaked. "Where is he?"
When the Persian did not answer, she stumbled to her feet. "Where is he?"
"The bathroom," the older man gave in, watching as she tripped over her shoe-ribbons in her haste to get into the bathroom. The door shut behind her, and the Persian sank to the place where she'd been sitting.
"Order the carriage, Darius," he said slowly. "If it's the one thing I do for him, it might as well be to honour his dying wish."
The bathroom door shut behind her, and all she could do was stare in horror. Her magician, the man who'd seemed all but invulnerable was hunched over the luxurious marble bathtub, the mask discarded by his side and bile streaked with blood splattering from his twisted lips.
"Go away, Daroga," he coughed.
"It's me," Zítra crossed the room, knelt beside him, her legs trembling.
"Zítra Flor, where have you been?" Even in this awful state, he managed to sound reproving, before another surge of stomach bile made an appearance. She rubbed circles awkwardly on his back, feeling the shape of his ribs beneath his stained dress-shirt.
"I…I…" she couldn't bring herself to tell him what had happened to her, knowing how he would react. "The little princess wanted to talk to me," she lied. "What caused this?"
"The wine," he gasped, his whole body shaking violently. "Don't know what was in it. Must…must get to Ashraf."
"The Persian's ordering the carriage." Keeping the blanket held tightly in one hand, she unfolded a towel from a rail on the wall, laying it over his shoulders. "I'll get a bowl."
The door opened and the Persian appeared, a bowl in his hands. "You read my mind," Zítra grimaced at him. "We need to get more blankets, and get him into the carriage as quickly as possible."
And so, as the bells of the great clock-tower were tolling midnight, a carriage rolled out of the city gates, a dying man cradled in the arms of the clockwork dancer, her key dangling from her neck as she leaned forward to brush a kiss against his delirious brow.