Unmasked

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Outside the window next to her bed, Porcelina overheard Madeline and Chace speaking.

  “It’s not taking,” Chace said quietly. “Why isn’t it taking?”

  “My best guess, she’s fighting it,” Madeline said. “All I know is it’s dying and making her very ill.”

  Sweat gathered beneath Porcelina’s arms. She bit at her lower lip. All of her dreams spread at her feet and still she failed. And Chace—would he turn her out into the cold? Send her back to play on the streets, alone and starving? If this didn’t work, Porcelina would have no choice but to return home, her heart broken and her tail tucked.

  “This is no good,” Chace said. “I must have her! She is the key that would open all the doors that have been closed to us. We will have aristocracy eating from the palms of our hands. She—”

  “Could be your wife?” Madeline said.

  “Has such talent,” Chace finished, his voice a grim whisper. There was a long pause, then he said, “Put some of this into her tea.”

  Madeline made a garbled sound. “Chace, no, this could—”

  “I said, give it to her.”

  Madeline entered the trailer a moment later and pulled back the hanging that separated the bed from the rest of the room. “Porcelina, darling.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I heard.” Tears slipped from Porcelina’s eyes. “Why isn’t it working?”

  “Perhaps you struggle too much, or your fear and uncertainty are too great. I cannot say.”

  “It wasn’t this way with you?” Porcelina asked.

  Madeline shook her head, her long black beard swinging against her chest.

  Porcelina’s fingers tightened on the bed cover. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  Madeline’s shoulders drooped, then she slid a smooth glass vial from her pocket. “This is laudanum. Enough, and you should sleep through the worst of it.”

  Porcelina eyed the brown liquid, her lower lip trembled. “Chace wants me to take it?”

  Madeline nodded. “There are risks. You’re not a regular user. Too much and your breathing will stop.” She squeezed Porcelina’s hand. “Do you understand?”

  Porcelina thought of Chace—his lips, his touch. She thought of the show the night before and the fearless women in their masks. She met Madeline’s strong gaze. “I just want to be brave like all of you.”

  Madeline’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded and left the trailer. When she returned, she held out a steaming cup. “Here, drink this quickly, before it cools.”

  Porcelina took the cup in trembling hands and gulped down the reddish-brown tea. It was thick and bitter on her tongue. Her eyelids drooped. She fell back against the pillows. The empty teacup rolled from her fingertips and plinked onto the floor. The warm sucking sensation on her face grew. This time, there was no pain.

  Porcelina studied her reflection in the small mirror above the dressing table. Colors grew on her mask—spirals of blues and violet, like a bruise in blossom, lined in sheer pinks. It itched. She scraped a fingernail along the edges where her skin ended and the creature began.

  Chace appeared behind her. “Don’t scratch, ma note de musique. You don’t want to damage it. Are you ready for tonight?”

  She swept her hair from her neck with shaky hands. “I’m terribly nervous.”

  “There is no reason to be. You cannot fail.” Chace smirked, his dimple sending spires of heat through Porcelina’s bosom. “But perhaps this will help.”

  Chace stepped out. When he returned, he carried a violin made of golden spruce, backed in dark maple.

  Porcelina peered through the f-hole. “A Stradivarius! Oh, Chace, I couldn’t.”

  He laid a kiss on her forehead. “A new violin for a new woman.”

  Tears in her eyes, Porcelina threw her arms around his neck. She was ready to take the stage.

  The spotlight blinked on. Porcelina stood in the center of the ring, sawdust beneath her feet and the pine smell of rosin on her fingers.

  Her hands trembled as she swept her bow across the taut strings of her violin. The reverberation sang through her skin. The mask slithered on her face. Chace had said this performance would seal it to her forever. Is that what she truly wanted? Her arm jerked at the thought. Then, a feeling of warmth slid along her nerve endings, like slipping into a hot bath. Her arm moved smoothly, her fingers floated along the strings, but she was no longer in charge of them. The mask had taken over. Assured by Chace she could not fail tonight, Porcelina had chosen to play a difficult piece, one she had never mastered: Paganini’s Caprice 24.

  Instead, Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, No 1. poured from her fingertips, with its erratic, hectic strumming. Porcelina plucked at the strings with frenetic energy, her body jerking in time. She tried to stop, to freeze her hands, but they would not obey. This was not the music that sang in her soul. This was something entirely different.

  The song played through her, and as the last frenzied note drifted across the silent tent, Porcelina’s heart hammered in her chest. Though the song was not of her choosing, she had played it to perfection.

  The audience was silent. Dazed, Porcelina dropped a leg back to take her bow. The crowd took to its feet, the silence during her performance pierced by their storm of yells, whistles, and applause. Grinning, Porcelina hurried from the ring.

  Behind the canvas curtain, Chace greeted her. “Mon Dieu, that was perfection!”

  Both confused and pleased, Porcelina said, “Oh, Chace. It was so strange. I hadn’t intended to play that piece, but the mask, it took over and that came out.”

  “It was brilliant.” Chace smiled. “You will be our greatest attraction yet!”

  Porcelina laughed, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. She had performed before a crowd, fearless, and they had loved her. “It has been my dream to perform in front of the stage in the Palais Garnier, hidden away. But now, the world will come to see me play on it!”

  Chace laughed and squeezed her arms. “Porcelina, ma chérie, you cannot stay in Paris.”

  Porcelina stopped laughing. “What do you mean?”

  “You are one of us now. For the mask to work, you must stay near Mother.”

  “What?” Porcelina pulled from his grasp. “You didn’t tell me this.” She searched his deep brown eyes. “You’re saying I can never leave?”

  The corner of Chace’s lips turned down. “And why would you want to? We’re your family now.”

  On the other side of the curtain, the crowd stomped their feet, shouting, “Encore, encore!”

  “Go now, my swan, your fans are calling for you.” Chace spun Porcelina around and shoved her through the curtain.

  Porcelina’s legs were heavy as she trudged to the center of the ring, a gnawing sensation in her gut. What had just happened? The spotlight slammed on, blinding her. She lifted a hand to block its glare. The crowd hushed. What song would come from her violin this time? Sweat gathered on her forehead. Porcelina pulled at the high collar of her pale green dress. The air felt thick, cloying, every breath a struggle.

  Someone in the audience coughed. Porcelina could hear their whispers, feel their eagerness. It did not matter to them she had become la marionette, her strings pulled by the parasite on her face; the people wanted a show.

  How had she let the seduction of easy success sway her from what she wanted most? She wanted to play her own songs and bring to life the music that lived inside of her, but with the mask in charge would that ever be possible?

  It was her dream to play at the great opera house in Paris, but now … Chace’s words echoed in her mind. I have been driven away from my dreams … but that does not have to be the end of me.

  She could not let this tent forever be her prison.

  The Stradivarius slipped from Porcelina’s hands. She clawed at the edge of her mask. The warm tingling sensation shot down her arms, trying to force her hands away. Porcelina fought against it, dug her nails beneath the mask and ripped the writhing creature from
her face.

  Flesh tore. The pain: pure, ripe, agony.

  Screams filled the tent.

  Porcelina did not stop. She peeled the mask off the rest of the way, her own cries drowned out by the cacophony of disaster around her. Then it was gone—an enormous weight lifted from her body.

  She looked down at the parasite mask in her hands. Clinging to the inside were pieces of her bloody skin and a mass of short flailing tentacles—like silk maggots—that writhed and squirmed.

  The crowd were on their feet, pushing against one another. Their boots pounded, men yelled, and still the women screamed.

  Porcelina sank to her knees.

  Madeline came and knelt beside her. She took the mask from Porcelina’s hands and cradled the limp creature gently to her chest.

  The tent flaps slapped open again and again like angry clapping as the people pushed out into the night, the sound of their terror trailing behind them like a mournful wake.

  Around them, the other performers were bent over in pain, their hands on their faces. “I’m so sorry, Madeline.” Salty tears burned down Porcelina’s face. “I never meant to hurt any of you, or …” Her eyes drifted down to the dying creature in Madeline’s hands.

  Madeline looked at Porcelina, her own tears slipping down her velvet mask into her beard. “It’s all right, Porcelina. I will return it to the tank. Mother will heal it.”

  “I didn’t know.” Porcelina let out a sob. “Chace, he didn’t tell me everything.”

  Madeline nodded. “I know.” She looked around the tent at the other masked women. “We have all stood in your place, on the night of our premier performance. It was not true freedom he offered us, but …” she paused, swallowed hard. “He gave us a home, a place to belong. Something most of us have never had. So, we each made a choice.” She held the mask up. “The same as you did tonight.”

  “I wanted so much to be like all of you,” Porcelina said, “beautiful and unafraid. I never meant to disappoint you.”

  “Oh, ma fille.” Madeline grabbed Porcelina’s hand and squeezed. “You have not disappointed us. You have inspired us.”

  Porcelina wrapped her arms around Madeline’s neck and hugged her tight, the matador woman’s beard a soft touch against Porcelina’s face.

  Madeline chuckled. “Careful.” She pulled away, shifting the mask in her hands. “Go on now.” Madeline jutted her chin at the fallen violin. “Take that and go.”

  Porcelina shook her head. “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Consider it a gift.” Madeline motioned to the other women. “From us.”

  Porcelina grabbed the violin and got to her feet. She spun in a slow circle, meeting the gaze of every performer. The trio of clowns in their rainbow masks; Rocket, the tattooed beauty; and the fire-breathing twins, The Flame Dames. All of them stood up straight, some smiled at her, others simply nodded.

  Behind her, Chace yelled, “Porcelina!”

  Porcelina spun around. Chace stood frozen, his shoulders pulled back, chin held high. Streaks of red seeped from the edges of his mask and ran down his face—tears of blood staining his pure white mask. Then, he placed his hand over his heart.

  Porcelina bowed her head. Hot tears searing her face. She could have loved him, but the scars on his heart had made the muscle too tough to penetrate. Still, he had given her a gift. Chace Auclair, master of ceremonies for the Spectacle Merveilleux was a creation of his own fears and insecurities, trapped by his own failures. She would not be.

  Porcelina turned and strode out of the tent, out into the cold.

  Today was the last day of auditions. Porcelina walked through the grand doors of the Palais Garnier, her battered violin case clutched in sweaty hands.

  Porcelina waited in the wings, her face turned down. She wore an ivory lace mask across the top half of her face. It had taken two weeks for her wounds to close enough for her to leave her room at Madame Reine Marie’s. The doctors said in time the scarring would lessen, but she might never heal completely. She’d spent the time composing and practicing her own piece of music.

  The director called her name, and Porcelina made her way from behind the curtain. On the stage was a single chair. Porcelina sat and pulled her well-worn violin from its case. She had sold the Stradivarius to stay in Paris so she could pursue her dream.

  A spotlight flashed on, blinding her. Sweat gathered on her upper lip. Days ago, she’d received a letter from Madeline. The troupe were in Moscow now, sipping vodka and eating varenniki, all of them healthy and content; even Chace and Mother. Porcelina thought of those beautiful masked women, confident and safe behind their masks. She reached up and untied the ribbon around her head. The lace mask slid from her face onto her lap. Porcelina pressed the violin to her chin, took a deep breath, then lifted her face to the judges.

  Porcelina’s fingers trembled as they moved along the worn strings of her violin. Her song floated into the air.

  Alicia Cay is a writer of Speculative and Mystery stories. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies including Hold Your Fire from WordFire Press, and The Wild Hunt from Air and Nothingness Press. She suffers from wanderlust, crochets, collects quotes, and lives beneath the shadows of the Rocky Mountains with a corgi, a kitty, and a lot of fur.

  Find her at aliciacay.com.

  Speakeasy

  Keltie Zubko

  His words, messaged on the dating app, showed up on her phone as she checked her location and stopped abruptly at the unmarked entrance. A man who’d been following at about six feet behind swerved to avoid running into her and snapped, “Watch the distancing!” then stomped around and past her through the rain. She paused, trying to catch her breath through her mask and examined the inhospitable building, then read their last exchange again before he’d sent the address of the place now before her.

  “You said you wanted to talk face to face.”

  “There?”

  “Just a coffee shop.”

  “But so small.”

  She’d almost missed it. No windows let in the chilled gaze of passers-by. Tightly fastened shutters hoarded and protected whatever waited inside for her. No sign out front marked it, just the building number from earlier, more optimistic days, and some graffiti she couldn’t decipher except for the words “or die.” She glanced behind to make sure she wasn’t stepping in front of anyone else and tried the door anyway. It gave, so she pulled it open, then peered into the dim vestibule. A man stood like a guard, alert behind his clear plastic shield with a mask covering his lower face. This looked like the right place. She stepped inside.

  She felt him watching her fasten the door against the rainy wind. She suspected some errant draft may have slipped in with her, hiding in her rain gear or tucked discreetly behind her own mask and she shivered, looking into the eyes of the man protecting the rest of the place from her view. His bulky figure couldn’t prevent the blast of heat and noise seething up from behind him, greeting and enticing her. In previous times this very place would have been a cozy retreat from the damp weather, but now the prospect of going inside made her shiver again, this time not from the cold. The man’s eyes narrowed as she approached, and his voice cut through the muffling of the mask.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m supposed to meet someone here. Named Carl.” She stopped, not getting too close, hearing the outside door open and shut again while the host glanced up and then back to his computer screen.

  “He’s here already. And he’s vouched for you. Emma, right? But you still have to read and sign the waiver. He couldn’t do that for you.”

  At odds with his mask and elaborate plastic shield, he pushed a tablet at her, not bothering to sanitize it or take pains over the proper distance. She backed off a bit from reflex, then looked up into his skeptical eyes.

  “Not used to it, you know.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t come in, then. No one’s making you.”

  “Oh, no, I want to!” She reached out and took the tabl
et, looking at the long list on the screen before her.

  “You can’t enter until you’ve signed the waiver. You’d better read all the fine print.” Another couple fidgeted behind her now at the prescribed distance, and she felt them invisibly urge her to hurry.

  “You realize masks are optional? And we don’t control who breathes on you, right? Or where people stand or sit, where you stand or sit, who approaches you or not, and what traces they or you might leave or bring with you? Or the consequences.”

  His eyebrows rose and fell with emphasis as he recited the conditions of the waiver she’d have to sign, all the time watching her eyes. Despite the mask securing the lower part of her face, he seemed to read her doubt. They never used to have bouncers in coffee shops but that’s what he resembled. Indoors with no fresh-air patio, this place was supposed to be heavily regulated. She had to get by him to enter and meet the guy from the app. There were always squealers, she knew, imagining the trouble they could make for her, or this small business, struggling on the edge to survive. It was not like the old days when they openly lured crowds of people to stream freely in and out, and crammed in as many people as they could.

  She knew the dangers of going into the modest little coffee shop. The operative word, of course, was “little.” Many places had been shut down a long time ago, near the beginning of the pandemic, never to open again. She remembered all those hangouts they had taken for granted, redolent of coffee and warm with companionship. They were tiny, tight spaces efficiently paring down expensive square footage to serve office workers, hurried workmen or students huddled laptop to laptop renting wifi and a spot to study with the price of a coffee.

  Such small shops now operated with wide distances between the few patrons, or allowed no one inside, doing take-out instead. The host was supposed to police traffic, letting only a certain number of people in at a time, supervising proper single-file spacing, checking for masks and refusing business to those who didn’t comply. But this place operated outside those rules. The host, pugnacious and ready to turn her away, seemed like he’d stepped out of some forgotten history. She felt sweat accumulate on her upper lip behind her mask and her breath was hot and suffocating.