by Emily Shore
“Absolutely enchanting, sister.” Neil snatches up my hand, then rubs his lips across the back of it.
“Not so bad yourself,” I comment, referring to his three-piece suit.
He kisses my cheek. “We all know I clean up nicely. Same goes for him.” He points to Luc. “Uh…strike that, he’s always clean. Anyway, I’ll be escorting you with Luc to the exhibit tonight. Daddy will bring you to the interaction.”
“I thought it wasn’t until midnight.”
“You will have a new preparation for the interaction,” Luc answers. “But the vision is not mine. All according to your father’s work and design.”
Neil takes my elbow, motioning to the door. “Best not to keep him waiting. Time for your grand Face of the Temple debut.”
Oh joy.
Some warped sense of gratitude emerges at the sight of a water exhibit. My father has seen to it my entrance is indeed grand. For the first time, the audience isn’t behind glass but sitting in chairs. Rather, they are standing with a round of applause as I make my way down the staircase into the crowd’s center. Right now, my butterflies strike poses like proud peacocks. Ugh, even they are turning bird on me. Whatever. Lightning still crackles on the edges of my Lepidoptera wings. Through all this, I keep my head raised high.
After I’ve ascended the small staircase that leads me to the tank’s edge, the exhibit room lights all dim. Luc and Neil help me into a canoe awaiting me on the surface. Whether my father prefers me to sit or lay down is unclear, so I opt for something halfway in between by leaning against the side of the canoe and slipping one hand into the water. Luc gathers the generous train, then drapes it into the water before he and Neil send the canoe off.
Now, the lights go black while a lone spotlight bathes the canoe. Music plays in the background, notes high, melodic, and eerie. Different from the Aviary’s music, but everything seems like the same old tune. I wonder when Force wants me underwater. There will be some sort of signal, I imagine, but for now, I’ll play along.
First, I pulse my hand through the water, creating small ripples—something simple to start with. I rise ever so slightly, bringing my hand up so droplets follow gravity’s path through the air and back to the water. Cupping the water in both hands, I toss it into the air above me, tilting so droplets tumble onto my hair. I hear nothing from the audience. Silence is required during the performance, so it’s no surprise.
Suddenly, I feel water from beneath me. Not shocked at all, I want to shake my head and chuckle. Well played, Luc. Instead, I recline into water as the canoe begins to sink. Silly of me not to notice the gaping holes inside the wood. Spreading my arms to the sides, I welcome the liquid. It’s the first time I’ve had a train that hasn’t fallen apart, but the feathers and flowers are fortunately light enough for me to bring the train along.
Taking one deep breath, I sink beneath the surface, keeping my eyes open. Tank lights swarm to life, marinating me in a rich glow—rich enough I can tell the audience has come with me. Some sort of mechanized chairs that shift downward like an amusement park ride that descends one level so they may watch my underwater performance from beyond the tank.
What I do first is plow right through the water to the glass until I can fan my hands along it. Water twirls my train all around me, and I play with it before coming up with an idea. Holding its end in my fingers, I spin my body in a circle. The white train follows. I take my dance into an arc, releasing a few breathy bubbles upon my flip. Continuing my underwater dance, I pirouette and swim in circles until I register I’m losing my buoyancy. The perfect time to dive. Curious as to how deep the tank is, I plunge straight down, more bubbles escaping, which only helps to propel me downward again. Once I reach the bottom, I push off with all my strength and course through the liquid, arms straight at my sides until I surface, gasping for air.
Music still plays in the background, and I understand why. This is the Temple. Expectations are higher. So, I breathe, then sink again. Now, I prove I can swim from one end of the tank to the other with no breaths taken. However many minutes it’s been, I can’t tell. As usual, this is my domain. To me, the audience doesn’t exist. Down here, it’s just the water and me. This is the closest nibble of freedom I get. Water is my air. Pity I can’t trade my lungs for gills.
A vibration pulses its way into me. Suddenly, I realize the water at my feet has begun to froth. Bubbles grow, forming the shape of a tornado. Steeling myself, I arch my neck, holding my breath as the tornado grows to envelop me. Inside the eye of the watery twister, I close my eyes, extend my arms, and play to the sensational dance as my train twirls to the rhythm. The feathers and flowers weave all around my body just to spin out again until the tornado propels me higher, rocketing my body up and up and up until…
I breathe air, flipping my hair as most of my body is launched out of the water, flying for three brief moments until I fall to a musical encore of screaming trumpets and bellowing drums.
Finally, I float on my back for the finale, breathless, sweeping my arms as if I’m forming a water angel. One last held note, and the lights darken. Fatigued but not yet drained, I swim for the edge of the tank where Luc and Neil help me out of the water. I lean on my brother for support, pausing to rest my forehead on his shoulder.
“You won’t believe the sprite lights I got from that,” Neil murmurs in my ear above the standing ovation, which is like thunder in the room. “By the weekend, these will be on every magazine cover in the world. You’re going global, sis. Congratulations.”
“Thrilled, Neil,” I quip. “Just thrilled.”
10
T o l e r A n c e
Bliss
Our father arranged a private box for us for Serenity’s opening night. She will have many more to come whether she realizes it or not. He has high expectations and demands they be met. She won’t have much rest unlike the Aviary. I can’t possibly predict the number of interactions since that is a cost factor or a business-related one. Sometimes, in the interest of diplomacy or corporate connections, Force will arrange for complimentary sessions to sweeten or sometimes proffer a business deal, merger, or contract—any number of things. Up till this point, the sessions have been private ones fulfilled by me.
Now, there will be interactions featuring us both. Perhaps I never expected he would find her. He always said I doubted him. Another reason for his changing my name. At least Serenity and I have one thing in common—neither of us will ever doubt him again.
She is the Swan incarnate. Having seen no other roles, I still know this will always be her best one. Like our father, Serenity wears all her emotions so loosely. At any point, she can multiply them, breeding expressions faster than rabbits. Her face doesn’t express her namesake; it expresses mine.
I wonder how well she will perform with the other exhibits my father has in mind.
I can adopt any pose, fit myself into any skin, and open myself up like a nesting doll to a client while keeping them always wanting more, always yearning to open another and another until they come to the last one. What they never understand is they will never find it. It’s so microscopic, it can’t be seen or even touched. Like bacteria.
Despite this, I don’t know what to make of this new interaction. In fact, it turns my insides to rot.
Why can I stomach the thought of a thousand more nights spent with a dozen or more men… but not one interaction with my own sister?
“Come, Mara.” Force leans over in the box to announce, “I will return you to your room where Serenity will join us. You will spend the next couple of hours with her before the interaction preparations. I have a feeling this encounter will be rather difficult, and I trust you to see to it she’s ready.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And Mara…” Pausing, he sweeps a few of my dark curls over my shoulder before finishing, “Immediately after your encounter, we will commence Serenity’s training. If all goes well, this may be the night I finally address you by your born name.”
It all c
omes down to Serenity, then.
Once we reach my bedroom, Director Aldaine and Neil are standing there with Serenity, who is still dressed in her Swan/Skeleton Flower ensemble, a veritable creek in the wake of the soaked train.
Force nods to both young men before approaching Serenity with outstretched arms. “Well done, daughter.”
He wastes no time before embracing her. I would smile. I would lean into the strength of his stance. I would breathe in his familiar cologne. Love the brush of his stubble against my soft cheek. Serenity does none of these things. She reacts like he’s a sparkler, almost jumping back to avoid catching fiery sparks from hitting her. As always, our father pursues until he gets what he wants. She squirms and cringes through it all before he finally releases her to address Director Aldaine.
“Excellent transformation, Luc.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard the director’s name. It suits him well. I appreciate the simple roll of the tongue it affords.
“Mara will help you undress,” Father tells Serenity. “I look forward to your interaction later tonight.”
He kisses her cheek and departs. Luc’s eyes stray from her once when I advance toward the three of them. However, it’s the first time they linger. In the Breakable Room, there was a momentary glance. This is more. He takes in the white dress my father selected for me this evening. He takes in the way it accentuates my curves, leaving little to the imagination. It’s an observance I’ve come to recognize so well. Second nature for men. Or perhaps…first nature.
I walk past them, then open the door to my room. “Only Serenity, please,” I request, and they both eye her.
“Great performance,” Neil mentions with a wink before turning around.
Luc seems like he wants to do more, but there is a hardness to Serenity’s eyes. She’s sharpened them with a diamond durability. He nods to her, glances at me once more, and then turns the corner to the adjoining hallway.
I decide to opt for a diversion topic to keep our conversation off our nonexistent relationship. “I saw your finale performance at the Aviary. The first time a director has become part of an exhibit. But it seems much has changed since then.” I close the door once the rest of her train is free.
“That’s an understatement,” she drawls.
“Come to my vanity. I’ll help you out of your dress.”
“Lindy sealed on the feathers. How will you—?”
“I have the remover. I know what to do.” Such a simple task. I could do it in my sleep.
“I hope you’ll teach me sometime. I’d like to remove my own costumes.”
Of course she would. I don’t offer her any acknowledgement because I have no interest in teaching her any of the things I know. As it is, my father’s request to keep her stable for the interaction seems mountainous.
When I sit her in front of the vanity, I decide a simple revelation will suffice. “Tonight’s interaction will be nyotaimori.”
Stunned, she shakes her head, damp hair whipping in the process. “How do you know what it’s going to be? And nyo-what?”
I hand her a robe, so she can use it to cover herself when the time comes.
“I am Yin.”
I give her the obvious reason as I start to work on her costume, detaching the lower part of the gown and then removing the feathers at her hips, moving upward. The sight of the familiar birthmark on her thigh—a replica to mine—does not escape my notice.
“I am the dark one who knows secrets and mysteries. It’s not for Yang. Yang is too unpredictable. Yang belongs to passion.”
“Isn’t Yang originally masculine?”
I can’t help but smirk a little at how she so easily deviates from the overarching interaction subject.
“Yes, but we both know you are more masculine. More like our father than any of his children.” I’ve reached her navel area now. My hands work quickly but effectively as they always do.
“So, what is this interaction?”
“Nyotaimori is translated as female body arrangement. It can be any food, really, but the most common is sushi. Its roots are Japanese.”
“You’ve done it before?”
“Dressed in my own skin, yes. Not as Yin.”
I peel apart more feathers. Her skin is softer than mine, but when my fingers touch the center of her chest between her cleavage, she winces.
“Did I—”
“No…” She rushes to speak as if trying to assuage any guilt even though I don’t feel any. “I had cuts there just a couple of months ago. It’s difficult to forget.”
“Memories are powerful things.” I remember everything.
“What happens during the interaction?” she questions.
“Our artisan will prepare us as the Yin and Yang, we will take our places on the tables, and food preparers will arrange the delicacies on our bodies, then the clients will come forward to sup.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, as stated in the prior arrangement, they will be permitted to touch me, but they will only touch your food. And any continued session will be completed by me, but I doubt that will be the case tonight. Our father wants to commence your training immediately.”
I peel off the last feather on her breast, and she doesn’t delay in covering herself with the robe.
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” I wonder.
“You know what I’m talking about. In the Breakable Room.”
“I don’t know.” I work the remover into the feathers at her neck, using a tool to skin them, ignoring her cringe when I rip just a little. Not enough remover.
“Yes, you do. You’ve been spending weeks with her. No one who meets her can help it. Our mother is the most lovable person on earth, Bliss. And considering the man you’ve spent your life with is the easiest person to hate—”
“I don’t hate him,” I deny.
“I wasn’t saying anything about your feelings. Just who he is. Something about him makes people want to hate him.”
“Not for me.” I look up. “And you’re wrong. He couldn’t have risen to such a height living off the hate of others.”
“True,” she agrees. “He has to feel fear. Fear and hate are both immensely powerful.”
“So is respect.”
“You don’t respect him.”
“I have a healthy obedience.” Turning my eyes back to her skin, I keep them there. “A tolerance because I understand him.”
“Is that what you have for me?” she asks once I reach the upper edge of her throat. “Tolerance?”
“You’re very perceptive, Serenity.”
“I want it to be more.”
“I know.” I still don’t look at her.
“Do you think we’ll ever be—”
“No.”
I finish with the last feather. The floor drowns from their weight. Now, the train looks more like one soggy white mess. Serenity doesn’t stand from the chair. She’s curled into herself a little. I don’t know why she’s so shy. I’ve seen her body before. I see it in the mirror every single day.
“Our artisan will be here in another hour to prepare us.”
“You don’t call her a preparer?”
“No.” I shake my head. “On this level of the Penthouse, they are no longer preparers. They are artisans because they are so skilled at what they do that they only prepare one person. Except for tonight. For the first time in years, he will have one more.”
Serenity looks like she’s about to leap from the chair. “He?”
“He,” I resound.
11
Y i N a n d Y a N g
Serenity
“Don’t come near me,” I warn the young man when he enters Bliss’s bedroom with a carrying case of items at his side.
I back up against the vanity. A male preparer. How could my father ever think—? How could Bliss ever—?
He scrutinizes me, head tilting in a curious manner, dark ginger locks of his hair falling over his brow he doesn
’t concern himself with. The ends of his short ponytail graze the edge of his neck just beneath his ear when he tips his face toward me. All Bliss does is smile when he sets his carrying case next to the vanity without saying a word. His next move stuns me; he kneels, bowing his head and opening his hand, palm up. Inside is a delicate paper swan. Beak thinned and folded to a perfect point, tail nothing more than a tiny, white triangle, neck curved and lower body straight as the bottom of a child’s paper boat.
“Queran doesn’t speak much,” Bliss says, removing her outer robe and hanging it on a hook. “He prefers to communicate through those. Occasionally, we’ll get a few words out of him.”
I stare at the young man as he presents me with the welcoming token. My fingers tremble as I accept, tips just brushing the swan head. He rises, reaches a hand to me, and then touches one of his thumbs to my left eye before gesturing to Bliss, beckoning me to watch.
Remaining rooted to my spot against the wall, I observe as he sways to Bliss’s side. His body is tall and lanky but with just a hint of graceful muscles—almost like a dancer’s. Then, he removes the gold chain around her neck, places it on the vanity, and follows suit with her lingerie until she is a naked canvas glancing back at her shell in the mirror. Her gaze doesn’t hold her reflection long.
The only thing he won’t have to change is her hair since she has a permanent implant, which changed it dark long ago from what I’ve learned. Next, Queran mixes a color palette of whites—subtle ivory, frost with a hint of shimmer blue, chiffon, cream betraying a honey glow, and coconuts with an under layer of pink. For the next few minutes, I study him as he blends all these onto her face with hands of soft and skilled expertise. Sweeping, curving, accenting, even swirling—all his paintbrushes perform synchronized dances along my sister’s skin. Not once do his eyes drift to places I consider “special”. Not once does he inhale quickly, betraying any lust. Every now and then, I catch him biting on his lower lip, but he never licks them. Nor do I ever detect anything other than his pale eggshell cheeks. They never crack to let a flush swell.
