Chapter 15
After breakfast the next morning, I laced up my boots while Brigette changed from her nightgown and robe into something more suitable for a day of shopping.
“We’ve never really established what your duties are, Niffin.”
He sat at the breakfast table beside Malita, sipping coffee as he read the local morning paper. She’d found a bit of scrap parchment and a pencil stub and was sketching Niffin’s profile in the early sunlight.
“Tell me what you want,” he said. “I will let you know if I am willing to do it.”
“How do you feel about research?”
He looked up from the paper, arching a scarlet eyebrow.
“A city this size must have a library,” I said.
“Several, I would guess. What do you want me to study?”
“I want to know anything you can find out about the Basilica di Magia, the Council of Magic, the Marenato family, and their Magician in particular. Perhaps the library has old newspapers you can look through.”
He drew his lips into a crooked scowl. “I might have better luck listening to gossip in the pubs and bars.”
“You might be right. We don’t have much time, but if I’m going to this masquerade tonight, I want to go as informed as possible. See what you can find out, will you?”
“That is perhaps more the duty you would assign to your master spy rather than your diplomat.”
“Gideon’s not here, so I suppose you’ll have to do. You’re also the only one besides Brigette who speaks the language.”
“As long as you do not expect me to dye my hair again.” The morning sun made his scarlet hair gleam. I couldn’t blame him for being proud of it.
“Maybe you could just tuck it under you hat this time.” I gave him an apologetic smile. “And wear the tinted spectacles?”
He huffed, but his manner was acquiescent. “I make no promises, Evie. But I will do you as you ask.”
Once she had finished dressing, Brigette took me on another journey through the canals to Isolas’s garment district in search of a gown worthy of a Marenato affair. Though on such short notice, my hopes weren’t high. According to Brigette, most Isolas men and women of means would’ve commissioned their Stagoni di Magia attire months before.
“I’m not much of a fashion follower,” I warned her.
“I’ve seen how you dress, Evie. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
Her knowledge of Isolas truly was encyclopedic, and in no time, she’d ushered us to a street lined with shops displaying bolts of sumptuous fabrics and dress forms modeling the latest Isolas styles. She marched us up and down, clucking her tongue in distaste at most stores we passed. For the shops displaying something that caught her eye, we stopped, and she talked to the proprietor. Unable to understand the conversation, I bided my time as if I were in an artist’s gallery, admiring colors, textures and details. More than a few display gowns would’ve suited my needs, but nothing had satisfied Brigette, and I deferred to her expertise.
After a pause for lunch, we resumed our hunt. My feet were begging for a break when we stopped before a window exhibiting what would’ve been a rather plain gown if not for the vibrant hue that shimmered, changing from blue to green as the light shifted. The color reminded me of peacocks, and my fingers itched to touch the fabric. “This one,” I said as Brigette continued down the street. I raised my voice and pointed at the dress. “This is it, Brigette. This is the one.” And even if it wasn’t, we were running out of time.
“It’s too plain.” Brigette bit her lip as she studied the gown. “I saw it earlier and almost stopped, but it’s really too simple for our needs, which is likely why it’s still here. The gowns the women will be wearing to this masquerade....” She waved her hands as if words were insufficient to convey her meaning. “They’re more works of art than dresses.”
“What’s the purpose of me attending this party if not to stand out? It might be easier to do that with less rather than more.” I strode into the store, leaving her no chance to argue.
Compared to the other shops we’d visited, this one was small, understocked, and humbly furnished. Sitting at an old desk in the corner, a clerk looked up from the ledger she’d been studying. She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and smiled. I pointed at the dress and showed her a palmful of coins, and she nodded. Who needs the gifts of the Fantazikes when money speaks all languages?
Still, I required Brigette’s assistance to sort out the details. After a brief fitting to adjust the seams and hems, the clerk promised to have the dress delivered to my hotel room in plenty of time for the party.
“Now for the accessories.” Brigette clapped her hands together. “You can’t go to a masquerade without a mask.”
She led me back onto the street, and we scurried along, passing other shoppers, delivery boys, and shop girls sweeping stoops.
“I know just the place.”
We stopped outside a building of crumbling bricks held together by grime more than mortar. Dust and dirt glazed the windows, making it impossible to peer inside. A faded hand-painted sign on the door read: D’ Maschere, Carlo Freschi.
I arched an eyebrow at Brigette. “Really? This place? It doesn’t look promising.”
She knocked. “Trust me.”
The door swung open and a small man—the top of his head barely reached my ribs—greeted us. “Signorinas.” He bowed. “Prego entra.”
“Signore Freshi?” Brigette asked.
“Sí, come posso aiutarla?”
We followed him into a workshop filled with masks of every shape, design, color, and material imaginable. They hung from the walls and ceilings—long noses, short noses, no noses at all. Heavy brows, lush lips, beasts’ horns, and pointy chins. Smiles, frowns, laughing, and grimacing. As we moved through his workspace, the masks’ hollow gazes seemed to trail me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
Most masks were bare, but more than a few had been painted in elaborate patterns or colors and adorned with feathers, gems, beads, and trim. Tools littered Signore Freshi’s low worktables, but his apron and shirt were clean. His long red mustache curled at the ends, giving him a whimsical look.
Brigette stopped, folded her hands together, and glanced around the shop. “Abbiamo bisogno di un pavone.” Her gaze shifted to me, and she winked. “I told him we needed a peacock.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said.
Signore Freshi scurried to one dark corner where a stepladder waited in the shadows. After rolling it to the opposite side of his shop, he climbed to the top, reached into the back of a deep shelf, and withdrew a half-face mask painted in metallic greens, golds, and blues. Shimmering gems accented the border, and a bouquet of peacock feathers, affixed with a gold coin ornament, sprouted from the mask’s left temple. The slightly hooked nose resembled a bird’s beak, and fluttering lashes embellished the eyeholes.
I would have said it was beautiful, except it was so much more than that.
He presented it to me, and I took it with the same care and reverence I would have given a holy relic. “It’s lovely,” I said, breathless. “I can’t believe he hasn’t already sold this one.”
Signore Freshi and Brigette exchanged words. Then she waggled her fingers at me in a gesture I had learned was her signal for wanting money. “He said he made it and put it aside to sell to someone who specifically asked for it. Until today, no one’s asked.”
Brigette counted out coins, at least twice as many as the cost of my dress, and passed them to Signore Freshi. He dropped the money into his apron pocket, gently took the mask from me, and retreated to a workbench to wrap it in tissue paper.
“I think this may work after all,” Brigette said after we’d concluded our business and left the shop.
I clasped the mask against my chest, protecting it from the crowds as we searched the canal for an empty water taxi.
“With a mask like that, you won’t need such a fancy dress.” She snapped her fingers, and gold sparkles glittered at her fingertips. “Anything else we lack, I can make up as we go along.”
“You’d risk a headache to dress me up for a silly masquerade?”
She frowned. “There’s no pride in not doing my job well.”
“I’d rather you save yourself for more important things.”
