hands and placed it on the table. He braced himself, flipped back the latch, and opened the top, convinced it held some abomination…
Yet it did not. Within were a dozen white leather masks, but they were of a very curious make: they were completely smooth and unbroken, and would envelop the whole of a person’s head, with no openings for their eyes, nor their noses, mouths, nor ears.
“Your costumes,” said the man in black.
Participazio took one mask out and held it, bewildered, as the scrivers took their own. “Do…Do you want us to put these on now, sir?”
“Now? No, no. Now’s not the time.” He sat next to Participazio, lounging in his chair, and looked out at the crowd. “But soon, I suspect. Now, let’s wait.”
They sat and watched the celebrations. The evening became a blur to Participazio: the slosh of wine, wicked and dark in the lantern light; carven masks glimmering amidst the columns, faces fixed, eyes vacant; the constant swish and swirl of silken robes; and hands bedecked in jewelry slipping out from beneath the rush of costumes, eager to snatch up a goblet of wine, or seize a shoulder, or caress a bared neck.
The cries and moans beat upon Participazio’s mind. I am in one of the wealthiest places on earth, he thought. And yet, I feel as though I am in some bowel of hell.
Then finally there came a blast of piping, and a sound of trumpets. Everyone stopped dancing and talking and turned to the western entrance to the hall, and they watched respectfully as the procession began to enter.
It was quite expansive, led by a series of women dressed as shore doves, and then men wearing the costume of the Cup-Bearer of Storms, their spears raised high and their crowns glittering—and they were pulling something along by silvery ropes.
It was a throne, Participazio saw finally, nearly ten feet high and painted bright gold and set on wheels, and seated on the throne was a man in a Papa Monsoon costume.
But it was not any Papa Monsoon costume. This one was painted bright gold like the throne.
“Oh my,” said the man in black dryly. “Isn’t this ironic.”
* * *
—
said Clef.
she said.
he cried.
Sancia winced. She still felt elated at the sound of his voice—the exact same voice as she’d remembered it, the very voice that had haunted her memories for the past three years—but explaining their predicament to a newly awakened Clef was proving a lot harder than she’d anticipated. Not only had their whole situation proven knottier than she’d realized, but Clef kept interrupting with and and She got the sense that he was still in something of a manic state after the acceleration of his time.
said Clef. A pause.
said Berenice.
said Clef.
A pause.
said Clef.
said Sancia.
said Valeria’s voice sternly.
said Clef.
said Sancia.
demanded Valeria. There was something oddly formal about her tone and phrasing. Sancia had never heard her do this before.
said Clef.