These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(56)
This woman. Was there anything left of the real her in the image I saw? I studied her face and wondered about her past, about the faces she uses. “Is this what you truly look like?”
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“Your real self—without the disguises.”
She chuckled to herself and led me to a chair stationed in front of a bright window.
“Miss Wyndham, I have no ‘real self,’ as you say.” I heard the pop of a jar and felt the sting of cold on my head. She kneaded handfuls of a jelly through my hair, and I gasped as I felt the strands shortening.
“What does it feel like? Living that way?”
“You know as well as I,” she said opaquely and crossed the room toward a small metal sink, where she wet a thin rag.
“I don’t . . . often disguise myself. This is my second time.”
She knelt in front of me and vigorously scrubbed my face. “Do you act the same in society as you do in private? Do you speak to everyone the same way?”
“No, not quite,” I replied, wincing.
“Of course. No one does. You put on one disguise for society. You put on another for your sister. For your parents. Your costume the other night.”
I felt my face warm. “But what about in private? Anyone can be themselves then without—ah! Ow!—without putting on an act.”
“We do not remain the same each minute to the next. Every word you hear, every sight you see, every smell, every thought you have, every moment—it all changes you. We keep putting on mask after mask, layers over layers. That’s how one grows.”
She scooped up a handful of a light cream and massaged it into my skin. My face felt lightened, malleable, fluid. “That sounds dismal. Never truly seeing someone.”
“No, the true face is wretchedly simple and empty. The absolute joy in life, in friendship, in love, is learning about a person, deciphering them, taking each and every mask off to find a new one, waiting to be explored and understood.” She put some precise, finishing touches on my skin and stepped back to admire her work.
She gave me a sly smile. “I gather it is why you find both your . . . companions so intriguing.”
“They are just helping me.”
“Do not lie, child. It doesn’t suit your features. Now come, we are not close to finished.”
An hour later, I stood in front of a looking glass, astonished by the sight.
Good God, who was this stranger? Frowning, smiling, pouting, sneering, yawning—no expression gave me away. Camille had truly done splendid work, and it wasn’t simply good makeup and a hair-cropping trick. She had molded my face into something completely different and then, using a combination of her powers and padded underclothing, even rendered my shoulders broader, my body somehow intimidating. As her final touch, Camille slipped a black morning coat over my shoulders, dropped a dashing bowler hat over my short brown hair, and put a thin umbrella in my hand. Had this all come from her imagination? Or was there the slim possibility that I’d find myself in an awkward face-to-face moment with my double?
“Do you want me to change your voice? It only takes a half hour.”
“I don’t intend to speak very much.”
“Then be sure to lower your voice only slightly. Do not attempt to imitate a man’s voice. It will sound ridiculous. Choose your words carefully, claim your throat is a bit scratchy, and mutter.”
She packed everything back into her dresser, finishing the stream of advice. “Above all, you must be comfortable. If you act as if you are used to looking like this every day of your life, no one else will question you. The moment you doubt your appearance is the moment others will scrutinize your behavior.”
I nodded and paid her generously for her work. It was money I could not afford to give away. Sighing, I slipped some coins and Mr. Braddock’s card in my pocket in case of emergency and left my dress in the wardrobe. Camille reminded me to return the borrowed costume when I finished. I tipped my hat—a custom I surely looked awkward doing—and dashed down the stairs to head to the tavern.
“The Spotted Dog,” my gravelly voice told the cabdriver.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, unfazed. A rush of an uncomfortable and deliciously wicked power overcame me. The freedom of an invented reputation lay in my hands—the power to create problems, accumulate enormous debt, commit horrific crimes, and shed all responsibility in an instant. But the sudden euphoria began to ebb as quickly as it came. Of course, I could never do that. The blame would simply be shifted. And there would always be someone suffering the consequences. I wondered if Camille felt freedom or stifling responsibility every time she took on a new identity.
Soon, the cab stopped in front of the establishment, and by habit I waited, wondering what was keeping the driver, while he was probably wondering the same about me.
“Sir?” he called out. “We’ve arrived.”
How foolish. No one would hand me out. “Oh yes, of course, thank you,” I yelled back, scrambling to climb out and resisting the urge to smack myself.
Crossing the street, I tried to imagine a bored man doing this every day of his life, but even a distance of fifteen paces presented obstacle after obstacle—climbing up curbs, giving way to passersby on the busy sidewalk, ignoring the requests of a tenacious newspaper boy, dodging the swaying drunkard by the Spotted Dog entrance. I attempted a grunt to greet him, and it came out sounding rather equine, but he did not seem to notice or care in the least.