Summary:
Dressing for Cordonia’s first event of the social season – the Masquerade Ball – has Esther walking down memory lane. Set in Chapter 2 of Book 1.
“One must have a mask for the masquerade!”
Years from now, Esther will wonder at the sight she and Hana must have made, that first day in the palace boutique. The half-Chinese half-Cordonian rich girl in her beaded pink gown, the Louisiana-born commoner still in her waitress uniform from that very morning, her stockings sticking uncomfortably to her thighs in this Mediterranean heat.
Yet in this moment, running their fingers through fabrics and poring over ballgowns, it doesn’t feel like they’d just met at all.
“Have you seen this angel costume? You’d look amazing in white,” Hana runs her fingers over the gown. The chiffon is slightly rough against their fingers, and so light it slips through when they let go.
But Esther’s eyes are on the gown right next to it. Without even touching she can tell how soft the jersey fabric will feel against her skin, how delicate the sheer lace. One look at her and Hana grins, understanding immediately, “Or this red one! If you’re feeling a little more…devilish”.
The mask falls just as Hana takes out the gown. Esther picks it up gingerly, testing its thickness with her fingertips. It’s a Venetian mask, sturdy and black and studded with white crystals. She turns it over and over, eyes never leaving the mask. She doesn’t realise how long she has held her breath until it leaves her, harsh and shallow against her lips.
Oh mom, a voice inside her whispers, how long has it been?
“…Esther?”
“Sorry, Hana,” she says, flushing. Blindly, she reaches for the red gown. “I’ll take this one.”
Only when she reaches the changing room, does Esther allow herself to sink against the wall.
–
For all intents and purposes that day, nine-year-old Esther should have been sad.
And for a few moments she was. It was impossible to pretend her father wasn’t across the room, shifting uncomfortably on his armchair with one leg raised. His left leg has been in a cast for a week now, and neither she nor her mother could ignore the little grimaces that gave away how much pain he was in.
“You don’t have to stay here, cherie,” her father had said, refusing to meet her eyes, or her mother’s, “I’ve taken you on my shoulders every Mardi Gras since you were 2. I can’t do that today, but that doesn’t mean you have to miss the parades with me.”
“But I’m fine, Dad!” she replied, looking all around the living room, “We’re having our own Mardi Gras here at home.”
The room was messy and cluttered, beads and bottles and cardboards strewn all over the floor. Every corner you looked you would find children playing games, fathers and mothers helping out with crafts. Her friends jumped on the opportunity (“Can you tell Auntie Isa to bake a King Cake? Like the one she made last Three Kings’ Day? With rainbow icing and lots of cream cheese? Please please?”), as did Dad’s (“You can’t get rid of us that easy, Louis!”).
“Esther, darling, pass me that glue bottle please.”
Esther’s mother was on the floor with her, cutting a mask outline into white cardboard. Her nose was scrunched and her lips were pursed in concentration, not allowing herself to even miss a corner.
(“Don’t look so amused when she does that, squirt,” Dad would often say, “That’s how you look when you’re working on something too.”)
Beside her, Esther had just finished traced the outline of a mask on another cardboard, and she’d barely noticed.
Still, the words warmed her heart. It wasn’t everyday that her mother called her darling. Most times it didn’t even matter that the endearment was offhand, unthinking. It still made Esther feel a warmth she barely ever experienced around Ma.
“Mom. Here,” Esther said, passing her both the glue and the outline.
Her mother held up two outlines in front of her when she was done. “Which one?”
Both were beautiful, but the black one had intricate, swirling patterns drawn into it.
“That one,” she said, “in gold. I wore a black and gold one last Mardi Gras, and Katie Davies actually acted nice to me.”
Funny how the only times Katie ever talked to her like a normal person was when she couldn’t properly see her face.
Mom raised her eyebrows, but silently took the glue and started tracing the design.
“A long time ago,” her mother started speaking, almost absently, “people used to wear this everyday.”
“Here? In New Orleans?” Esther sat up excitedly, gearing herself up for a fairytale. Stories were usually her father’s forte, but there would be moments where Esther’s mother would forget whatever barriers were between them and tell her daughter things. Moments like this.
Mom shook her head. “In Venice. Where these kind of masks came from. Now be a good girl and pass that gold foil over.”
Tracing done, Mom now started pasting the foil over the glue. It took several sheets. “Everyday, mom?”
“Everyday.”
“Anyone could wear them?”
Mom’s laughter was silent: a crinkling of the eyes and a short breath through the nose. “From the poorest commoner to the richest noble. Venice had many rules, different ones for different people. But the masks? They made equals out of everyone. You could be anyone, do anything.”
Esther listened, her eyes never leaving her mother’s face. Her mother never thought herself any good at telling stories, but the way she was telling this one left Esther spellbound.
Attaching the trimming to the edges, her mother continued. “You could be a noble breaking free from all the things that bound you to your role. You could be a commoner receiving respect. Those masks meant many things to these people, Esther.”
“Like what, Ma?”
“Equality. Freedom. The ability to talk to each other without worrying about whether they were rich enough.”
These were heavy words, and Esther didn’t completely understand what her mother meant, but whatever it was, it made her remember things. But if there was a certain wistfulness in her mother’s expression as she’d spoke, it didn’t stay long.
The ribbons came last, and Esther’s mother raised it high so they could see the gold catch the light. “Cmere, Esther. Let’s see if this fits.”
Esther obeyed, walking with her mother to the bedroom mirror. She closed her eyes as Mom tied the ribbons behind her, fixing the mask into place.
When she opened her eyes, it was as if a transformation had taken place. She was in her prettiest, floatiest dress, the light from their room making the gold beads twinkle and the foil sparkle. Her eyes gleamed blue through the mask, the brightest shade of blue her mother claimed to have ever seen. She felt like a…like a…
“…like a princess.” It was her father, smiling from across the other room.
But that wasn’t the part that stayed with her. It was the pride in her father’s voice. It was the sparkle in her mother’s eyes. It was the first time her mother’s hands had stayed on her shoulders that long.
She didn’t remember how long she stood there. Only that she had a mask, a special Venetian mask, and in wearing it she could become anything. A princess. Or Zorro.
Or maybe just a girl, standing in front of a mirror. With her mother. Who loved her.
–
“Esther,” Tap tap tap. Tap tap. “Are you okay?”
Esther opens her eyes, swallowing. It has been years, years, since she has allowed herself to dwell this long over her parents. Since she has allowed herself to wonder what might have been if things were different. If her mother had known that none of what had happened to her was her fault. It’s been years since Esther has allowed herself to indulge in the torture of hindsight.
Tap tap tap. “Are you having trouble with the zipper? I’ll help.”
“I’m fine,” Esther calls out, only the hint of a tremor in her voice, “Almost ready. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She straightens her spine, wipes her tears. Flicks away imaginary lint from her gown. Ties the ribbons behind her head, adjusting the black metal mask. Not for one minute does Esther take her eyes off the mirror. Not this time.
She takes a deep breath, feels the weight in her chest lift as it comes out.
With this mask on, you can be anything, Esther. Anyone. With this mask on, you can be part of Liam’s world too. Tonight, no one will care where you came from, how you got here, who you used to be. Tonight, they will call you their equal. Worthy of belonging to a Prince.
Esther steps out, smiling. “How do I look?”
Hana’s eyes meet hers’, doubt writ large on her face. She spends a second too long before she answers. “Hotter than fire, my dear.”
If she catches a hint of tears in the other woman’s eyes before she leaves, Hana is wise enough not to tell.
–