[story] secrets from the shore
author: cracklikeabone (cracklikeabone)
email: eyelinerkisses [at] hotmail dot com
Agata found the unicorn by the shore, a timid thing, white as the seam foam with a flowing golden mane, horn spiralling to a point. She thought it to be so out of place, amongst the loose pebbles and shale, that she wasn't surprised when it jerked and startled after she held out a hand to its nose, softer than velvet. She knew enough about horses from the stables to know that getting too close without permission spooked them, and unicorns were even more skittish, if the fairytales were to be believed.
"Ssh, ssh, it's alright, I won't hurt you," she whispered, stepping back to give the unicorn space until it chose to nudge its head forward into her still outstretched palm. And then it reared and she fell back into the rocks, the breath rushing out of her lungs. She closed her eyes, waiting for the front hooves to stamp down on her. Instead, there was a horrendous series of cracks and snaps and wet squishings and squelchings. When she opened her eyes, in the unicorn's place she saw a young woman with a tumble of wheat blonde curls spilling down her back. She could not see the face of the woman; on top of her shoulders sat, not the head of a unicorn or the face of a girl, but instead a horse shaped mask, like the ones worn at carnevale.
The mask was much more realistic than a carnevale mask, however. It was covered in fine white hair, just like real horse's hair, and it lacked the decorative features of the masks she'd seen peeking from from the top of the stairs or later the balcony, watching her mother and father host crowds of elegant and refined visitors. The eyes were jet black and the horn still shone like polished gold.
Agata cowered on the ground, feeling as if a hand balled into a fist had wedged itself beneath her throat as the woman sank slowly down by her. She seemed to realize then that she was naked, and moved so that her long blonde hair covered most of her body, turning her head to look at Agata. Agata could scarcely breathe and despite wanting to run home to the safety of her chambers, she was unable to move save for her shallow breathing, every muscle tensed and ready. For what, she was unsure, but she wondered if, perhaps, she had slipped earlier in the morning, walking along and looking for shells to take home to decorate her room. Maybe she lay somewhere, bleeding from her head, lying amongst the pebbles until some passerby caught sight of her.
"You are awake," the woman finally said with a clear, high voice, "this is no dream and I will not harm you, Agata."
"Wh-who are you?" Agata finally asked through numb lips. Surreptitiously she pinched herself, and finally moved, jumping and flinching at the pain.
"Rosalba," the woman replied and touched the mask.
"What are you?"
"I don't know." Two slim shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug. "I am what I am. What are you?"
"A girl."
"Then that is what I am."
"But you were," she paused to wet her lips, because what she was about to say sounded utterly preposterous outside of the realm of fantasy. "You were a unicorn."
"I was. I am. You can be more than one thing at once."
"Not like that."
"Yes, yes you can." She - Rosalba - shifted suddenly, walking on her knees to pull Agata up fully - whereupon she cupped her cheeks in her hands. "You can be so many things, Agata; you need only make the choice to be that way."
Her palms were so soft, as soft as the unicorn's nose had been, and they smelled of the sea air, and salt, and a faint hint of something else, something that reminded her of visits to the country - of the meadows she had run through before she had tripped and torn some of the lace on the dress her mother had told her to wear. She'd been scolded and hadn't been allowed to wander alone for the rest of their stay in the country.
She was roused from reliving the memories by Rosalba pulling her up to her feet, urging her to stand back as she shifted back with the same series of noises as before. Agata winced and covered her eyes. There were things she didn't want to see, and she knew already that she would would relive this fantastical meeting many times, and that she would want to talk about it - but her parents would merely send her away to her room if she did so, and fret and worry and call for the doctor. Her opinions and thoughts and feelings didn't matter to her mother and father; no, she was to keep quiet and behave and do as she was told so she'd marry into a good family. And no man, she'd been told repeatedly, cared about whether his wife had an opinion or a mind of her own. An heir and a spare and a daughter for marrying off were all that would be expected of her; that and her appearance at her husband's side at public events, hosting parties and being an attentive little wife.
Once more, a unicorn stood in front of her, tail swishing, hooves stamping. Then it spoke in the same clear voice Rosalba had used.
"Whenever you are ready," the unicorn said, "I will come for you. All you must do is remove your mask."
"But I'm not-" Agata began, but the unicorn was racing away from her, even as she gathered her skirts up so she wouldn't trip as she followed. But it was no use; it disappeared into nothing more than a fading speck and then nothing at all before she'd made it more than a few feet. Sighing, she let her skirts go, wrapping her arms tight about herself as she began to make her way back home. "I'm not wearing a mask," she muttered miserably to herself, stooping to pick up a few seashells to explain her whereabouts, although she'd had no meetings with suitors or appointments scheduled today. Most likely, her parents wouldn't have even noticed that she had been gone.
She mentioned the unicorn to her parents, under the guise of a dream at dinner that night. They merely rolled their eyes at her over their wineglasses. She swallowed down the hard lump in her throat, blinked back the tears and excused herself, claiming she needed to sleep thanks to the dream that had disturbed her.
Her parents barely even noticed she'd left the table.
Over the years that followed, she thought she saw the unicorn or Rosalba more than once. A white horse that moved impossibly past in the fields when her family visited the country. A long-limbed blonde girl serving drinks at a party. Every day she was home, she returned to the same spot each morning for as long as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse, to ask Rosalba what she'd meant that morning, but to no avail.
Eventually, though, she was stopped from leaving the house without a chaperone. There was a guard posted outside her door and her window was locked from the inside and the outside; beautifully wrought iron bars were added to stop her if she became desperate and decided to smash through the glass. Her door was locked at night too. The first few months, she considered trying to smuggle in some sort of poison to take in her sleep, or trying to start a small fire, but she was too weak, too frightened of the pain. Instead, she muffled her tears into her pillows each and every night until, further down the line, she stopped. It was too much, to bear that pain constantly, to carry around such misery with her that every waking moment was filled with rage and hurt. Her steps felt too heavy, like walking through a thick river of mud in a pair of high heels, always thinking she might fall even though she never did.
No, it was too much. If she had been older but she was not. She was fifteen and it was too much on top of the constant pressure to find her husband and to marry, sure that she would be allowed more freedom or at least the illusion of it. At least she wouldn't have to endure this; the endless procession of suitors visiting the house or the long carriage or boat rides to their homes, gazing out of windows or up to the sky, wishing that she had been able to run fast enough to catch the unicorn and to leap onto its back, to let it take her away from all of this.
Or even if she had understood what it had meant by the remark about the mask and even telling herself that it wasn't her fault, that she'd only been ten hadn't eased anything. She couldn't seem to stop torturing herself, puzzling over what the unicorn had meant when she was having her hair pinned into elaborate shapes and styles. At least it was a distraction from the strain in her neck and face from having her hair so tightly pulled back. What was even worse was when it was bound tightly in rags to produce perfect curls, which left her entire scalp throbbing and prone to migraines. Or when she was covered in thick make up that left her face feeling stiff and expressionless, her eyes so heavy it was hard to keep them open.
The dresses were the icing on the cake. Tight corsets that left her scarcely able to draw breath, crushing her ribs, and she was meant to sit in them even though that just squeezed everything tighter. She was expected to eat and drink, make polite conversation in them all whilst sitting. And she was taught to dance in them too and she wasn't allowed to let the pain or strain or indignation show on her face or the tutors reported to her parents and they found some way to make her life just that little bit more unbearable. The dresses all had heavy skirts too, layers and layers of fabric and long sleeves that pinched and a neckline that plunged far too deeply for her to ever be comfortable in them. And of course every necklace she wore rested in exactly the right place to draw the male gaze that way.
Every night she went to bed sore and raw and she was always surprised at how she looked outside of the ridiculous frippery she was forced into.
Eventually her parents tired of her 'huffy attitude' and 'blatant ungratefulness and ingratitude' and brought her masks to wear. There was one for when she was out of the house during the day, often shopping with her mother or the chaperone or simply out to give her the opportunity for some fresh air. That mask covered her whole face with two gaps for eyes and two small holes at the nostrils. No mouthpiece was carved or painted on the mask and she knew that she was to follow along and that any input required of her was to be conveyed by a nod or shake of the head. Once or twice the masks had allowed for her to talk but that had been a show for others - those were for when she had to have dresses fitted or to pick out some little piece of jewellery to match things.
At dinner and meeting suitors she wore a half mask that covered the upper half of her face and she preferred it, not just because it allowed her to communicate but because it hid her eyes. No one looked at them. They looked at what they could see or at all the ridiculous detailing on the mask itself, and they didn't see the girl beneath who was slowly suffocating, forgetting who she was.
Oh, and the masks proved more popular with suitors and parents - with anyone who asked why a young woman was hidden away behind a mask.
"She's so shy," her mother would gush, huge false smile spreading unattractively across her face.
"So humble and modest too," her father would add, before leaning in further if it was the father of a suitor, "rare qualities in a woman these days."
It paid off in the end. She was to be married to a noble, a young man but older than her. She had not seen the unicorn or Rosalba much, beyond fleeting glimpses when she had been allowed out, and in the rush to her wedding, she began to forget.
When she moved away from home to live in a lavish mansion with her new husband, she nearly put it out of her mind altogether.
Even though she had no need of them, she still wore the masks - the half masks - day in and day out, moving through her life with a distracted air. Everything seemed to slide off her, like water off a duck's back, and while she still answered to someone, a husband was more bearable than her parents. He was away on business to other cities or countries so often that she could wander as she chose. They had been married two years and thankfully he had agreed to wait before they had any children; to offer them greater financial security although she knew it was so that when he was home, he had her all to himself without any other demands on his time. They lived far enough from her parents that when letters and invitations came from them she was able to say it would take far too long to travel for such silly occasion and, though it was petty, she had that power over them. She could make a decision. She could deny them.
She had done as asked. She had married into money and power and had strengthened noble ties, as they had expected. There was a timeline for having popping out heirs. Her parents had no need to try to sink their hooks back in when she had only so recently pried them free.
That being said, she missed being near the coast. She missed the salty sea breeze and the pebbles under her feet, the wind tugging her hair. Her new husband brought her back seashells from all the places he visited, beautiful things she had never seen, all shapes and sizes and colours and some with the most beautiful iridescent sheen. But it wasn't the same as looking for them herself. She had enjoyed that. Digging through the sand and under seaweed, tiny creepy-crawlies skittering away as she'd hunted for the perfect shell for along her windowsill. This house was on the edge of the city and boasted an impressive garden and she took to that as her hobby; all married women of any age, even those with children, had something to pass the time. Some had painting, others their sewing and she had her beautiful garden.
It was there that she finally saw Rosalba again.
She turned a corner to pick fruits in the orchards and there it stood, grazing innocently. She started to rub her eyes, and only then remembered that she was wearing a mask. The unicorn snorted and tossed its head before walking behind a tree which didn't muffle the noise of the transition - how had she ever forgotten that sound? - but soon Rosalba stepped out from behind the tree, wearing the same mask - only this time she lifted it up and off and revealed her face for the first time. Beautiful in a plain sense, nothing overtly striking about her but still, very beautiful.
"How did you find me?" Agata asked, still rooted to the spot much the same as she had been at their first encounter.
"I have always known where to look for you, even when you did this," Rosalba explained, reaching out to trace along the lower edge of the mask. She no longer smelled of the sea, but of the orchard and the blossoms in the gardens. "When did you become the mask?"
"What?"
"Don't play dumb, Agata, you cannot tell a lie to me."
"I don't understand what you mean. You said you would come for me when I removed the mask." Agata tapped at it once with a finger and held Rosalba's gaze. "I'm wearing it still."
"That isn't what I meant," Rosalba answered with a sigh and her eyes were sad, almost disappointed, as if she had expected so much more of Agata, who folded her arms in return and aimed a challenging look at the other woman. "You became your mask; you are the only one who can remove it."
"That doesn't make any sort of sense."
"Which proves just how right I am. In time, you'll understand. I only hope it won't be too late."
Rosalba made to walk away but Agata lunged forward and grabbed her arm, hauling her back and turning her around to face her once more, eyes narrowed and mouth a thin line of anger.
"No, you tell me exactly what you mean. I spent five years puzzling over it last time and I will be damned if I'm doing that again." By this time she had a grip of Rosalba by both slender arms, pressing down hard enough to leave red marks that would bruise later, if that were possible. She gave her a firm shake, almost disgusted that Rosalba made no attempt to break loose or fight against her, limp as a ragdoll. "Well?"
"You gave in," she answered simply, hanging her head. "This...this isn't you. You could be so much more."
"I was a child. You don't understand what it was like! I looked for you! I looked for you every day until I had to stop because it hurt too much for me to keep waiting, to keep looking for you and to fight my parents every step of the way. It was too much."
"I know but you had the choice. You chose the easy path. You chose to wear the costumes and masks. I chose not to."
"I'm. Not. You." Agata jabbed a finger hard into Rosalba's shoulder and glared, all that hurt she had carefully locked away bubbling up and causing the bile to rise in her throat, stinging and burning.
She let go then, trying to get her emotions under control. She'd spent too long crafting her shell, keeping her old feelings under wraps - they scared her. "Just go. Go!"
She hadn't heard herself shout in so long and it hurt - she'd long given up on the screaming matches she'd had with her parents when she was younger.
"Please," Rosalba squeezed her hands, "it's not too late. Just take off the mask and the costume and I promise you that this time that I will be there."
It was Agata who ran this time, almost tripping over her dress as she escaped back to the house. It had been years since she had allowed herself to cry, but seeing Rosalba had broken the flood barriers, had unlocked the heavy doors that kept her real self shut up and safe. She sobbed until she thought she might be sick, her face hot and itchy beneath her mask, make up running and her nose and eyes red and raw.
After that it was impossible not to overanalyse every decision she made. She made herself sick from it, and even her husband noticed and worried about her. She knew that she ought to have been touched by his concern - and part of her was - but she wondered if he worried only because he thought something was happening to the shy and retiring little bride he'd married.
But removing her mask was too frightening. It was all she knew now. Her parents' hooks might have been removed but they'd left their mark on her.
Another hobby of the wives was throwing parties, and masked balls were so popular that her own mask was barely a curiosity when she was the host of the party. The woman who wore a mask all the time was the perfect guest of a masked ball; she was always invited and had never disappointed. Her husband brought up the subject at the table, waving off the servants who had been serving them platters of fresh fruit cut into flower shapes. She pushed a melon petal about her plate, reaching for the murano glass goblet to take a sip of her fruity wine, when her husband cleared his throat.
"Why don't you throw a ball soon, darling?"
"At such short notice?"
"With our reputation it will be no trouble to attract guests, and you've been doing such a beautiful job with the garden. With the weather so mild it would be a shame if you weren't able to show it off."
She considered that. She did love her garden and it truly was her project - the gardeners and groundskeepers listened to her and she spent long hours out with them, covered up to keep her skin pale and smooth, heavy gloves protecting her hands. "Something low key? Drinks and refreshments, finger foods?"
"And masks, of course," he added quickly and her fork froze en route to her mouth.
"I was thinking without for a change."
"Really?" He raised a brow and drained his glass. "It's what you're known for. What would be the point in changing the status quo so abruptly? Don't ruffle their feathers."
Don't ruffle yours you mean, she thought to herself, and swallowed the lump in her throat along with her food even though it tasted like nothing now.
She dropped her head into her hands as she left, not even noticing the servants clearing the table until one cleared her throat and touched her shoulder.
"Madam?"
"I have a ball to plan," she announced with false brightness, putting on a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes, "Can you send for the messenger boys? I'll draft an invitation."
"Yes madam," the woman ushered her out.
It was when she sat at her dresser to brush her hair out and pin it in place for the day that she noticed the note tucked into the mirror of her dresser. She picked it up curiously, recognising her name in her husband's looping script.
Agata,
I am unsure as to whether you remember the discussion we had regarding children, but I have had a change of thought after discussing the situation of your sickness with others, including several doctors, who are of the opinion that having a child will help. We had talked of having several children, as it stands, and think how much more you will be able to enjoy them when you are young enough still to run around with them.
Making our first attempt on the night of your party would just serve to make the moment all the more special and memorable, would it not?
All my love,
Santino
A sob crept up her throat but something else strangled it. Betrayal, rage, disgust. And above it all she felt trapped and threw open the windows of their chambers, inhaling raggedly. Was that why Rosalba had appeared? Was this to be her punishment? To have her few choices taken from her and leave her with no way out of the life if she should ever want to leave? She would never be able to abandon a child but she wouldn't be able to travel far if she had one with her and if she left her husband...well she'd been given the cautionary tales. Wives could be replaced in a heartbeat. If she left her husband and her marriage, her children would be gone. She would be erased from their lives, either dead or in an asylum or maybe, if the children looked enough like their father or his new wife then she would never have even existed. Who knew, maybe he'd have her committed or killed anyway. It would be a slight to his honour. Or her parents would do it as it would be just as great an insult to them too.
A knock rapped on the door and she jumped, slamming the window shut hard enough to make the glass shake in the pane. Her voice shook as she called the visitor into the room and she began to lose herself in planning her party, a horrible sense of inevitability looming over her as she made her arrangements over that day and in the days that followed. Planning the party didn't distract her the way she'd hoped it would. Neither did work in the garden because she kept looking, desperately, for Rosalba to appear or for the white unicorn to materialise from the shrubs.
But nothing ever arrived until a week before the party, when a box was brought to her by one of the younger errand boys, one of the few members of the staff still younger than her.
"A gift," he said, as he set the box before her, holding it as she carefully unwrapped the silk coverings and removed the lid to display a mask, one that took her breath away, and not just because it was beautiful; it was a unicorn mask, the muzzle of the horse made of the plain white material most masks used as their base, but the rest, from the curve of the jaw to the forhead, was constructed of gold, elegant gilding loops twisted into spirals and twirls and flowers and shells, right up to the smooth ears and then the horn, spiralling up and up. Clear gems studded the entirety of the mask and she cradled it carefully as she lifted it free from the box.
"Oh madam," the servant breathed as she ran her fingers over it. Heavy but not overly so - and it was the most thoughtful gift she'd received.
"Was there a note?" She asked when she finally came back to herself. The errand boy nodded, clearing his throat.
"For the Lady Agata, please accept this gift for the party you will be hosting. I do not wish to reveal my identity as I know this gift to be unexpected and rather ostentatious but I would be honoured if you wore it."
"No signature?"
"No madam. Will that be all?"
"Yes. Thank you, I'll take that with me." He nodded and excused himself, taking the box with him as she took the mask upstairs where she immediately removed her own to try on the gift. It was significantly heavier than anything she'd worn in the past but it was comfortable, it felt almost right.
She'd wear it for her party. It would be rude not to, and she was the hostess after all: she could wear something over the top if she chose.
When the party arrived, she wore the mask, despite the way her husband rolled his eyes behind his own mask. But he laughed all the same, indulging her from the snippets of conversation she caught. A small smattering of musicians had been hired for the event and she'd danced with anyone who asked for her hand. She managed to enjoy herself, able to forget what would be happening after the guests had all been ushered out. She even allowed her husband to twine a string of flowering vines around the horn, raising her hand for him to kiss as her cheeks were unavailable - but instead he kissed the nose of the mask, to a round of applause.
She'd been about to sneak off for a moment, to lift her mask and sip some wine, when a tall and willowy masked man asked for her hand. She nodded her acceptance and joined the small crowd of dancers. His hair was tied back and away from his face, disappearing beneath the frock coat, and she could feel the stares of the rest of the crowd on them.
Perhaps the crowd was taken by the contrast between them. Her mask elaborate but her dress was a simple white shift; his frock coat was covered with velvet embroidery, while his mask was barely a mask at all. Thin green wire and beads, flowers and vines and leaves barely covered his face, and she was sure she recognised him but it was hard to tell at night with the only light from the hanging lamps in the garden, and the flickering candles hanging from strings between trees in glass holders.
"Do I know you?" She asked quietly as he dipped her. He smiled enigmatically.
"I'm glad you wore my gift," he replied instead, and she gasped, having to remember not to jerk her head sharply thanks to the horn. His voice was higher than she'd expected, softer too. Calming.
"That was you?"
"Yes, do you like it?"
"I love it." It was an honest reply, even if it had made her heart stop and think of Rosalba. "But why? I don't mean to be rude but it's such an incredible piece of craftsmanship."
"Could we discuss it alone? If that wouldn't be considered untoward?"
"Not at all; come on, I'll show you the orchards."
He smiled and extended his arm to her and she chanced a glance back to her, husband who waved her off when she pointed with her free hand, before turning back to his conversation.
The noise of the party disappeared for the most part as they went deeper into the orchard, the man leading as though he already knew where they were going. She frowned under her mask before she removed it; she had next to no peripheral vision in it and it was too hot and uncomfortable now after all these hours of dancing. The cold air hit her like a slap in the face.
"You took it off."
She jumped, and suddenly saw that it wasn't a man in front of her. It was Rosalba. The mask was gone, the hair tugged free from the frock coat and she couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed it before -
Had the mask and the clothing changed so much? Had she seen only what she wanted to see, even in the dark?
"So you understand," Rosalba said with a smile, stripping off the frock coat to hang it over the branch of a tree, untucking and unbuttoning the shirt to loosen the bindings she wore beneath to flatten her down so that no one would guess.
"I...I think so. But...this is too sudden."
"It isn't. If you stay, you will be here forever. You will be trapped in this life, the life you never wanted to have. You know it. If you put that mask back on and go back to that house and that party he will take you upstairs to your bed. You will be tied to that house where you will resent him and maybe your children."
"And what if I leave?" Her voice was so quiet the night seemed to swallow it.
"I cannot promise you happiness, but you will be free. You will be able to go wherever you choose. You need not even stay with me. You will be free to travel as you please."
"Couldn't you just steal me away?"
"I cannot. I am not allowed to - the decision must be entirely your own."
"Why do you care?" she asked, and Rosalba smiled sadly, pulling Agata close.
"Because I was the same once, a long time ago. I left it too late and when I ran...it took me years to get over my loss. But you can make a clean escape. There are no strong ties to this life, not when you really look at it."
She took a few steps away and approached the fringes of the party again, peering from around a tree at how it continued on, the masks and the dresses and the pomp and circumstance of it all. She looked back to Rosalba, who was slipping off the costume she'd worn without shame, reaching for the unicorn mask she'd always worn, leaving her clothing with her frock coat on the tree. Agata's heart fluttered wildly in her chest and her palms and forehead were slick with sweat. Could she do this? She looked at Rosalba, thought about being able to run so fast that she could escape her past. About a life with her own choices.
"I'm scared," she finally choked out, unsurprised to feel tears making their way down her cheeks. Rosalba wiped them away with her thumbs as she cupped Agata's cheeks, kissing her forehead.
"I know, we were all scared once."
"What do I do?"
Rosalba gestured to herself, naked and seemingly unafraid and Agata nodded, fingers fumbling on the tiny pearl buttons on the back of her dress, slipping so many times. she was sure that someone would come this way, perhaps looking for her, or touring the gardens, but no one came and she managed to step out of the dress and, after several long moments of hesitation, she slipped her underwear off too, hanging all of it over another branch. She'd never been so bare before and while she still felt frightened and embarrassed, there was something freeing, something about the taboo of doing this, of running away forever from this life that made her laugh, hand over her mouth to muffle the sound as she took Rosalba's hand.
"Ready?"
She looked back once more and nodded. Rosalba changed, and it was so fluid, so natural, like watching an intricate dance and not at all as horrific and painful as she thought. And then the unicorn stood, snorting and stamping one hoof. It wasn't too hard to clamber up and tangle her fingers in the thick mane before her, and then they were off, the world rushing past her. She clung on for dear life, laughing as the wind stung her face and Rosalba - not the unicorn anymore - tossed her head, reared and whinnied before charging forward.
The exhilaration and the promise of freedom left her dizzy and she had no idea how far they had raced or how long they had been riding when they arrived at the shore where they had met, Rosalba trotting into the sea as Agata hopped down, stretching out her arms and legs.
And then it happened, stretching and arching, her eyes clenched tight shut as her body changed too and she saw herself reflected in Rosalba's eyes. Another costume, another mask but this time one of her choosing. She could change her mind at any time but she had freedom, real freedom, she could smell and taste and touch and see and hear all around her, not just an illusion, not a pretty cage. This was all hers now. Her world, her life, her choices.
Tentatively, she rose up on her new hind legs and whinnied. Yes, this was a life she could live with.
email: eyelinerkisses [at] hotmail dot com
Agata found the unicorn by the shore, a timid thing, white as the seam foam with a flowing golden mane, horn spiralling to a point. She thought it to be so out of place, amongst the loose pebbles and shale, that she wasn't surprised when it jerked and startled after she held out a hand to its nose, softer than velvet. She knew enough about horses from the stables to know that getting too close without permission spooked them, and unicorns were even more skittish, if the fairytales were to be believed.
"Ssh, ssh, it's alright, I won't hurt you," she whispered, stepping back to give the unicorn space until it chose to nudge its head forward into her still outstretched palm. And then it reared and she fell back into the rocks, the breath rushing out of her lungs. She closed her eyes, waiting for the front hooves to stamp down on her. Instead, there was a horrendous series of cracks and snaps and wet squishings and squelchings. When she opened her eyes, in the unicorn's place she saw a young woman with a tumble of wheat blonde curls spilling down her back. She could not see the face of the woman; on top of her shoulders sat, not the head of a unicorn or the face of a girl, but instead a horse shaped mask, like the ones worn at carnevale.
The mask was much more realistic than a carnevale mask, however. It was covered in fine white hair, just like real horse's hair, and it lacked the decorative features of the masks she'd seen peeking from from the top of the stairs or later the balcony, watching her mother and father host crowds of elegant and refined visitors. The eyes were jet black and the horn still shone like polished gold.
Agata cowered on the ground, feeling as if a hand balled into a fist had wedged itself beneath her throat as the woman sank slowly down by her. She seemed to realize then that she was naked, and moved so that her long blonde hair covered most of her body, turning her head to look at Agata. Agata could scarcely breathe and despite wanting to run home to the safety of her chambers, she was unable to move save for her shallow breathing, every muscle tensed and ready. For what, she was unsure, but she wondered if, perhaps, she had slipped earlier in the morning, walking along and looking for shells to take home to decorate her room. Maybe she lay somewhere, bleeding from her head, lying amongst the pebbles until some passerby caught sight of her.
"You are awake," the woman finally said with a clear, high voice, "this is no dream and I will not harm you, Agata."
"Wh-who are you?" Agata finally asked through numb lips. Surreptitiously she pinched herself, and finally moved, jumping and flinching at the pain.
"Rosalba," the woman replied and touched the mask.
"What are you?"
"I don't know." Two slim shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug. "I am what I am. What are you?"
"A girl."
"Then that is what I am."
"But you were," she paused to wet her lips, because what she was about to say sounded utterly preposterous outside of the realm of fantasy. "You were a unicorn."
"I was. I am. You can be more than one thing at once."
"Not like that."
"Yes, yes you can." She - Rosalba - shifted suddenly, walking on her knees to pull Agata up fully - whereupon she cupped her cheeks in her hands. "You can be so many things, Agata; you need only make the choice to be that way."
Her palms were so soft, as soft as the unicorn's nose had been, and they smelled of the sea air, and salt, and a faint hint of something else, something that reminded her of visits to the country - of the meadows she had run through before she had tripped and torn some of the lace on the dress her mother had told her to wear. She'd been scolded and hadn't been allowed to wander alone for the rest of their stay in the country.
She was roused from reliving the memories by Rosalba pulling her up to her feet, urging her to stand back as she shifted back with the same series of noises as before. Agata winced and covered her eyes. There were things she didn't want to see, and she knew already that she would would relive this fantastical meeting many times, and that she would want to talk about it - but her parents would merely send her away to her room if she did so, and fret and worry and call for the doctor. Her opinions and thoughts and feelings didn't matter to her mother and father; no, she was to keep quiet and behave and do as she was told so she'd marry into a good family. And no man, she'd been told repeatedly, cared about whether his wife had an opinion or a mind of her own. An heir and a spare and a daughter for marrying off were all that would be expected of her; that and her appearance at her husband's side at public events, hosting parties and being an attentive little wife.
Once more, a unicorn stood in front of her, tail swishing, hooves stamping. Then it spoke in the same clear voice Rosalba had used.
"Whenever you are ready," the unicorn said, "I will come for you. All you must do is remove your mask."
"But I'm not-" Agata began, but the unicorn was racing away from her, even as she gathered her skirts up so she wouldn't trip as she followed. But it was no use; it disappeared into nothing more than a fading speck and then nothing at all before she'd made it more than a few feet. Sighing, she let her skirts go, wrapping her arms tight about herself as she began to make her way back home. "I'm not wearing a mask," she muttered miserably to herself, stooping to pick up a few seashells to explain her whereabouts, although she'd had no meetings with suitors or appointments scheduled today. Most likely, her parents wouldn't have even noticed that she had been gone.
She mentioned the unicorn to her parents, under the guise of a dream at dinner that night. They merely rolled their eyes at her over their wineglasses. She swallowed down the hard lump in her throat, blinked back the tears and excused herself, claiming she needed to sleep thanks to the dream that had disturbed her.
Her parents barely even noticed she'd left the table.
Over the years that followed, she thought she saw the unicorn or Rosalba more than once. A white horse that moved impossibly past in the fields when her family visited the country. A long-limbed blonde girl serving drinks at a party. Every day she was home, she returned to the same spot each morning for as long as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse, to ask Rosalba what she'd meant that morning, but to no avail.
Eventually, though, she was stopped from leaving the house without a chaperone. There was a guard posted outside her door and her window was locked from the inside and the outside; beautifully wrought iron bars were added to stop her if she became desperate and decided to smash through the glass. Her door was locked at night too. The first few months, she considered trying to smuggle in some sort of poison to take in her sleep, or trying to start a small fire, but she was too weak, too frightened of the pain. Instead, she muffled her tears into her pillows each and every night until, further down the line, she stopped. It was too much, to bear that pain constantly, to carry around such misery with her that every waking moment was filled with rage and hurt. Her steps felt too heavy, like walking through a thick river of mud in a pair of high heels, always thinking she might fall even though she never did.
No, it was too much. If she had been older but she was not. She was fifteen and it was too much on top of the constant pressure to find her husband and to marry, sure that she would be allowed more freedom or at least the illusion of it. At least she wouldn't have to endure this; the endless procession of suitors visiting the house or the long carriage or boat rides to their homes, gazing out of windows or up to the sky, wishing that she had been able to run fast enough to catch the unicorn and to leap onto its back, to let it take her away from all of this.
Or even if she had understood what it had meant by the remark about the mask and even telling herself that it wasn't her fault, that she'd only been ten hadn't eased anything. She couldn't seem to stop torturing herself, puzzling over what the unicorn had meant when she was having her hair pinned into elaborate shapes and styles. At least it was a distraction from the strain in her neck and face from having her hair so tightly pulled back. What was even worse was when it was bound tightly in rags to produce perfect curls, which left her entire scalp throbbing and prone to migraines. Or when she was covered in thick make up that left her face feeling stiff and expressionless, her eyes so heavy it was hard to keep them open.
The dresses were the icing on the cake. Tight corsets that left her scarcely able to draw breath, crushing her ribs, and she was meant to sit in them even though that just squeezed everything tighter. She was expected to eat and drink, make polite conversation in them all whilst sitting. And she was taught to dance in them too and she wasn't allowed to let the pain or strain or indignation show on her face or the tutors reported to her parents and they found some way to make her life just that little bit more unbearable. The dresses all had heavy skirts too, layers and layers of fabric and long sleeves that pinched and a neckline that plunged far too deeply for her to ever be comfortable in them. And of course every necklace she wore rested in exactly the right place to draw the male gaze that way.
Every night she went to bed sore and raw and she was always surprised at how she looked outside of the ridiculous frippery she was forced into.
Eventually her parents tired of her 'huffy attitude' and 'blatant ungratefulness and ingratitude' and brought her masks to wear. There was one for when she was out of the house during the day, often shopping with her mother or the chaperone or simply out to give her the opportunity for some fresh air. That mask covered her whole face with two gaps for eyes and two small holes at the nostrils. No mouthpiece was carved or painted on the mask and she knew that she was to follow along and that any input required of her was to be conveyed by a nod or shake of the head. Once or twice the masks had allowed for her to talk but that had been a show for others - those were for when she had to have dresses fitted or to pick out some little piece of jewellery to match things.
At dinner and meeting suitors she wore a half mask that covered the upper half of her face and she preferred it, not just because it allowed her to communicate but because it hid her eyes. No one looked at them. They looked at what they could see or at all the ridiculous detailing on the mask itself, and they didn't see the girl beneath who was slowly suffocating, forgetting who she was.
Oh, and the masks proved more popular with suitors and parents - with anyone who asked why a young woman was hidden away behind a mask.
"She's so shy," her mother would gush, huge false smile spreading unattractively across her face.
"So humble and modest too," her father would add, before leaning in further if it was the father of a suitor, "rare qualities in a woman these days."
It paid off in the end. She was to be married to a noble, a young man but older than her. She had not seen the unicorn or Rosalba much, beyond fleeting glimpses when she had been allowed out, and in the rush to her wedding, she began to forget.
When she moved away from home to live in a lavish mansion with her new husband, she nearly put it out of her mind altogether.
Even though she had no need of them, she still wore the masks - the half masks - day in and day out, moving through her life with a distracted air. Everything seemed to slide off her, like water off a duck's back, and while she still answered to someone, a husband was more bearable than her parents. He was away on business to other cities or countries so often that she could wander as she chose. They had been married two years and thankfully he had agreed to wait before they had any children; to offer them greater financial security although she knew it was so that when he was home, he had her all to himself without any other demands on his time. They lived far enough from her parents that when letters and invitations came from them she was able to say it would take far too long to travel for such silly occasion and, though it was petty, she had that power over them. She could make a decision. She could deny them.
She had done as asked. She had married into money and power and had strengthened noble ties, as they had expected. There was a timeline for having popping out heirs. Her parents had no need to try to sink their hooks back in when she had only so recently pried them free.
That being said, she missed being near the coast. She missed the salty sea breeze and the pebbles under her feet, the wind tugging her hair. Her new husband brought her back seashells from all the places he visited, beautiful things she had never seen, all shapes and sizes and colours and some with the most beautiful iridescent sheen. But it wasn't the same as looking for them herself. She had enjoyed that. Digging through the sand and under seaweed, tiny creepy-crawlies skittering away as she'd hunted for the perfect shell for along her windowsill. This house was on the edge of the city and boasted an impressive garden and she took to that as her hobby; all married women of any age, even those with children, had something to pass the time. Some had painting, others their sewing and she had her beautiful garden.
It was there that she finally saw Rosalba again.
She turned a corner to pick fruits in the orchards and there it stood, grazing innocently. She started to rub her eyes, and only then remembered that she was wearing a mask. The unicorn snorted and tossed its head before walking behind a tree which didn't muffle the noise of the transition - how had she ever forgotten that sound? - but soon Rosalba stepped out from behind the tree, wearing the same mask - only this time she lifted it up and off and revealed her face for the first time. Beautiful in a plain sense, nothing overtly striking about her but still, very beautiful.
"How did you find me?" Agata asked, still rooted to the spot much the same as she had been at their first encounter.
"I have always known where to look for you, even when you did this," Rosalba explained, reaching out to trace along the lower edge of the mask. She no longer smelled of the sea, but of the orchard and the blossoms in the gardens. "When did you become the mask?"
"What?"
"Don't play dumb, Agata, you cannot tell a lie to me."
"I don't understand what you mean. You said you would come for me when I removed the mask." Agata tapped at it once with a finger and held Rosalba's gaze. "I'm wearing it still."
"That isn't what I meant," Rosalba answered with a sigh and her eyes were sad, almost disappointed, as if she had expected so much more of Agata, who folded her arms in return and aimed a challenging look at the other woman. "You became your mask; you are the only one who can remove it."
"That doesn't make any sort of sense."
"Which proves just how right I am. In time, you'll understand. I only hope it won't be too late."
Rosalba made to walk away but Agata lunged forward and grabbed her arm, hauling her back and turning her around to face her once more, eyes narrowed and mouth a thin line of anger.
"No, you tell me exactly what you mean. I spent five years puzzling over it last time and I will be damned if I'm doing that again." By this time she had a grip of Rosalba by both slender arms, pressing down hard enough to leave red marks that would bruise later, if that were possible. She gave her a firm shake, almost disgusted that Rosalba made no attempt to break loose or fight against her, limp as a ragdoll. "Well?"
"You gave in," she answered simply, hanging her head. "This...this isn't you. You could be so much more."
"I was a child. You don't understand what it was like! I looked for you! I looked for you every day until I had to stop because it hurt too much for me to keep waiting, to keep looking for you and to fight my parents every step of the way. It was too much."
"I know but you had the choice. You chose the easy path. You chose to wear the costumes and masks. I chose not to."
"I'm. Not. You." Agata jabbed a finger hard into Rosalba's shoulder and glared, all that hurt she had carefully locked away bubbling up and causing the bile to rise in her throat, stinging and burning.
She let go then, trying to get her emotions under control. She'd spent too long crafting her shell, keeping her old feelings under wraps - they scared her. "Just go. Go!"
She hadn't heard herself shout in so long and it hurt - she'd long given up on the screaming matches she'd had with her parents when she was younger.
"Please," Rosalba squeezed her hands, "it's not too late. Just take off the mask and the costume and I promise you that this time that I will be there."
It was Agata who ran this time, almost tripping over her dress as she escaped back to the house. It had been years since she had allowed herself to cry, but seeing Rosalba had broken the flood barriers, had unlocked the heavy doors that kept her real self shut up and safe. She sobbed until she thought she might be sick, her face hot and itchy beneath her mask, make up running and her nose and eyes red and raw.
After that it was impossible not to overanalyse every decision she made. She made herself sick from it, and even her husband noticed and worried about her. She knew that she ought to have been touched by his concern - and part of her was - but she wondered if he worried only because he thought something was happening to the shy and retiring little bride he'd married.
But removing her mask was too frightening. It was all she knew now. Her parents' hooks might have been removed but they'd left their mark on her.
Another hobby of the wives was throwing parties, and masked balls were so popular that her own mask was barely a curiosity when she was the host of the party. The woman who wore a mask all the time was the perfect guest of a masked ball; she was always invited and had never disappointed. Her husband brought up the subject at the table, waving off the servants who had been serving them platters of fresh fruit cut into flower shapes. She pushed a melon petal about her plate, reaching for the murano glass goblet to take a sip of her fruity wine, when her husband cleared his throat.
"Why don't you throw a ball soon, darling?"
"At such short notice?"
"With our reputation it will be no trouble to attract guests, and you've been doing such a beautiful job with the garden. With the weather so mild it would be a shame if you weren't able to show it off."
She considered that. She did love her garden and it truly was her project - the gardeners and groundskeepers listened to her and she spent long hours out with them, covered up to keep her skin pale and smooth, heavy gloves protecting her hands. "Something low key? Drinks and refreshments, finger foods?"
"And masks, of course," he added quickly and her fork froze en route to her mouth.
"I was thinking without for a change."
"Really?" He raised a brow and drained his glass. "It's what you're known for. What would be the point in changing the status quo so abruptly? Don't ruffle their feathers."
Don't ruffle yours you mean, she thought to herself, and swallowed the lump in her throat along with her food even though it tasted like nothing now.
She dropped her head into her hands as she left, not even noticing the servants clearing the table until one cleared her throat and touched her shoulder.
"Madam?"
"I have a ball to plan," she announced with false brightness, putting on a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes, "Can you send for the messenger boys? I'll draft an invitation."
"Yes madam," the woman ushered her out.
It was when she sat at her dresser to brush her hair out and pin it in place for the day that she noticed the note tucked into the mirror of her dresser. She picked it up curiously, recognising her name in her husband's looping script.
Agata,
I am unsure as to whether you remember the discussion we had regarding children, but I have had a change of thought after discussing the situation of your sickness with others, including several doctors, who are of the opinion that having a child will help. We had talked of having several children, as it stands, and think how much more you will be able to enjoy them when you are young enough still to run around with them.
Making our first attempt on the night of your party would just serve to make the moment all the more special and memorable, would it not?
All my love,
Santino
A sob crept up her throat but something else strangled it. Betrayal, rage, disgust. And above it all she felt trapped and threw open the windows of their chambers, inhaling raggedly. Was that why Rosalba had appeared? Was this to be her punishment? To have her few choices taken from her and leave her with no way out of the life if she should ever want to leave? She would never be able to abandon a child but she wouldn't be able to travel far if she had one with her and if she left her husband...well she'd been given the cautionary tales. Wives could be replaced in a heartbeat. If she left her husband and her marriage, her children would be gone. She would be erased from their lives, either dead or in an asylum or maybe, if the children looked enough like their father or his new wife then she would never have even existed. Who knew, maybe he'd have her committed or killed anyway. It would be a slight to his honour. Or her parents would do it as it would be just as great an insult to them too.
A knock rapped on the door and she jumped, slamming the window shut hard enough to make the glass shake in the pane. Her voice shook as she called the visitor into the room and she began to lose herself in planning her party, a horrible sense of inevitability looming over her as she made her arrangements over that day and in the days that followed. Planning the party didn't distract her the way she'd hoped it would. Neither did work in the garden because she kept looking, desperately, for Rosalba to appear or for the white unicorn to materialise from the shrubs.
But nothing ever arrived until a week before the party, when a box was brought to her by one of the younger errand boys, one of the few members of the staff still younger than her.
"A gift," he said, as he set the box before her, holding it as she carefully unwrapped the silk coverings and removed the lid to display a mask, one that took her breath away, and not just because it was beautiful; it was a unicorn mask, the muzzle of the horse made of the plain white material most masks used as their base, but the rest, from the curve of the jaw to the forhead, was constructed of gold, elegant gilding loops twisted into spirals and twirls and flowers and shells, right up to the smooth ears and then the horn, spiralling up and up. Clear gems studded the entirety of the mask and she cradled it carefully as she lifted it free from the box.
"Oh madam," the servant breathed as she ran her fingers over it. Heavy but not overly so - and it was the most thoughtful gift she'd received.
"Was there a note?" She asked when she finally came back to herself. The errand boy nodded, clearing his throat.
"For the Lady Agata, please accept this gift for the party you will be hosting. I do not wish to reveal my identity as I know this gift to be unexpected and rather ostentatious but I would be honoured if you wore it."
"No signature?"
"No madam. Will that be all?"
"Yes. Thank you, I'll take that with me." He nodded and excused himself, taking the box with him as she took the mask upstairs where she immediately removed her own to try on the gift. It was significantly heavier than anything she'd worn in the past but it was comfortable, it felt almost right.
She'd wear it for her party. It would be rude not to, and she was the hostess after all: she could wear something over the top if she chose.
When the party arrived, she wore the mask, despite the way her husband rolled his eyes behind his own mask. But he laughed all the same, indulging her from the snippets of conversation she caught. A small smattering of musicians had been hired for the event and she'd danced with anyone who asked for her hand. She managed to enjoy herself, able to forget what would be happening after the guests had all been ushered out. She even allowed her husband to twine a string of flowering vines around the horn, raising her hand for him to kiss as her cheeks were unavailable - but instead he kissed the nose of the mask, to a round of applause.
She'd been about to sneak off for a moment, to lift her mask and sip some wine, when a tall and willowy masked man asked for her hand. She nodded her acceptance and joined the small crowd of dancers. His hair was tied back and away from his face, disappearing beneath the frock coat, and she could feel the stares of the rest of the crowd on them.
Perhaps the crowd was taken by the contrast between them. Her mask elaborate but her dress was a simple white shift; his frock coat was covered with velvet embroidery, while his mask was barely a mask at all. Thin green wire and beads, flowers and vines and leaves barely covered his face, and she was sure she recognised him but it was hard to tell at night with the only light from the hanging lamps in the garden, and the flickering candles hanging from strings between trees in glass holders.
"Do I know you?" She asked quietly as he dipped her. He smiled enigmatically.
"I'm glad you wore my gift," he replied instead, and she gasped, having to remember not to jerk her head sharply thanks to the horn. His voice was higher than she'd expected, softer too. Calming.
"That was you?"
"Yes, do you like it?"
"I love it." It was an honest reply, even if it had made her heart stop and think of Rosalba. "But why? I don't mean to be rude but it's such an incredible piece of craftsmanship."
"Could we discuss it alone? If that wouldn't be considered untoward?"
"Not at all; come on, I'll show you the orchards."
He smiled and extended his arm to her and she chanced a glance back to her, husband who waved her off when she pointed with her free hand, before turning back to his conversation.
The noise of the party disappeared for the most part as they went deeper into the orchard, the man leading as though he already knew where they were going. She frowned under her mask before she removed it; she had next to no peripheral vision in it and it was too hot and uncomfortable now after all these hours of dancing. The cold air hit her like a slap in the face.
"You took it off."
She jumped, and suddenly saw that it wasn't a man in front of her. It was Rosalba. The mask was gone, the hair tugged free from the frock coat and she couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed it before -
Had the mask and the clothing changed so much? Had she seen only what she wanted to see, even in the dark?
"So you understand," Rosalba said with a smile, stripping off the frock coat to hang it over the branch of a tree, untucking and unbuttoning the shirt to loosen the bindings she wore beneath to flatten her down so that no one would guess.
"I...I think so. But...this is too sudden."
"It isn't. If you stay, you will be here forever. You will be trapped in this life, the life you never wanted to have. You know it. If you put that mask back on and go back to that house and that party he will take you upstairs to your bed. You will be tied to that house where you will resent him and maybe your children."
"And what if I leave?" Her voice was so quiet the night seemed to swallow it.
"I cannot promise you happiness, but you will be free. You will be able to go wherever you choose. You need not even stay with me. You will be free to travel as you please."
"Couldn't you just steal me away?"
"I cannot. I am not allowed to - the decision must be entirely your own."
"Why do you care?" she asked, and Rosalba smiled sadly, pulling Agata close.
"Because I was the same once, a long time ago. I left it too late and when I ran...it took me years to get over my loss. But you can make a clean escape. There are no strong ties to this life, not when you really look at it."
She took a few steps away and approached the fringes of the party again, peering from around a tree at how it continued on, the masks and the dresses and the pomp and circumstance of it all. She looked back to Rosalba, who was slipping off the costume she'd worn without shame, reaching for the unicorn mask she'd always worn, leaving her clothing with her frock coat on the tree. Agata's heart fluttered wildly in her chest and her palms and forehead were slick with sweat. Could she do this? She looked at Rosalba, thought about being able to run so fast that she could escape her past. About a life with her own choices.
"I'm scared," she finally choked out, unsurprised to feel tears making their way down her cheeks. Rosalba wiped them away with her thumbs as she cupped Agata's cheeks, kissing her forehead.
"I know, we were all scared once."
"What do I do?"
Rosalba gestured to herself, naked and seemingly unafraid and Agata nodded, fingers fumbling on the tiny pearl buttons on the back of her dress, slipping so many times. she was sure that someone would come this way, perhaps looking for her, or touring the gardens, but no one came and she managed to step out of the dress and, after several long moments of hesitation, she slipped her underwear off too, hanging all of it over another branch. She'd never been so bare before and while she still felt frightened and embarrassed, there was something freeing, something about the taboo of doing this, of running away forever from this life that made her laugh, hand over her mouth to muffle the sound as she took Rosalba's hand.
"Ready?"
She looked back once more and nodded. Rosalba changed, and it was so fluid, so natural, like watching an intricate dance and not at all as horrific and painful as she thought. And then the unicorn stood, snorting and stamping one hoof. It wasn't too hard to clamber up and tangle her fingers in the thick mane before her, and then they were off, the world rushing past her. She clung on for dear life, laughing as the wind stung her face and Rosalba - not the unicorn anymore - tossed her head, reared and whinnied before charging forward.
The exhilaration and the promise of freedom left her dizzy and she had no idea how far they had raced or how long they had been riding when they arrived at the shore where they had met, Rosalba trotting into the sea as Agata hopped down, stretching out her arms and legs.
And then it happened, stretching and arching, her eyes clenched tight shut as her body changed too and she saw herself reflected in Rosalba's eyes. Another costume, another mask but this time one of her choosing. She could change her mind at any time but she had freedom, real freedom, she could smell and taste and touch and see and hear all around her, not just an illusion, not a pretty cage. This was all hers now. Her world, her life, her choices.
Tentatively, she rose up on her new hind legs and whinnied. Yes, this was a life she could live with.