IB entry 27||masks & costumes
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 that it jerked and startled when 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 always so skittish, if 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 but instead of the front hooves stamping down on her there was a horrendous series of cracks and snaps and wet squishings and squelchings and in the unicorns place stood a young woman with a tumble of wheat blonde curls spilling down her back. She could not see the face of the woman; it was not the head of a unicorn upon a human body but instead a mask, like the ones worn at carnevale but it looked so real. Covered in hair, so like the real thing and lacking in the decorative features of the masks she was so used to seeing when she had peeked 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.
She cowered on the ground, a hand balled into a fist beneath her throat as the woman sank slowly down by her, seeming to realise her nude state then and she moved so that she covered as much as she could, 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 with. 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 with it.
"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 when not combined to 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 and 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 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 that had Agata wincing and covering her eyes as there were things she didn't want to see and she would already want to talk about this fantastical meeting 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 was all that he would expect her obligations to be outside alongside hosting parties and being an attentive little wife.
Once more, a unicorn stood in front of her, tail swishing, hooves stamping and 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 but it was no use as 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 today wasn't a day when she had any meetings with suitors or appointments scheduled. Most likely, her parents wouldn't have even noticed that she had been gone.
xxx
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.
xxx
Over the coming years, 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 every morning for as long as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse, to ask what had been 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 the window was locked from the inside and the outside, beautifully wrought iron bars around the outside to stop her if she became desperate and decided to smash through the glass. Her door was locked at night too. The first few nights, 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 and instead 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 as 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. It didn't mean she was likely to stop torturing herself with puzzling over its meaning when she had nothing else to think about when she was having her hair pinned into elaborate shapes and styles, just a little something to distract from the strain in her neck and face at how tightly it was scraped back or when she was forced to have it bound so tightly in rags to produce perfect curls that it 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 came in the form of 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 that they didn't see the girl behind them who was slowly suffocating and forgetting who she was.
Oh and the masks proved more popular with suitors and the parents. And with anyone they met 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 see the unicorn or Rosalba much beyond fleeting glimpses when she had been paraded around the cities and in the rush that was her wedding, she began to forget.
When she moved home to live in the lavish mansion with her new husband she put it out of mind altogether.
xxx
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 and 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 that she was able to say it would take far too long to travel for such silly occasion and it was small and it was petty but she had 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 had been expected and there was a timeline for having popping out heirs. They 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 down that 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 where she finally saw Rosalba again.
The unicorn approached as she turned a corner to pick fruits in the orchards from the low hanging ground and there it had been, grazing innocently and she had gone to rub her eyes only to remember the 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 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?" Rosalba 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," she explained and reached out to trace along the lower edge of the mask and she no longer smelled of the sea but of the orchard and the bouquet of 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." She 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 and I can 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 disgusting at how 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." She 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 because she had spent too long crafting her shell, keeping her old feelings under wraps. "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.
"Please," Rosalba squeezed her hands, "it's not too late. Just take off the mask and the costume and I promise you 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 and 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.
xxx
After that it was impossible not to overanalyse every decision she made. She made herself sick from it and even her husband noticed and he worried about her and she should 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 this mask was too frightening now. It was all she knew now. The hooks might have been removed but they'd left their mark on her.
xxx
Another hobby of the wives was throwing parties and balls and meals and masked balls were always so popular and there was just another aspect when it was her throwing them. The woman who wore the mask all the time and she had never disappointed at any of the balls she had been invited to or at the carnevale when she had gone and her husband brought up the subject at the table, waving off the servants who had been serving them platters of fresh fruit constructed into ridiculous piles and 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 won't take long and you've been doing such a beautiful job with the garden and with the weather so mild it would be a shame if you weren't able to show it off."
She considered that and 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 milk and 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 into place for the day that she noticed the note tucked into the mirror of her dresser and 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 and having a child would 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 to run around with them still.
Starting to try 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, slammed the windows shut hard enough to have the glass shaking in the pane. Her voice shook as she called the visitor into the room and she began to lose herself in planning her party, the horrible sense of inevitability looming over her as she made her arrangements over that day and the days to come. It didn't distract her the way she thought 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 staff still younger than her.
"A gift," he said as he set the box before her, holding it as she carefully unwrapped the silken wrapping and ribbon and remove the lid to display a mask, one that took her breath away not just from the shock of it; 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 was constructed of gold, elegant gilding 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 and 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 and 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.
xxx
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 and she managed to enjoy herself, able to forget what would be happening after the guests had all been ushered on their way home. 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 and accepted 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 or perhaps it was the contrast between them; her mask so elaborate but her dress simple and lacking in overly intricate detailing and him with his velvet embroidery and his mask that was barely a mask at all. Thin green wire and beads, flowers and vines and leaves shaping it and she was sure she recognised his face but it was hard to tell at night with only 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 and 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 and deeper into the orchard, the man leading as though he already knew where he was meant to go and 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 and the cold air hit her like a slap in the face.
"You took it off."
She jumped and it wasn't a man in front of her. It was Rosalba. The mask was gone, the hair free from the binding and jacket 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 can 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 and that she could have a life with her own choices.
"I'm scared," she finally choked out, unsurprised to feel tears making their way down her cheeks and 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 and she was sure that someone would come this way, perhaps looking for her or to tour 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 and 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 the transition would be and then the unicorn stood, snorting and stamping one hoof. It wasn't too hard to clamber up or tangle her fingers in the thick mane before her and then they were off, the world rushing past her as 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 until they were 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 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.
Rosalba on the shore
Agata's mask at the party
Rosalba's mask at the party
"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 but instead of the front hooves stamping down on her there was a horrendous series of cracks and snaps and wet squishings and squelchings and in the unicorns place stood a young woman with a tumble of wheat blonde curls spilling down her back. She could not see the face of the woman; it was not the head of a unicorn upon a human body but instead a mask, like the ones worn at carnevale but it looked so real. Covered in hair, so like the real thing and lacking in the decorative features of the masks she was so used to seeing when she had peeked 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.
She cowered on the ground, a hand balled into a fist beneath her throat as the woman sank slowly down by her, seeming to realise her nude state then and she moved so that she covered as much as she could, 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 with. 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 with it.
"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 when not combined to 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 and 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 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 that had Agata wincing and covering her eyes as there were things she didn't want to see and she would already want to talk about this fantastical meeting 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 was all that he would expect her obligations to be outside alongside hosting parties and being an attentive little wife.
Once more, a unicorn stood in front of her, tail swishing, hooves stamping and 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 but it was no use as 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 today wasn't a day when she had any meetings with suitors or appointments scheduled. Most likely, her parents wouldn't have even noticed that she had been gone.
xxx
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.
xxx
Over the coming years, 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 every morning for as long as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse, to ask what had been 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 the window was locked from the inside and the outside, beautifully wrought iron bars around the outside to stop her if she became desperate and decided to smash through the glass. Her door was locked at night too. The first few nights, 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 and instead 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 as 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. It didn't mean she was likely to stop torturing herself with puzzling over its meaning when she had nothing else to think about when she was having her hair pinned into elaborate shapes and styles, just a little something to distract from the strain in her neck and face at how tightly it was scraped back or when she was forced to have it bound so tightly in rags to produce perfect curls that it 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 came in the form of 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 that they didn't see the girl behind them who was slowly suffocating and forgetting who she was.
Oh and the masks proved more popular with suitors and the parents. And with anyone they met 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 see the unicorn or Rosalba much beyond fleeting glimpses when she had been paraded around the cities and in the rush that was her wedding, she began to forget.
When she moved home to live in the lavish mansion with her new husband she put it out of mind altogether.
xxx
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 and 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 that she was able to say it would take far too long to travel for such silly occasion and it was small and it was petty but she had 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 had been expected and there was a timeline for having popping out heirs. They 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 down that 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 where she finally saw Rosalba again.
The unicorn approached as she turned a corner to pick fruits in the orchards from the low hanging ground and there it had been, grazing innocently and she had gone to rub her eyes only to remember the 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 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?" Rosalba 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," she explained and reached out to trace along the lower edge of the mask and she no longer smelled of the sea but of the orchard and the bouquet of 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." She 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 and I can 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 disgusting at how 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." She 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 because she had spent too long crafting her shell, keeping her old feelings under wraps. "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.
"Please," Rosalba squeezed her hands, "it's not too late. Just take off the mask and the costume and I promise you 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 and 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.
xxx
After that it was impossible not to overanalyse every decision she made. She made herself sick from it and even her husband noticed and he worried about her and she should 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 this mask was too frightening now. It was all she knew now. The hooks might have been removed but they'd left their mark on her.
xxx
Another hobby of the wives was throwing parties and balls and meals and masked balls were always so popular and there was just another aspect when it was her throwing them. The woman who wore the mask all the time and she had never disappointed at any of the balls she had been invited to or at the carnevale when she had gone and her husband brought up the subject at the table, waving off the servants who had been serving them platters of fresh fruit constructed into ridiculous piles and 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 won't take long and you've been doing such a beautiful job with the garden and with the weather so mild it would be a shame if you weren't able to show it off."
She considered that and 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 milk and 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 into place for the day that she noticed the note tucked into the mirror of her dresser and 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 and having a child would 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 to run around with them still.
Starting to try 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, slammed the windows shut hard enough to have the glass shaking in the pane. Her voice shook as she called the visitor into the room and she began to lose herself in planning her party, the horrible sense of inevitability looming over her as she made her arrangements over that day and the days to come. It didn't distract her the way she thought 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 staff still younger than her.
"A gift," he said as he set the box before her, holding it as she carefully unwrapped the silken wrapping and ribbon and remove the lid to display a mask, one that took her breath away not just from the shock of it; 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 was constructed of gold, elegant gilding 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 and 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 and 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.
xxx
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 and she managed to enjoy herself, able to forget what would be happening after the guests had all been ushered on their way home. 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 and accepted 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 or perhaps it was the contrast between them; her mask so elaborate but her dress simple and lacking in overly intricate detailing and him with his velvet embroidery and his mask that was barely a mask at all. Thin green wire and beads, flowers and vines and leaves shaping it and she was sure she recognised his face but it was hard to tell at night with only 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 and 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 and deeper into the orchard, the man leading as though he already knew where he was meant to go and 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 and the cold air hit her like a slap in the face.
"You took it off."
She jumped and it wasn't a man in front of her. It was Rosalba. The mask was gone, the hair free from the binding and jacket 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 can 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 and that she could have a life with her own choices.
"I'm scared," she finally choked out, unsurprised to feel tears making their way down her cheeks and 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 and she was sure that someone would come this way, perhaps looking for her or to tour 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 and 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 the transition would be and then the unicorn stood, snorting and stamping one hoof. It wasn't too hard to clamber up or tangle her fingers in the thick mane before her and then they were off, the world rushing past her as 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 until they were 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 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.
Rosalba on the shore
Agata's mask at the party
Rosalba's mask at the party