What is Hidden (5 page)

I could find all of these things back at my home, provided that there was anything left, and that what little
remained hadn’t been looted. Thinking back, if Hachi was making that much noise, he’d probably been found by someone and they’d hopefully been able to salvage the rest of the house.

Was it worth the risk of being seen like this, though? I weighed the options in my head. In my current state, I wouldn’t be recognized, and no one would likely believe my story. Since the prince’s announcement, it was likely that neighbors would be more suspicious of each other—and I had always kept to myself. They would say I had all the means to burn my home, never mind the fact that I had absolutely no motive.

But if I kept this makeshift fabric mask, maybe no one would really look at me.

If I did go back, I could get the things I needed and gather some information. And I craved information more than clothes or food.

I knew my father had to be dead. I hadn’t seen him, but I knew he wouldn’t have left me alone, and the Chameleon wouldn’t have let him live. Despite the Chameleon’s cruel words, though, my father
was
in a better place if he was resting at peace with my mother. And he knew I would be a fighter, that I’d be able to take care of myself.

Squaring my shoulders, I made my decision. I would go back.

I didn’t run. The distance seemed unbelievably far, unlike the night before. I was amazed how far I’d travelled last night, but I supposed there was truly something to be said for adrenaline and fear.

The canals seemed so quiet this time of day, deep in the city and away from the shouts and labor of the dock
workers sorting the early-morning catches. The soft lapping of the water against the walls was soothing and, combined with the soft pit-pat of my footsteps on the cobble street, created a relaxing rhythm that was a welcome change from the frantic dash of the night before.

I wasn’t completely familiar with this part of my district, but I knew that the canal would eventually lead me back to my neighborhood, and to Dr. Vito, my doctor since childhood. I figured he’d seen me since before I was masked, and if anyone would help me, it would be him.

His red door greeted me when I turned down a street that led me to familiar territory. I took a deep breath before knocking on the door, bracing myself for whatever reaction might be in store for me.

The door swung open and the doctor peered out from behind it, frowning. “Yes? Can I help you?”

My shoulders slumped; he didn’t recognize me. “I need your help,” I said hesitantly as he regarded me suspiciously.

“I’m not taking new patients now,” he said brusquely. “And as I can see you’re not in any immediate danger, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I can’t help you.”

“But I’m already one of your patients,” I protested, cursing my hastily made mask. A mask maker with any pride at all should never wear such a thing. “I’m Evelina diPietro.”

With a gasp, he pulled me inside with an arm around my shoulders and shut the door behind us, leading the way to a familiar curtained-off room, speaking rapidly. “Beg pardon, miss, I did not recognize you. Of course you would come to me after that horrible fire. Of course, I understand now. And what of your father? Were you separated? And in
your night things, no less! What
happened
? Sit here and tell me what’s wrong.”

He didn’t give me any chance to answer, swiftly examining the minor cuts on my hands and arms. He flitted about the room before finally sitting on a stool, his pudgy hands rubbing salve on the minor burns on my arms.

“Wait, wait,” I said, trying to explain as I pulled my hands away. “I’m mostly unhurt, save for one thing.” I took another breath as he looked up at my face. “It’s under my mask,” I began, nervous both to remove my mask and for his reaction at my marked skin.

“Ah,” he said compassionately. “I understand, miss. Would you prefer just to show me?”

I exhaled in relief, glad he wasn’t going to make me tell the whole story. While he hadn’t seen my bare face since I was a young girl, surely he’d still recognize me. I slowly lifted the makeshift mask up, wincing, until it rested on my forehead. Then I peeled back the bandage and—

Dr. Vito stood abruptly, knocking his stool over. He spoke in a cold voice, all compassion gone from his face, “Get out of here. This is a cruel game you play, imitating a missing girl. Never mind one I’ve known since birth. I don’t treat criminals.”

“But—” The shame burned in my face, and I struggled to explain, but when the doctor looked at my face, all he could see was a Mark. Just the same as how I’d looked at the Chameleon’s face.

“Out!” he shouted, dragging my arm roughly. “And cover yourself, you filthy thing. I want nothing to do with a Marked girl.”

I had no choice but to run again.

In a flurry of confusion and blurred vision, I covered my face again and let my feet lead the way as I struggled to keep my pain in check. Was I so scarred that even my doctor didn’t recognize me? Or did he see only the Mark and nothing else? I hoped the latter, which gave me some sliver of hope. My Mark could be covered, once it was healed, but there was no saving a scarred and ugly face.

These thoughts spun around in my head as I ran until I finally reached my block. Once there, I was shocked. A small crowd had gathered around my house, and I could hear the gossip from where I stood. No one went in or came out of the building, and I could see that the fire had long been extinguished. I edged closer, trying to hear what was being said by the loudest gossip hens.

“—that dog of theirs, he was tearing up and the down the street in the middle of the night, barking up a storm. I was contemplating shooting him on the spot!” I never liked this particular neighbor. “Thank goodness he finally took off on his own. Thing wouldn’t stop yelping.”

At least I knew Hachi was safe and alive somewhere. He’d be able to take care of himself; he was a good dog.

“—the fire brigade got there just in time. The building should be salvageable; it just needs some support beams built back in and the flooring redone. The glass in the back windows was blown out too. I have half a mind to convince Abe to buy the place and move in there ourselves. I bet someone’s going to get a steal on that place.”

I added another thing on my mental list of things to accomplish: inform
someone
that I was still alive, so I could reclaim my home eventually. Though I didn’t know how I could convince anyone of my identity at this point.

“Sad thing about Pietro, though.” My ears perked up when I heard my father’s name. “I heard from one of the guards that they found his body floating in the canal. Stripped of his mask and anything else of value. They say it’s likely the Chameleon’s work.”

I breathed heavily, anxious for more and stubbornly ignoring the pain that throbbed in my chest. It was one thing to accept his death as a logical conclusion. It was another thing entirely to hear it as a topic of gossip.

“I haven’t heard anything about the girl, though.”

“You think she’s still alive?” another woman asked.

“Who knows, with that one,” my neighbor responded, shrugging. “She’s always been hardy. And they haven’t found any remains, so there’s still some hope.”

“My money is on her being at the bottom of the canal. They just got lucky finding Pietro.”

“That’s the truth, I won’t deny it. But I think she’s tougher than that. She’ll turn up.”

While my neighbor had faith in me, she seemed to be the only one. I’d be hearing more rumors of my own death by afternoon, no doubt about it.

I bided my time, waiting until the crowd thinned before even attempting to get back inside. I thought about going to the house of the neighbor who’d defended me for help, but I didn’t think I could handle being thrown out again.

Instead, I used the respite to sit by the canal, lying low. I washed the back of my neck and arms in the water, even though that water was far from clean. It was better than being covered in soot and dirt.

Finally, dusk came, and interest in my empty home
had waned thin. I crept through the shadows as quietly as I could—which was admittedly not very—and pushed the back door open. It creaked noisily, but the sound was swallowed by the waves of the canal and the foot traffic on the street.

I had wanted to go to my room to wash up and change into clean clothes—or even day clothes—but the blackened stairs looked too unstable to hold my weight.

Dejected, I tried to think of other options for getting some proper clothes. I glanced out the window to where Hachi had been tied up. There was still laundry on the line, far enough from the house to have escaped the flames. What a stroke of luck! I gratefully snatched up a clean shift and shirt and returned to the house to inspect the state of the kitchen.

I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach felt completely hollow, and I was growing weak. Thankfully, the fire hadn’t made it past the brick of the kitchen entryway and the room looked more or less intact, if somewhat eerie from the shiftings and creaks of the rest of the building. I found some rolls and jam and fruit, and quickly filled my stomach before heading to the workroom, anxious to find a real mask. I would’ve worn one of my old ones, but I couldn’t access my room where I kept them, and I didn’t want to be recognized.

I found one mostly completed mask hiding beneath an overturned, charred cabinet. It had neither lining nor a finished setting glaze, but it would suit my needs just fine. It was even a comforting green. It had been intended to be the base for a formal Ball Mask, but it would do for an everyday one for now. Better yet, it sat low over my
cheekbones, and if I could manage it, it should cover my Mark while it healed.

Mask in hand, I found the medical salve we kept with the herbs in the kitchen and carried both up to the table where I could work comfortably. Under the dark cover of night, I could use the pump in the yard. I prepared a bowl of clean water, fetched the soap, and sat down.

I unwound my wrap and then peeled the covering from my skin, wincing slightly. I dampened my wash-cloth and dabbed at the wound, cleaning it until no blood came away on the cloth and praying that it wouldn’t get infected. I had no way of knowing how sterile the brand had been, but the Mark seemed to be clean enough to avoid infection.

I dabbed at the raised skin with some of the salve and taped a white cloth over it, using as little material as possible to hopefully keep it concealed under my mask.

Walking over to a window to see my reflection, I covered my face with the new mask. A small bit of the fabric still stuck out from the bottom. I would have to wind another veil of sheer fabric across the bottom half of my face until I could remove the dressing, or until I could make another mask.

I sighed as I glared at the offending mask in the glass. Another mask required materials and time that I didn’t have. I could redo the one I was currently wearing by adding more fabric or mâché to the bottom. I’d have to see what was left in the workroom.

Before hunting materials down, though, I allowed myself to shed a few bitter tears one last time as I stared at my marred reflection—my face would never be the same.
It wasn’t as bad as I feared initially, but I’d never be able to remove my mask for anyone without fear of condemnation.

After this, I swore to myself I would never cry for myself again. I would be strong. I would not let the Chameleon define me.

Taking a deep breath, I reentered the workroom, this time really taking the time to survey the damage.

The fire had destroyed the walls and one of the support beams that held up the opposite end of the building where my father’s room had been. In the workroom, material littered the floor in varying degrees of charred debris. Many of the ribbons and lace were surprisingly untouched, though anything of real value was gone.

I collected some ribbons and thread to take to the kitchen to alter my mask as best I could and left the rest of the room untouched, exhausted and unable to look at it any longer. The moon was bright, but the night was too dark for me to really do much, and I didn’t dare light a lantern.

Instead, I slumped over the table and let sleep and exhaustion claim me.

* * *

When morning came, I woke with the sun. I redressed my new Mark and went about my morning with such regularity that it once again felt like the past two days had been nothing more than a bad dream. But then I’d see the workroom and its gutted starkness or try to go up the stairs to my room, and that provided a vivid reminder that I was not dreaming.

Today would be the last day in my home. I didn’t know
where I was going yet, but I knew I couldn’t stay. There were too many unanswered questions and uncertainties.

Once I had cleaned up and looked like a respectable citizen again, I prepared to leave by packing a knapsack with as much food as I dared and tucking money into hidden pockets in my skirts and sash. The only personal effect I allowed was that locket Aiden found for me so long ago. It would serve as a good enough proof of identity for those I knew. I wore it under my clothing, though, so no one could identify me before I wanted them to. I also took the masks I’d received from Iniga, which had thankfully been unharmed. I didn’t know what I was going to do with them yet, but they would undoubtedly come in handy.

Then, with one last look around the place, I left my childhood home behind me.