They made it slowly up the stairs and after a moment to catch her breath (or more accurately, her courage), Turold rapped on the door. No response. He rapped again, louder this time, while Giacinta held her breath.
“Perhaps he’s not home?”
“He’s home. Trust me,” Turold muttered.
A few more raps—punctuated by a sharp kick. The entire frame rattled.
“Kastushiro! Open up!” he shouted.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice whispered.
“It’s Turold! Who else comes to visit you or even knows where you live? You move five times a year; it’s all I can do to keep track.”
Silence. Giacinta exchanged a worried look, but Turold waved it off.
“How do I know you’re Turold?” the voice asked.
“Because I helped you carry a two-hundred pound bell for three miles over muddy terrain in a thunderstorm and never got my share of the booty. You sold it for ten thousand fobs!” he shouted, smacking the door.
“That’s not true—it wasn’t ten thousand,” he said, unbolting the door. “I only got five, and then I was robbed on the way back and lost everything, except about fifty krouck I hid in my shoe.”
The door opened, and a tall, sickly-looking man poked out, shielding his face.
“I’m not going to hit you!” Turold laughed, taking his hand. “I’m not even that sore about it. Just next time, get someone else to help you carry it.”
He gave a weak smile and shook Turold’s hand, like a dog that had been kicked to the curb once too often. Then his eyes swung to Giacinta and froze. She stepped back, trying to make an apologetic gesture, but he continued to stare at her, his surprise turning into a flush of admiration.
“Oh, she’s magnificent,” he said, almost breathlessly. “No face at all. A perfect canvas.”
“I thought you would appreciate her,” Turold said, beaming. “So, you think you can fix her?”
“Fix her?” he gasped, almost insulted. “There’s nothing to fix. She’s perfect as she is. No flaw, no blemish. Just…bone.”
“Yes, she’s quite bare…but she wants a face. Rather difficult for her to walk around like this. So I naturally thought of you. Of course, if it’s too difficult…”
“It’s not the difficulty that concerns me, though that will be considerable,” he said, reaching up to touch her, then drawing back. “May I?”
“I…yes, if you wish,” she said, clenching her fists.
He ran his finger across her mandible, then danced over her foramen to the top of her skull. Though she had initially feared his revulsion, she wondered if being admired like this wasn’t even more unsettling. A strange leer crept over his face as he drew back, whispering something incomprehensible to Turold.
“So you can do it?” Turold asked.
“I’ll need some time, since she has so little to work with,” he nodded, entranced. “But yes, I can do it. Does she have a particular face in mind? Or can I use my own discretion?”
Turold didn’t like the sound of that. He feared, knowing Kastushiro’s peculiar taste, that she would emerge with an even more hideous disfigurement.
“Thanks, but I’m sure she has her own ideas, don’t you, Giacinta?” he urged her.
“I’ve tried thinking of nothing else,” she said, with a deflated gesture. “But as I told you, it’s just blank. I can’t see a thing.”
“Then if I might be so bold, perhaps we can retain something of the infraorbital foramen,” Kastushiro said, his fingers at work on her skull, “as well as a partially-exposed glabella–”
“No, no, nothing exposed!” Turold interrupted.
“But it’s quite the fashion these days! Haven’t you seen the Queen’s stepdaughter, Lady Asrael?”
“Her wig caught fire—she lost half her face!” Turold said, with a laugh. “That’s an accident, not fashion!”
“The greatest advances are often achieved through accidental means,” he said, with a huff. “But do come in already. You’re talking very loud…anyone might be listening.”
They entered his surprisingly tasteful apartment, which he had decorated at some expense—paintings, busts, chandeliers. Also scattered throughout were life-size mannequins with half-completed faces. Etudes and experiments, he gestured, with a note of pride. Most were grotesque, missing eyes and teeth, but they all demonstrated his matchless artistry and verisimilitude. He suggested that she could have her pick of the lot, but she politely–and when he insisted, quite forcibly–declined. Turold suggested they might bring her to the Royal Galleries, let her browse for a proper face, but Kastushiro wanted to begin at once; and besides, old faces had no interest for him. He strove for novelty of feature, originality of expression, and a centuries-dead duchess lacked either one.
“Wait! Who’s that?” she exclaimed, from just behind them.
They turned to see, and found her kneeling on the floor, holding an empty bottle she had found overturned under a table. She held this up to them, and Turold recognized the label at once: Talboys’ Toilet Vinegar, a tonic and refreshing lotion for the toilet and bath, which received the Gold Medal at His Majesty’s Health Exhibition! At the top of the label, the face of an exotic-looking woman peered out at the viewer, wreathed in a halo of flowers and rainbows. Turold had seen it a thousand times, and had even used it on occasion, but never really noticed the woman until Giacinta exclaimed, “her!”
“What about her?” he asked.
“It’s her!” Giacinta repeated, holding it up. “I feel like I know this woman. And her face—it’s so familiar, like a glove that fits just so. That’s the face I want, it has to be her.”
“The toilet-water woman?” Kastushiro said, amazed. “At least choose the beauty on Ivanko’s Transparent Coal Tar Soap. She’s fully naked! They’ve made a fortune.”
“No, I want her,” she said, defiantly. “You said I could choose, and I’ve made my decision. It has to be her.”
Turold made an impotent gesture to Kastushiro, who gave a shrug in return. A face was a face, after all, and the toilet-water woman had to come from somewhere, on someone. Why not on her?
“Well, she is new, not like those antique grandmothers you suggested,” he said. “It might be interesting to take a cheap advertisement and make her flesh and blood. Why not?”
Turold took up the bottle and held it beside her face, trying to blend the two, to see her in motion.
“And this is really what you want?”
“It is. The second I saw it, I knew. Just as I knew who you were. You have to trust me.”
“Of course I trust you…it’s just such a big decision. I don’t want you to regret it later.”
“Wouldn’t anything be an improvement?” she asked, standing up. “Besides, most people have to live with the face they’re born with. Any choice is better than nothing. And I choose her.”
“Here, give me the bottle,” Kastushiro said, snatching it up. “I’ll make the necessary preparations. It could take time. Several hours. A day.”
“Whatever it takes, I’ll be here,” Turold said, taking her hand.
“You absolutely will not!” he said, almost pushing him out of the room. “I need privacy, silence, no interruptions! I can’t have you in my workspace. I promise to take good care of her, but on no account will you stand over me, humming and hawing, or worse, making comments!”
“I wouldn’t think—I’d be silent—I’d sit in the corner, in another room,” Turold protested, to Kastushiro’s shaking head.
“I refuse! I won’t work with you in the apartment!”
“You expect me to leave her here, with a complete stranger, and a notoriously unreliable bell-thief?”
“We stole the bell, I merely sold it,” he snapped.
“On whose authority?” Turold asked, grabbing his coat.
“Gentlemen, please, it’s fine,” Giacinta said, coming between them. “I can stay here, I’m not afraid. I trust him.”
“You do?” Turold said.
“Yes—what choice do I have?” she said, slipping on her mask. “Go, I’ll be fine. Just be careful. I fear things are beginning to advance.”
“Don’t do anything rash; no experiments or etudes with her,” Turold warned. “This isn’t like the bell.”
“Indeed not. She is priceless,” Kastushiro agreed.
“When should I return?”
“Come back around…say, midnight, just to be safe,” he said, consulting his pocket watch.
“I’ll be here at eleven,” he said, pressing her hand. “And you’re sure? You can still back out.”
“No, this is the right thing to do. I want this,” she said. “Be kind when you see me next. I might be ugly.”
“And I might be short,” he said, with a laugh.
“Enough chatter, time to work!” he said, interrupting them. “At midnight. Good-bye!”
Kastushiro guided her into his study and waved Turold off. Moments later, Turold found himself outside the building, watching the sunrise creep over the spires of the city. Light swept through the windows and trees, but cast no shadow behind him. What was he doing now, Turold wondered? Would the king make his usual jokes? Would his Shadow take it on the chin, or fire back? He had a temper, that fellow…almost as much as Turold himself. But unlike Turold, he had no reason to hold back, no promotion to dream of.
As the sky lightened, a thick trail of smoke appeared miles off, coming from the West district. He couldn’t tell exactly what was burning, it was too far away, but it had to be something considerable. With a shock he realized that the Archives lay in precisely that direction, and housed enough manuscripts and books to justify a fire of that size, especially if they were all burning at once. He took off at a sprint in the direction of the silent, billowing cloud.
