Tonight, I am the fool.
The mask sits tight against my face, snug against the curve of my jaw, cutting into the jiggle of baby fat I never lost. As I pass an antique mirror made of mercury glass, I pause. It is the only opportunity to adjust myself I will have. Unlike the other women coming to Court tonight, I do not cut a docile figure.
Black lace drips from every limb, the bodice sparks with amber and jade, my long legs weave in and out of the long, slitted train. But it is the mask that marks me tonight. It is a bane, a curse, maybe a gift passed down from father to daughter.
The Arlecchino mask is at least a decade out of fashion. Her once pure white face is cracked and peeling, rotting to a duskier cream. The gold frame around the eyes remains as polished and shining as the day it was made, swirls of gold curving up her temples to fan into the magnificent gold feather headdress and collar. I reach up and brush my fingers against the lips, velvet-soft and deep crimson, they are sealed closed.
She has muffled the screams of my ancestors for generations and tonight should be no different.
I tear my eyes away from my visage. I am prepared for my funeral.
Slowly, knowing all eyes are upon me, I enter the ballroom last. The party is still raging on, but all the lights dim and the music muffles as soon as I step between the two armored knights guarding the entrance.
It is to ensure there is an audience for tonight’s revelry. Once one enters, one can never leave the Spade King’s court until he has his beautiful little fool.
Fear flutters alive in my stomach and nausea sickens me, but I keep my mouth pressed tightly closed, wiring my jaw shut. I have no choice. I step onto the herringbone floor painted with the four royal symbols.
Spade.
Heart.
Diamond.
Club.
Once, there had been a fifth symbol, but all of their markings have been etched away, replaced by this newer, more fashionable floor.
Once upon a time, I had longed to rip it up. To ruin my perfectly manicured nails and delicate hands pulling all the nails out.
See! I would’ve cried. See what they did!
No one cares.
I take my time weaving through the crowds of people. They part around me, most edging back to the wall as if they’ll catch my curse just by standing too close. Others shuffle closer, eyes wide behind their hooked-nosed masks and glittering. half Colombinas.
Sitting above the commoners, on a high dais gilded and specked with fiery jewels, is the royal court.
The Spade King sits in the center, flanked by all the others, but set back from him. All I see is him.
He is slight and willowy, long-limbed enough to drape over the throne as if he’s melted into it. Dark hair fluffs around his mask, a mimic of mine, but fashioned to fit his handsomely cruel face perfectly. It is dark as onyx, a white spade painted over the majority of it, a silver mask inlaid around his eyes and swirling into generous filigree.
I stop in front of the dais, held aloft by some trick of the light or maybe even real magic.
“The Fool returns,” the Spade King says in a lazy purr.
The court chortles around him.
I cannot speak.
“Come. Let us not make our friends wait.” He rises from the metallic throne, his body stretching long and thin.
Friends, he says, as if anyone here is anything less than an enemy.
A sharp pressure digs into my spine and I am compelled forward by an unknown knight. I follow the King down the hall at a slow and steady pace until we arrive in a large domed chamber. Once it would’ve been the King’s Council room, the dome made of sparkling crystalline to inspire clear thoughts.
The doors squeal closed behind me and the Spade King stands in a shaft of slanted moonlight. Sweat gathers in my palms as I step into the light with him. He turns and I cannot see his eyes in the dark shadows of the mask. He lashes out, possibly to hit me, and I cower with my arm.
He catches my wrist and drags me closer, a finger trailing a tear-like motion down the cheek of my mask. I can almost imagine the cold of the touch. “I wonder why I can never see your face until after it is done? Are Harlequins truly that beautiful?”
I try to open my mouth to speak but remember I cannot.
He rips the necklace from my throat, the last gift my mother gave to me before she swan dived into the concrete below our balcony. I stifle a cry in the back of my throat, my knees weak.
“Such a pity. Such a waste.” He examines it, eyeing the ruby heart.
I lean forward, into him and he recoils in surprise. I tip into him.
I have one shot.
One chance.
My hand snags the back of his head, crashing our skulls together. Pain lances through my head, but I keep focused, scrambling for the latch at the back of the mask. It falls from his face, bouncing between us. I grab the wrist holding the necklace and squeeze it tight.
His fragile bones are nothing for me. I’ve honed my body for this moment. The thrill of it all nearly makes me lightheaded, but I cannot falter now. Not when the family legacy, when my daughters and granddaughters, rely on me.
I smash the ruby into his cheekbone and he blinks, dazed, as blood courses down his pale white cheek. The ruby splinters, but does not break.
I try to do it again, but he’s regained enough focus to drive me backward, out of the light. My back hits the wall and he drops the ruby, hand clutching my throat.
I cannot breathe, but it is better that I cannot.
The ruby shatters into thousands of pieces, a curl of wispy smoke rising between us. He sniffs and scoffs, shaking his head as the neurotoxin invades his nose, makes its way into his brain, and like a snake, devours the soft flesh there.
His grip loosens and he slumps forward, forehead resting on the crook of my neck as if we are merely lovers. He drops to his knees, head against my stomach before he tilts sideways and dies without sound.
I catch my breath through the breathing tube placed in the ancient mask, waiting for the last of the smoke to dissipate before I unlatch my own mask.
I drag him to the center of the room. I arrange him in the moonlight, smirking down at his pallid, stone-cold face. Blue eyes shot through with gold, a spade for his black pupil.
I press the fool mask onto his face. It does not fit well, but I get the clasps shut. I take his spade mask and pull it on, wrinkling my nose at the offensive teakwood musk the royals call cologne.
My ancestors have been fools for generations. I am the last.
For tonight, I have made him the fool.
Obviously, a word like ‘fool’, inspires my thoughts of a Joker or a Jester and so I thought of cards. A little Alice in Wonderland, a little generational curse, a few political coups, and a hint of killing girls for magic, and we’ve got today’s flash fiction. I’m an avid card player and I’ve always wanted to write a royal court inspired by the four suits of cards.
I’ll be honest, I don’t know why they kill the females from this family and why the male relatives allow it to continue to happen, but I came up with the first line and the last line and wrote the scene in-between. It runs a bit long, but overall, I’m quite happy with it.
I hope you enjoy this masquerade and the murderous vibes.
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