“I remember impressions more than actualities. I remember her constant crying. I remember how she looked at me as though I was something to be feared.”
“I do not remember my parents,” Marco says. “I have no memories before the orphanage that I was plucked out of because I met some unspecified criteria. I was made to read a great deal, I traveled and studied and was generally groomed to play some sort of clandestine game. I’ve been doing so, along with accounting and bookkeeping and whatever else Chandresh requests of me, for most of my life.”
“Why are you being so honest with me?” Celia asks.
“Because it is refreshing to be truly honest with someone for a change,” Marco says. “And I suspect you would know if I lied to you outright. I hope I can expect the same from you.”
Celia considers this a moment before she nods.
“You remind me a bit of my father,” she says.
“How so?” Marco asks.
“The way you manipulate perception. I was never particularly good at that myself, I’m better with tangible things. You don’t have to do that with me, by the way,” she adds, finally realizing what disconcerts her about his appearance.
“Do what?” Marco asks.
“Look like that. It’s very good, but I can tell it’s not entirely genuine. It must be terribly annoying to keep it up constantly.”
Marco frowns, but then, very slow
ly, his face begins to change. The goatee fades and disappears. The chiseled features become softer and younger. His striking green eyes fade to a green-tinged grey.
The false face had been handsome, yes, but consciously so. As though he was too aware of his own attractiveness, something Celia found distinctly unappealing.
And there was something else, a hollowness that was likely the result of the illusion, an impression that he was not entirely present in the room.
But now, now there is a different person standing next to her, much more present, as if a barrier has been removed between them. He feels closer, though the distance between them has not changed, and his face is quite handsome, still.
The intensity of his stare increases with these eyes; looking at him now she can see deeper, without being distracted by the color.
Celia can feel the heat rising up her neck and manages to control it enough that the flush is not noticeable in the candlelight.
And then she realizes why there is something familiar there as well.
“I’ve seen you like this before,” she says, placing his true countenance in a location in her memory. “You’ve watched my show like that.”
“Do you remember all of your audiences?” Marco asks.
“Not all of them,” Celia says. “But I remember the people who look at me the way you do.”
“What way might that be?”
“As though they cannot decide if they are afraid of me or they want to kiss me.”
“I am not afraid of you,” Marco says.
They stare at each other in silence for a while, the candles flickering around them.
“It seems a great deal of effort for a rather subtle difference,” Celia says.
“It has its advantages.”
“I think you look better without it,” Celia says. Marco looks so surprised that she adds, “I said I would be honest, didn’t I?”
“You flatter me, Miss Bowen,” he says. “How many times have you been to this house?”
“At least a dozen,” Celia says.