Page 2 of The Jester

At the last Forest Moon festival, Kayan, Rosalie, and I spent the evening as owls. We flew high into the treetops and watched everything that was happening down below. We watched the deer rutting and tried to figure out who they were, and whether they’d be horrified or delighted when they shifted back and realised who they’d just fucked. We hunted, we soared, and then we returned to the fire at sunrise and gathered with the others for the breaking dawn ceremony.

It was the best night of my life.

And the day after became the worst.

I run my fingers over the silver cuffs. They are tight, but not linked, so I can still move freely. I let a deep breath swell in the crevices between my ribs, then exhale slowly and retrieve my mask from its hiding place.

Swiftly, I slide it back on, then tug my purple gloves free from beneath the cuffs and replace them with the gold ones from the bottom of my trunk. I sigh as I look at the gold fabric. At first, the deep-purple gloves my mother gave me meant freedom. Freedom from absorbing others’ emotions at the slightest brush of the hand.

But in the one hundred years since the last Forest Moon, they have become nothing more than symbols of my failings. Failure to control. Failure to free myself.

I move to the wardrobe, reach inside, and loosen the hidden panel at the back. Then I take out my dress. The dress I’ve spent the last century building just for tonight.

Retracting my wings, I remove my emerald-green gown, allow it to pool at my feet, then step out of it and slip on my costume. It feels like feathers of silk against my skin. I release my wings once more, and flex them gently into a satisfying stretch.

In front of the dressing table, I assess my reflection.

For now, I still look like me. Fiery auburn hair hanging in waves over my shoulders. A slender silhouette. Pale skin.

Against my hair, the mask glistens, emphasising my porcelain complexion but hiding the splash of freckles across my nose. It is intricately carved, and makes my sea-green eyes dazzle when they catch the dimming evening light. It was my mother’s, but now it is mine. And the weight of the enchantments that are laced into its fibres rest heavily on my brow.

I adjust the mask, then smooth my hands over my dress, skimming my sides and my hips.

This dress – oh, this dress! The hours I have spent weaving incantations into the silk threads, poring over books from my mother’s library, searching for magics that have long been forgotten by the Leafborne who walk the forests today.

All so I can go to the centennial and walk amongst my kin without being seen.

In this dress, my magic will keep them from seeing me as I am. They will see an illusion – whoever they want to see. Someone who makes them feel safe and at ease. Someone who makes them smile. If they speak to me, they will hear the voice of that person. If they dance with me, they will feel the body of that person. And as soon as I leave their sight, they will forget it ever happened.

I have tested it once.

On Rosalie.

Although she speaks to me more than the others, it had been a long time since we were alone and it was both wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time.

But it worked.

She didn’t see me; she saw her cousin. We talked about the weather, and the new herd of white horses that had moved into the valley beyond the falls. Then she told me she’d see me at dinner that evening, and walked away.

Dragging my thoughts away from my friend, I apply some red colouring to my lips, then brush my hair one final time.

My mother would love this dress.

Its whisper-thin silk will shift from the deepest midnight blue to a deep, hypnotic purple, depending on how the moonlight kisses the fabric. The hem has been enchanted to flutter gently, as if caught in a perpetual, soft breeze. And around my waist, I wear a belt of woven silver vines that accentuates my waist and my hips.

Everything about this dress has been designed to dazzle those who see it. In this dress, I will walk among the other fae of my village completely free of judgement because they will not see me.

The mask and the enchantments will hide me from them. From those who remember what I did.

As the memory snags on the deepest crevices of my mind, my stomach constricts and my excitement darkens.

What if there isn’t enough magic to enchant again and again and again for an entire evening? What if I am exposed, and exiled for my betrayal?

For a fraction of a moment, I consider taking off the dress and the mask and staying here.

But I know I will not.

I cannot.

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