The Masks We Wear [2017] [P/UP]

Ovurture

The carriage arrived without warning before the Parisian opera house as though it were drawn out of a fairy tale.

The early morning sun shone on every inch of the gilded coach, giving many passerby the illusion of Apollo's fiery chariot of myth. Even the ivory horses that drew the thing were dusted with a fine shimmer of gold along their lean bodies.

Was it royalty? The emperor perhaps?

Bodies clambered around to try and answer that very question, but the windows were covered by curtains—closed from the inside—and the coach's elegant driver was seated too high to reach; and yet the crowds were stunned by the servant.

The man wore an ivory and gold mask with a long beak to cover the upper half of his face and wore clothing not even the wealthiest families would ever dream to put on one of their employees.

As the clamor outside went on, the residents of the opera house began to grow exceedingly curious. Ballerinas, stagehands, maids, orchestra members, and all the like could be found looking out from any door and window they could.

Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of the carriage just sitting there on the street, the opera house's manager—an older, greying man named Lefèvre—decided to see what was causing such a ruckus on this fine Parisian morning.

As soon as Lefèvre came close enough, the coach's driver quite suddenly dropped the horses' reins and leapt deftly to the cobbled street below. The crowds of onlookers reared back in shock at the seemingly frozen man's sudden movements.

The driver opened the carriage door and Lefèvre found himself resisting the urge to bow at the figure that emerged from that golden carriage.

She was tall—an aspect which commanded a level of respect all on its own—and dressed with a level of opulence that seemed almost absurd. At least, Lefèvre assumed it was a woman. He could not see an inch of skin on the figure, as silky gowns and headpieces of feathers and gold and orange silk covered the body. Long orange gloves disappeared into puffed sleeves, and the head and neck were wrapped in the same silk that made up the gown.

And yet the most intriguing aspect of this figure's outfit was not the way it seemed to catch fire in the sunlight, nor was it the headpiece made almost entirely of feathers, no. It was the full faced Venetian mask that they wore with its porcelain skin and golden lips . . . And the empty black eye sockets that seemed to stare into Lefèvre's soul.

The opera's manager pressed his hand to his chest as all the air in his lungs seemed to leave him.

Oh, this figure was well known in Paris, infamous for her wealth and status. She was not royalty, though she very well could have been.

"La femme d'or . . ." Lefèvre breathed. "The Golden Woman."

A chuckle reverberated behind the woman's mask as she held out a hand to the opera house's manager. "Monsieur Lefèvre, I presume?" She spoke. Her elegantly rich voice was muffled slightly, but still commanded the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

This was not the first time Lefèvre had heard a voice like that; far from it in fact. His opera was haunted by a phantom with just such a voice. The fact that this masked figure was a woman did not make that sort of voice any easier to listen to, though. In fact—for the faint of heart, such as he—it was almost hard to listen to this woman's voice without breaking down into tears.

Shaking himself from his stupor, Lefèvre reached forward with trembling hands and kissed the back of the Golden Woman's gloved hand. "M-Madame . . ." He stammered, bowing as well.

The Golden Woman chuckled again as she pulled back her hand. "Monsieur Lefèvre, seeing as you have recently just finished your last opera, I've come to propose the next one your theater shall perform."

The woman snapped her fingers and in seconds her driver was handing her a ream of paper. The woman looked down at it for a moment, then headed the papers to the shocked Lefèvre.

"Hannibal." The woman spoke as Lefèvre glanced through the scores of sheet music. "One of my personal favorite operas. I shall pay for it all, of course. I particularly love the part with the elephant."

The manager gaped as the woman produced a large bundle of francs from within her sleeves and tossed them into his hands.

"M-Madame, I . . . I have no words!" Lefèvre gasped excitedly.

The golden woman raised a gloved hand. "Say nothing, Monsieur Lefèvre. I have been meaning to become a patron of the opera for a while now. I have recently developed quite an interest in the . . . supernatural, if you understand my meaning monsieur. All I ask of you is that I be sold box five as my permanent seat."

Lefèvre's face—though previously jovial—fell into a look of dread. "N-no, madame, you—you can't! That box—"

"Belongs to the infamous Opera Ghost, I am aware. Monsieur Lefèvre, if this wears too much on your conscience, then by all means I shall give you the all money you need to retire or vacation away. But I must advise you that without my generosity your beautiful opera shall fall on hard times, I guarantee it."

Lefèvre swallowed dryly as he stared down at the wad of francs and the ream of paper that lay nestled in his hands.

"I shall . . ." He muttered. "Begin looking for new managers immediately . . ."

The golden woman chuckled again, and Lefèvre did not need to see her face to know that she was smirking. "Very well then Monsieur Lefèvre. As I'm sure your current phantasmic patron will be very cross with this change, I shall leave two of my servants behind to assist you in any way you need."

The woman stepped to the side as two smaller figures—exactly identical to one another—emerged from the golden carriage.

Just like the driver, these twins wore masks that covered only half their faces, only instead of porcelain with a long beak, these masks were made of iridescent blue and green feathers with small black beaks that covered their noses and curled downwards. The hair on both twins' heads was black and cut to chin length, with more iridescent feathers woven in with the strands. Their lips were painted blue and their skin was a pale a white as the moon. Each twin wore identical outfits of loose white dress shirts tucked into high-waisted golden-orange slacks and sleek black shoes.

"This is Martin," The Golden Woman stated, patting the head of the male twin, "and this is Pêcheur." She set her gloved hand on the female twin's shoulder. "They shall be my eyes and ears within the opera house at all times. You shall have no need to house or feed them, they can fend for themselves; in fact they shall remain positively invisible unless called upon."

With a smirk in her voice, the woman patted the twins on their backs, a silent signal for them to begin their given tasks.

[INCOMPLETE]