“To show his lack of passion. Death just is. Inevitable. Inescapable.”
“My gramps said life comes with a one hundred percent death rate.”
This rattles her. She glances at Dr. Marsh. “It’s true, I guess. If you are born, you are guaranteed to die. I hadn’t really thought about it that way.”
“Yep. Death comes for us all sooner or later in some form. That’s what Gramps said, too.”
“Hopefully later rather than sooner,” she says. “And in a fairly comfortable form.”
“What kind of person would pick the death mask, I wonder?” Carter asks with the brightly macabre curiosity that children often have.
“Well,” she says, “if I was Sorin the Magnificent, I’d say someone who perhaps sees themselves as death’s quiet servant. No morality. No judgment. Just the mission of death.”
“Hmm,” says Carter. “And this one?” He points to a mask with a playful but cunning silver smile. Eyes shaped as though full of mischief. Pointed ears. Half human, half animal. A spirited, puckish face frozen between innocence and mischief.
“That’s the mask of the Satyr.”
“What does it depict?”
“Well, in ancient Greek tradition, I believe the Satyr symbolizes an earthy wit, trickery, a playful lust and zest, freedom—but it comes with deep and dark lessons hidden behind the pranks and cheekiness.”
Carter vacillates between the Hero and the grinning Trickster.
He reaches for the Satyr.
“Good choice.” She allows a smile. “I figured you’d like that one.”
“I do.” He holds it over his face and does a funny little jig in front of a long mirror.
For a surreal moment, the eight-year-old—small for his age—actually becomes a little evil, mischievous sprite.
She almost laughs, but instead feels a chill. Like a cloud over the moon.
Her gaze flicks toward the darkness of the ocean beyond the window. The sky is clear, full with stars. No clouds cross the moon. Its light shines clear on the water and is luminous on little white horses foaming on the waves that are growing with the wind.
Dr. Marsh whispers conspiratorially to Carter, “Maybe I’ll come down and get you at intermission, and we can sneak onto the deck and peek in a window when no one is looking.”
“There’s no window into the theater lounge, I’m afraid,” Roshaan offers, trying to dissuade them.
“Well, maybe we can peek in via a side door or something, then,” Dr. Marsh says to Carter.
Roshaan desperately wants to say,Please, not tonight. She opens her mouth, but Sarah interjects before she can speak.
“I’ll take this one.” She picks up the beautiful bronze mask of Demeter. Her face is serene. Maternal features. High cheekbones, closed lips. A crown of wheat worked in relief across the brow. The shape of her eyes, however, is sad. And while her face is smooth, cracks and veins show in the bronze at the edges, as though the earth that the goddess of harvest is supposed to nourish, is drying, and dying.
“What about you, Dad?” Sarah asks Dr. Marsh.
He picks up the Oedipal Father mask. “This looks about right for me.” He grins, holds it up. The face is made of heavy browned gold. Deeply lined. Authority that has outlived its time. A man, Theo will undoubtedly say, who fears irrelevance, but can’t let go.
She leaves the family, feeling sick.
As she wheels her cart down the carpeted corridor, she thinks that whatever goes down tonight, it’s her fault. She has a burden to bear, a price to pay.
None of this would be happening if she hadn’t listened to Theo. If she hadn’t planted those bugs.
Poppy
“Yes,” Lillith says simply. “Those relatives still need answers. I never knew what happened to most of them who entered our sphere, then simply disappeared—those intrepid souls traveling the world in search of answers, of meaning, escaping the Vietnam War. Peace lovers experimenting with drugs, different religions, alternative ways of being. It was these very qualities that rendered them vulnerable to a master manipulator like Vincent. They were too open, too trusting. He saw himself as superior. He looked down on them as undisciplined, hedonistic—it’s how he ‘othered’ them.”
