10. Versions

Versions

Luella

The magic of Divus is difficult to explain. The gods did not bless this land with the magic of the elements, like the lands to the east where fire and water appear at its inhabitants fingertips. No, the gods of this land were obsessed with themselves and bestowed a magic as multi-faceted and finicky as they were.

I must be blessed by some part of the gods that either hated what they were, or perhaps were just too bored to allow themselves to look the same for the rest of their days.

Ledo had come to call on me at my room in the city after I explained that my parents had died and I’d lost their domus. An easy lie, since I couldn’t very well say I had a domus hidden in the woods where I returned every few quads with a different face.

“I brought you these,” Ledo says, offering a batch of crushed geraniums. Another pathetic flower, although less deceptive than the rose. “Then a horse nearly trampled me and I accidentally did this to them.” He grimaces and shrugs. His explanation reeks of privilege. Horses? I’ve seen exactly zero horses in the forum. Only the Emperor and the military own horses.

“Oh goodness! Well, it’s the thought that counts.” I smile at him. This type of lie is so practiced, it nearly escapes my notice. These are the pleasantries expected of a woman, built and tended by every encounter we’ve ever had. “Although you better make sure to release me if a horse ever tries to trample you!”

He grins. “If I was holding onto you, I don’t know that I’d ever let you go.”

I smile back. He’s charming, because of course he is. I’ve been balancing the line of spirited banter and meekness to keep him coming back. It’s working, although I know I’ll need to up the game soon, lest he grow bored of me. Not to mention the clipse is almost at an end. He won't be coming into the city daily after that.

“Ledo?” I ask as we stroll through the cobblestone streets near where we met at the festival. Bawdy music drifts to us from the square over, and I know the festivities will soon become just a tangle of bodies.

“Yes?” he asks, squeezing my arm gently.

“I’m… quite enjoying our time together,” I say, hesitating over the words as though I know I’m being too forward, but simply can’t help myself. As though I haven’t rehearsed these lines for days, years really, since so many men require the same posturing and simpering from the women around them.

“And?” Ledo asks.

“Well,” I pause, still unsure, as any good lady would be. “I worry that you’re leading me on.”

“Leading you on?” he asks, a smirk playing about his lips. Oh, but he is good.

“Yes. Scaring away prospective suitors. With my familia gone, I must be practical.”

“Practical.” He nods. “And have you had any suitors calling? Ones I have scared away?”

“No, they are too afraid of you.” I let the accusation hang in the air, knowing, as we both do, that Praetors do not marry girls from unknown families and not a single other soul has come to call on me.

“Of course. I take it you’re interested in whether a particular Praetor has any interest in this situation?” His tone is teasing, and I wonder if he’s letting himself enjoy our time together or if he’s doing exactly what I am.

Masquerading until I can strike.

I scoff. “Well, don’t get a big head.”

“Never, Skylar.” I like the name. I recycle them, so as not to confuse myself. Skylar, Julia, Luna, Aelia. The same names, just new faces, new bodies, new shapes. A marriage to Ledo would change Skylar's life, but since Skylar doesn’t exist Ledo will marry me. And that marriage? That would change his life.

“Hmm.” I bite my lip in thought, worrying it between my teeth. Ledo drops his gaze to the action, stepping closer.

“Will you come to the ball with me? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You expect me to have a presentable dress by tomorrow?” I protest.

“If you don’t want to come…” Ledo begins, but I shake my head.

“I would be honored to attend.” My eyelashes flutter, and it’s almost too much, even for me.

“I’ll send something for you,” he says.

I smile and put a hand on his arm.

He puts his hand over mine, then lifts my hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait,” I say, and I mean it.

Ledo sends a dress. It’s light blue, like the dress I’d worn to the festival. The neckline appears nearly modest at first, but when I turn the gown around, I realize that, while it has a high neck, the entire back is open. It will cut so low my back dimples will be visible.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Ledo would want to see his prize, but wearing this not accompanied by a man was an open invitation. I stand in my small washroom, curling each strand of my now golden hair around a calamistrum. Each ringlet falls hot against my cheek and neck, but I don’t flinch. I try to do them all quickly so I don’t have to return the rod to the coals. Thoughts of Ledo slink along me like a second skin. His charming smiles. His teasing. His gifts.

I roll my shoulders back, letting out a low breath.

I set the mostly cooled iron down and apply a dash of color to my cheeks and lips. I run my hands through the curls, breaking them up to make them look softer. Sweeter.

Still, Ledo won’t leave my mind. His profile. The women Mia has brought back from death’s door. The number of lashes. The hours of sutures. The bruised lips and broken ribs.

I hadn’t thought about it before, had put his crimes into a small box, only asking myself if he fit criteria. If he would help me meet my goals. He did, so that was all that mattered. Now… I carefully arrange the dress the way I know Ledo will prefer. The light blue fabric clings to the curves I painstakingly crafted. The perfect proportions.

I take a deep breath, looking into the blue eyes staring back in the mirror. Not my eyes. Nothing about this face is mine, with its small upturned nose, wide eyes, and round cheeks. At least I don’t think it’s like mine. I haven’t worn my own face in over ten years. I tried, once, to let the muscles and bones shift into their natural position, to allow my hair to drift to its own color, my eyes to darken.

I shudder. That girl is dead, and that’s how it felt to try to shift back into her.

Like trying to die.

I stand taller, steadying my nerves. Infusing them with stone, with basanite. I refuse to dwell on the question that always lingers in the background these days.

Will this version of me die, too?