The Spinster’s Mask 

She gasped for air as her handmaid gave a final tug to her bodice’s strings. Cira cringed at the rib-crushing embrace the whale bone-stiffened white bodice gave her.

"That’s it. I’m tying it off my Lady," Sofia told her. Cira swallowed and merely nodded. She tried to breathe a few deep breaths to get accustomed to her small prison. Sofia moved to get her Lady’s dress from her wardrobe. 

 "I do not know why I’m even doing this," Cira said as she looked at herself in her mirror. She was a good looking young woman, with long chestnut brown hair, falling to just below her shoulders. Of course, it was loose since she was unwed. Her dark blue eyes twinkled at her and her fair skin looked almost flawless. She looked a lot like her elder sister, Melita. There were almost imperceptible differences between them: an inch or two variation in their height, Melita was slightly fuller in the bust and hips, Cira’s hair was longer, their noses were shaped differently, the presence of a scar on Cira’s stomach due to a blood letting from her childhood. At first glance, however, they seemed identical. Except there was a great difference between them: Melita was the older one, the only one who would have a dowry.

"You’re doing this because it’s your last masquerade ball, your last party before you leave for Saint Maria’s. Now hold up your arms." Cira did so and Sofia slipped her green and gold velvet dress up and over her head. It slipped over her body and stopped. It was tight from the waist up, the skirt holding a small bell shape around her by the help of a petticoat or two underneath. It only added a half foot in diameter around her, so she wouldn’t have to stay away from people for the mere reason that she couldn’t due to the volume of her skirt. The dress was strapless, leaving her shoulders bare. She had always liked her shoulders, sometimes thinking they were the only beautiful things about her. Melita seemed to be the family beauty, judging from all the compliments she received by her numerous suitors. Or, they might be inspired her dowry. Their father, a duke, had enough land to give to his eldest son and a little extra for his second. But for his daughters, he had only so much money. So Cira, being the youngest, was the unlucky one. Her fate lied with the convent.

Cira winced as Sofia threaded the gold ribbons through the green fabric, pressing the bodice of the dress to the body shaping bodice underneath. She sighed, the top of her bosom slightly rising. Gold lace, rising above the low neckline, covered her demurely. 

"I’ll never wear anything spectacular again, nor have the opportunity to wear a ball gown again. Just dull shades of brown, black, and grays for me, in my future, going to my wrists, ankles, and neck." She sighed again as she left the dressing area to her bureau. She sat down on the stool and started to slip a gold bracelet onto her delicate wrist as Sofia tied on a gold necklace around her neck. It had a small heart-shaped golden pendant which rested above her bosom. Cira looked at her face again. Her thick black lashes didn't need paint only a little green shading was needed on her eyelids, a bit of rouge to accentuate her cheekbones, and pale red pomade upon her lips. 

"Your mask, my lady."

Cira looked to Sofia in the mirror and saw her holding a gold mask, long peacock feathers boarded its arched rim. The thick feathers started at the outer corner of one eye and lined the outside edge of the mask until stopping at the outer corner of the other eye. The feathers were so long they curled back over the top of her head. She let Sofia put it on and looked at herself through the eye holes as her serving girl tied the gold ribbons tight behind her hair. The mask began on the bridge of her nose, slightly sloped down under her eyes to hide half of her cheeks, then curved around the sides of her head by her eyes and went up to cover her eyebrows but left most of her forehead visible. She looked to the gold leaf that had been applied to the once white ceramic mask. There were small golden swirls that were not very prominent but were gorgeous once noticed. The eye holes of the mask were small enough so that they only showed her black lashes. She thought it did a well enough job of making her look mysterious.

"Can you easily tell who I am?" she asked Sofia. The maid servant shook her head. 

"No, my lady. I’m guessing only your family will recognize you. You look lovely, my Lady. Perfect for your last social engagement."

The last word rang in Cira’s ears. She mused about it as she slowly made her way to the grand ball room. The stone hallways were empty, only the sounds of her footsteps keeping her thoughts company. 

"No more parties. No more men to flirt and smile with. No more pretty dresses, rich wine, or lavish gifts." She came to a hall of mirrors. She stopped in front of one and stared at herself. To her horror, the richly colored dress her image was wearing faded to a dull brown. She felt like a withered blossom, past its prime and heading towards death in winter. She closed her eyes as she felt the sting of tears. "I can’t cry! I won’t cry," she fiercely admonished to herself. She opened her eyes and she stood there in her velvet dress once again. It did not relieve her. She didn’t cry again; she had cried herself dry at the first announcement by her father that she was to enter a nunnery. She had thought of countless ways of trying to change her father's mind, to escape what seemed to Cira a living death; but, in the end, she realized she would have to follow her father’s commands.

The loud music caught her attention first; then it was the people’s laughter and gaiety. Unobserved, she entered the main ball room by a side entrance used mostly by family and servants. It was hidden from view as it appeared to be simply one of the mirror panels that made up the wall. She couldn’t help but smile as all of her senses whirled along with the dancers on the dance floor. 

There was so much to see! The Duke of Pavia’s balls were well-known throughout the land. Royalty from all of the Provinces would come just to be seen and have a good time. It was a proud accomplishment for her father, a duke of a small dukedom, to have prestigious people like the Doge of Venetia to visit his parties. Her father’s guests were clothed in fur, feathers, silk, satin, taffeta, velvet, cotton, bright shiny jewels, ornate decorations, gaudy baubles, lower than proper necklines, and even a white ankle or two was visible. Not only was each person assembled a different sight as all were pretending to be someone else, but the room itself was a spectacle. The ceiling was one large painting. It had a light blue sky with white fluffy clouds that looked so real she had tried reaching up for them when she was little. Chubby faced cherubs with gold leaf arrows looked down at them, silvery wings keeping them gliding among the clouds. Where the ceiling meet a wall was sculpted white marble. It made a type of frame for this large art work. The white marble was in the shape of a never-ending, twisting and tumbling flower vine with large opening blossoms every so often. The sculptor’s work brought out every detail of the vine, to the very last small thorn precariously guarding the precious stone blooms. Besides the mirrored wall behind her, the other walls were each different. On the opposite wall were small double door openings to balconies that overlooked the grand garden. The glass was tastefully stained- none of that painted glass for her noble family- showing growing plants, flowers, and trees. One could have pretended that one was looking straight out those doors and into the garden. During the winter, when the garden was barren of bright blooms, Cira had only needed to come in here and smile at the doors. The wall most saw upon entering through the grand entrance was in gray stone. In front of it were three huge tapestries, rising from the black and white marble floor to the painted ceiling. The one on the left showed the birth of the land. The one in the middle showed the first duke of Pavia fighting for his claim. The last one showed the brilliant crowing of the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, a few centuries ago. The purpose of the tapestries was to indicate to all that the da Vodici line was regal due to its lineage and should therefore be treated like royalty. The last wall contained only the main doors to the ballroom. They were huge, rising like the sun in a semi-circle with the diameter at where the wall met the floor, with small slivers of gray stone in the outside corners with the other walls. These were the crowning achievement to the Duke of Pavia’s palace. Like a sunrise, the doors were painted a deep red. When they were open, the staircase which led down to the ballroom’s entrance was visible. The stone staircase was draped in a whitish-silver satin. So when someone stood inside the ballroom and the grand doors were open, it looked like the moon was halfway rising instead of the sun. The floor was black and white checkered marble. No one else in the land could afford this luxury when Cira’s great-grandfather had ordered its commission. She sadly wished he had saved the money for a time like now, when she needed a good dowry. 

Besides the exciting sounds of people laughing and talking, music poured from the orchestra’s instruments. The melody enticed her entire body with a desire to dance. Cira adored dancing and choked back a tear as she realized how much she would miss it. 

The youngest daughter of the Duke of Pavia lost herself in the throng of people, dancing with men whose identities she would never guess, and also with men she recognized as husbands and fathers. She never gave out her true name; she replied to their questions: "A lady in velvet."

She saw her sister but once, in her white mask with small whiskers and a pink triangle for a nose. Her dress was white satin with orange and tans bows. She was pretending to be a cat. Cira didn’t keep sight of her sister for long. Cira wanted to get lost in the happy- if somewhat drunk- crowd.

After she had had three glasses of wine, things got a little happier, the colors brighter, and the people prettier. She refused to end up a wallflower. She willed herself against that fate. She had a partner for each dance she wanted and a full table of men and women to sit with when she wanted a drink or a brief respite.

The last man she had danced with had kept perfect timing to her. Not once had a foot been ill placed or out of rhythm. That made her think he was noble. He was dressed as a jester in silver and black checks. His left pant leg and the right side of his long jacket were silver and their opposites were black. The buttons were black as they rested on the silver side. His dark hair was swept under a tri-conical jester's hat with a silver bell at the end of each cone. The strips of fabric, two made up each cone, were a separate color, silver or black, keeping up his jester's image. His mask was simple, just a small oval piece to cover his face from the tip of his nose to his eyebrows. It was silver painted with tiny black swirls around the outside edge. He was clean shaven, making her hope that he was unwed, and had dark brown eyes and a tall lean body. She didn't recognize him at all.

The music stopped; Cira curtsied to her partner and was about to walk away to look for another partner when the jester reached out and grabbed hold of her right wrist.

"My Lady, will you make a jester cry by leaving him alone?" His smile piqued her interest and warmed her. 

"Ah, but jesters should not have tears," she replied teasingly. She did turn back to him though. The musicians began again and Cira fell back into step with her partner. She kept eye contact with him through this slower song. 

"This one will if he does not have a lady to make him smile."

She gave a small laugh. "So I have hired a jester?"

"Every glorious lady must have a jester."

"Oh, so mine is also a poet with such flattering words?"

He slightly tilted his head forward. "I have many talents. Just do not ask me to sing." The both chuckled. She liked the pleasing sound of his laughter. 

"So, what will I do with you, Jester?"

"Anything you wish, my Lady."

Cira couldn’t hide her blush. "My Jester is very forward. As his Lady, I could order to cut out such a brazen tongue."

"Perhaps I will not be giving another compliment," he said, hurt.

"Then, perhaps I will not be needing a Jester?" They both smirked. There was a silence between them as she looked up into his dark brown eyes. 

"We have already circled around to the beginning of our conversation, my Lady," he said. 

"If we have circled around, maybe we have nothing left to discuss, Jester."

He shook his head. "I can discuss the stars, the world, the Empress’ shoes, whatever you like, my Lady," he said earnestly. 

They talked for the rest of the night. When the music stopped and the major drinking and feasting began, they moved outside onto one of the small balconies. The balcony had two benches shaped like a V, the vertex close to the doors so that they viewed the garden. Cira sat down on one of the velvet covered benches and the Jester on the other. Their conversation covered everything. It touched on new discoveries, animals, court gossip, people, and yes, even the stars. The time flew as Cira laughed, pondered about the things few people discussed, they even talked about intimate things, those she had thought she could only share with Sofia or Melita. He asked for her private thoughts on court policies and other topics that women weren’t supposed to discuss. She had never spoken her mind so freely to a man, not even to her brothers or father. She did not regret anything said to the Jester and she promised to keep everything he told her in private. But their conversation never approached their real names. She learned that he was from the Medici family but that didn’t give her much of a clue to whom he was, since the Medici family was spread out all over the country. The most famous ones were running the great city of Firenze.

When the clock struck two, Cira turned her head away from her Jester and saw, to her dismay, that her father’s ballroom was emptying. 

"And the sun must rise another day," she sighed. She felt his warm hands take her own. Startled, she looked back to him.

"Let’s not allow this to end," he softly said. Aghast at his boldness, she was about to reprimand him for being so forward when he smiled and shook his head. "No, my Lady. I did not mean that. I do not want to lose all contact with you. Give me the name of your lady-in-waiting and where you reside."

She did not have any restraints as she quickly replied, "Sofia, and I shall be resting here for the next week."

"Then where after the week is up?"

She didn’t want to tell him that much about her. She wasn’t sure how he would react. She only gave him a cunning smile. "Too much knowledge is bad for one’s health."

His eyes were large and the light brought out a fire in their brown depths. "My Lady is not contemplating of abandoning her Jester, is she? She will make him cry."

"‘Tis far from the truth Jester." She warmed as he smiled. He rose as did she since he still held her hands. 

"'Tis been enchanting, my Lady." He bent over her hands and her cheeks became flushed when she felt his soft lips brush against the back of her hands. He tilted his head up, so she could see his eyes peering out at her from behind his mask.

"Good morn, my Lady."

Cira was humming as she drew the needle through the linen cloth. Her embroidery was going slowly; not that she didn’t have the talent for sewing, she just knew that when she finished it would be time for her to leave.

She had slept-in most of the day after the ball. No one had done much that Saturday, as wine-dulled heads seemed not eager to even step outside or listen to another’s words. 

Now, the day after, things were back to normal; for everyone but Cira. She kept the number of days, six, in her mind at all times. She had started to order servants to box up her things for her trip. It would take all week just to put things in order then pack them away.

Cira sat in the courtyard, letting the sunlight spill over her. Everything was quiet, just the whisp of the wind through the leaves, the melody of birds singing to her from their perches, and the background voices that seemed to get louder and louder every moment.

She looked up from her work to see her sister walking into the reflection garden, followed by three young men. Cira immediately put down her needle, sat up straight, and slightly arched her back to push up her breasts more. ‘What am I doing?’ She thought after she realized what she had done. She didn’t continue back to her work though; she smiled as Melita neared her. 

"Cira, I have a question for you," her sister began. Cira nodded as her gaze flickered to the three men; her sister couldn’t marry all three of them. She recognized the tall one as the Viscount of Cerl, the one with orange cropped hair as the heir to the Count of Winoni, and the last as the heir to the dukedom of Boquelli. All were three highly respected and valuable matches. 

Melita stopped in front of her and held out her fan. "I and my Lords were wondering what was the name of the explorer who just returned from the Isles?"

"Vordif, my sister," Cira replied before she dared a quick glance up to the three men.

Melita gave a little laugh as she looked back to the three lords. "See! I told you!" She smirked as she closed her fan and began to walk away again. The three lords, like dogs on leash, began to follow her. Cira rolled her eyes, relaxed her body, and was about to continue her embroidery when she heard Melita say,

"Oh, Sofia handed this to me when she saw me heading out to the courtyard." Cira quickly turned back as Melita pulled out a rose colored letter from her tiny reticule. "Who is it from, sister?"

The younger sister took it and turned it over in her hands. There was only a black and silver wax seal holding the folded letter close. She only shook her head. "I have no idea." She tucked it away in her pile of sewing materials and looked up to her sister. "‘Tis probably just a list of things that need to be packed. Sofia likes to keep me informed." Melita’s interested look disappeared and she flipped open her fan again.

"Hmm," she mused as she led her three lords out of the garden.

Cira impatiently waited until she was sure Melita was far, far away before she eagerly reached for the letter. She slipped her finger under the wax seal and freed the written words.

It read,

My Lady,

I hope you are not angry at your Jester for his delay. It seems that his wine cup did not stay empty for short periods of time. I must not have noticed since my eyes were captivated by you all night.

A blush came to Cira’s cheeks. She threw a quick glance around to make sure no one was around, then returned to her letter.

I remember our conversation. Do you suppose the stars are really what the wisemen say? Are they the souls of our ancestors watching over us? My father’s chamberlain says that they are like the moon; there to lighten the dark night. I seem to remember that we could not decide upon an answer. I did not tell you this theory, my Lady.

I believe the old fables that say the stars are a woman’s jewels. Have you heard this fable, my Lady? A princess said she could only love the man who brought her the most beautiful present to go with her beautiful looks. Indeed, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Suitors from across the seas brought her treasures of gold, jewels, dresses, exotic animals, and flowers made of sapphires and emeralds. All she found all of her gifts to be too plain for her tastes. Then a wizard said he had the most beautiful present for her. He made silver stars that glowed in her hands. She refused them, not knowing what to do with them. Angered, the wizard threw the stars up into the sky.

The wizard, for the rest of his life, gave a star to each beautiful woman he met, to spite the princess.

Cira warmly smiled as she saw to the margin an etching of a five pointed star. 

What are your thoughts, my Lady?

Your Faithful Jester

"You have a gift for words, Jester." She only smiled as she folded up her letter.

That night, after Sofia had dressed her in her nightdress, Cira sat at her desk and wrote her reply under the light of five candles. A smile wouldn't leave her lips as she furiously wrote,

Dear Jester,

You amuse me, as always. I appreciate your gift but methinks it deserves a gift in return. A piece of advice for you: Never anger an artist. 

There was once a famous sculptor who courted the niece of the Archbishop. She spurned him and left his poor heart broken. His life went on and he got a very prestigious commission to create a canopy in a large cathedral for the Archbishop. He began with gold leaf and bronze as his work soon became the subject of Court conversations. Later that year the artist learned his old love was with child from wedlock and the father was missing. His anger became a fire within him and the only way he was able to release it was in his sculpture. 

With the hands of a caring mother, he took his tiny chisel to the white marble and etched the Archbishop's coat of arms. He did this to the other outer faces of the four pillars holding up the canopy. Except there was a small difference in each shield. At the top, there was a tiny woman’s face. As one walked around to admire each shield, the marble wasn’t flat. In fact, there was a subtle outward curving- like a pregnant woman’s stomach. The woman’s face changed from serenity to outrage, as her tiny mouth opened in a silent scream. Some of the court didn't even notice that the shields showed the different stages of a woman’s pregnancy and labor, even fewer noticed that the last coat of arms in the series was flat and that a small boy’s face adorned the top instead of a woman’s. Even fewer recognized the few similarities between the marble woman's face and the Archbishop’s niece. Even the Archbishop didn't notice because if he had the sculptor probably would have been ordered to death.

Was that an adequate return present for you? I hope so, my Jester. I thank you again for my star. I shall treasure it always. 

Your Lady

Cira handed the sealed letter to Sofia the next day and thought nothing more of it. 

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