The girl laughed, but it sounded forced as Tella swept onto the immaculate black marble staircase and took her first step down.
The marble stairway didn’t feel quite like Legend, but Tella sensed that it was trying. With each flight the air grew colder. Candles on the wall winked out, while mysterious black stains spotted the once immaculate carpet and the smooth banister, mimicking drops of dried blood. But Tella had seen enough real blood spatter to know how it usually fell and the color it turned once it dried. Not blood here, an illusion.
Just in case, Tella pulled out Dante’s razor-tipped gloves. They smelled of him, like ink and secrets. But unlike Dante, they were cool to the touch as she slid them on, liking the gentle weight of the hidden blades at the tips of her fingers.
After a few more steps she stole a waxy candle from a sconce. Behind it, holes poked through the wall so bits of dry wind could make the lights flicker. At least they were clever here. Though Tella regretted wearing such a heavy gown as the stairs grew steeper. The wind holes in the walls disappeared next, covered up by thickly framed portraits—all of young men, with top hats.
At first she wondered if these were the church’s members, but the faces were all too handsome, and a little too wicked. Legend.
Not real pictures of him. No one knew for certain what he looked like, but clearly members of the church had attempted to render him. Tella saw skin tones ranging from translucent white to dark shades of brown. Some faces were narrow and as sharp as curse words; others were almost cherubic in their curves or seraphic in their chiseled edges. A few faces were scarred, some grinned, while others glared. Tella’s heartbeat stopped entirely as she spied a narrow face that reminded her of Jacks, with silver-blue eyes and golden hair. The final portrait winked, as if it were all a great joke.
Perhaps it was. Perhaps Legend was toying with her yet again, and the stairs went on forever and ever and ever. Tella’s lethargic legs turned to liquid at the thought. Maybe there was no way to ever truly find Legend, and the church represented an endless search for a man who was unsearchable.
Or perhaps Tella was being overdramatic.
Brighter light lit the stairs below, making it clear there was an ending in sight. Tella shoved her torch in an empty sconce and quickened her pace.
A few steps later pitchy notes of music sounded—a squeaky violin, cimbalom, and a banjo. Tella wouldn’t have said the music was pretty, but it was just the right combination of strange and enticing, matching the tavern she found at the bottom.
She’d expected more red, but everything was green instead, glowing like ripening magic. Tella no longer felt fatigued as she breathed it all in, as if the air was as intoxicating as the drinks the tavern served.
Dark green kerosene lamps illuminated pale mint-green glass tables, while velvet green settees cushioned people sucking on glowing cubes of green sugar, or sipping vials of vivid lime liquid. Even the floor was covered in tiny emerald tiles, which reminded Tella of mermaid tails. This was nothing like the taverns back on Trisda, which only came in shades of dull and smelled of dashed dreams and cheap rum. It wasn’t quite like the pubs of Caraval, either, but it was an interesting attempt.
With its quirky music and glowing green drinks, it bordered on the type of surreal that made Tella imagine it could have been a Fate pictured on the Decks of Destiny. Tavern Emerald, she would have called it. Where answers to dangerous questions could be found. There was the Blank Card in the deck, and Tella may have wondered if this saloon was perhaps that undepicted Fate. But for all its sparkle, once Tella looked closer she thought it seemed more like glitter pretending to be stardust.
It seemed even the steps she’d seen upon first entering weren’t as dangerous as the ruffled girl wanted Tella to think, but merely a test as Tella had been warned. Between the tables, the bar, and the floating balconettes, Tella spied the ends of all the other staircases—every set led to the same place. Like Caraval it seemed this church was full of illusions, and clearly its members enjoyed them.
The patrons in the tavern seemed to have traveled from all over. As she wove deeper inside, Tella’s ears picked up hints of different languages, while her eyes saw skin colors ranging from pale to dark. The fashion choices were varied as well, but almost everyone had one thing in common: top hats.
Tella had no idea if people wore them because they worshipped Legend or wanted to be him, but almost every person in the bar had one. Some hats were stout, some were straight, others curved or were purposely bent out of shape. A few had feathers, veils, or other bits of cheeky adornment. Tella even spied a top hat with horns coming out the sides, and one young woman had two miniature pink top hats that popped out of her head like ears.
Maybe this was the real reason why Dante had fled rather than followed her. Perhaps he was jealous of all of the people who so blatantly worshipped Legend. Not that Tella should have been thinking of Dante, or wondering what he would have said if he were there with her.
Tella looked past all the merriment, searching for where a clue might be hidden, until her eyes landed on a queue of people. They lined up in front of a pair of black velvet curtains rimmed in gaudy gold tassels. Again, it was a bit too garish, a touch too blatant to truly feel like Legend. It felt more like the way people perceived him, an image she believed he was happy to perpetuate. In the last Caraval, Caspar, the actor who had played the role of Legend, had put on a performance that had been dazzlingly over the top. But Tella did not imagine the real Legend was that way.
Although Tella had not uncovered Legend’s true identity, she had received letters from him. The messages came without adornment; one had only contained a single sentence, and still she’d felt his magic pulsing through those simple words.
As beguiling as the Church of Legend was, Tella imagined it had Legend all wrong. Caraval might have been extreme in all of its splendor, but she didn’t think he was.
Yet she found herself drawing closer to the tasseled curtains. The line in front of them buzzed with eager whispers, lots of hands tightening cravats, pinching cheeks to bring color, and straightening top hats. Though, unlike the rest of the tavern, it appeared not everyone wore a top hat, giving Tella the impression these people weren’t members of the church, but players in search of the next clue.
Tella neared the front of the line, not wanting to wait at the end, nor thinking it wise to try to sneak in without waiting at all.
“Excuse me,” she asked a girl who wore a feathery fascinator with a gauzy crimson veil over her eyes. “What is everyone waiting to see behind the curtain?”
“If you don’t know, then maybe you don’t belong here.”
“Ignore her,” said the lanky boy at her side. Dressed a little more casual than the rest, in a collarless shirt and a pair of loose gray striped trousers held up by two cherry-red suspenders. “My sister forgets we’re just playing a game, and gets a little too competitive.”
“It’s all right,” Tella said. “My sister, Scarlett, thinks I’m the same way.”
The lanky boy’s eyes stretched wide, and Tella swore the girl in the veiled hat inhaled sharply. “Did you say Scarlett, as in the Scarlett who won the last game?”
“Oh, my sister and I didn’t play the last game,” Tella said. But she made her voice shake enough to instill a sliver of doubt. It was a risk to her true identity, but Caraval wasn’t won by playing it safe. And it seemed to be working already.
The lanky boy stepped back, looking more protectively at Tella as he made room for her to join them in the line. “I’m Fernando, this is my sister, Patricia, and this is our friend, Caspar.”