Ironskin

“Of course not. I see you are studying the masks.”

 

 

“They’re hideous,” Jane said bluntly. Too blunt, but it was the second time that he had caught her looking at them, and she was annoyed by their intentional ugliness. As if he knew that people would stop and stare at deformity, as if he were taking what she had to deal with every day and warping it for his own amusement. “I gather they’re supposed to be.” The masks caught and held the eye with their perversity—rows and rows of protruding teeth, cruel scowls, cauliflower ears.

 

“They’re the worst in people,” Mr. Rochart said. “Extracted and displayed. A reminder.”

 

She could not decide how old her new employer was. When his eyes were shadowed from her, hidden, then he seemed relatively young—late twenties perhaps. But sometimes she saw those deep amber eyes, and then he seemed a hundred years old. It was a strange feeling. “I don’t understand why you need a reminder of how evil people can be,” she said. “It’s something I try to forget.”

 

He moved closer, the formality fizzling off and away, as if by coming to the studio Jane had given him the necessary permission to indulge in speaking with her, watching her. His lean frame was so near to her own. “Sometimes we have to remind ourselves what we are capable of.” There was a well of sorrow in those amber eyes, and Jane didn’t know what to say. Her heart beat fast, without her permission. “I wonder what we all would be like, without the Great War. You would not be here to rescue me, Jane, so what life would you lead…?”

 

Jane drew away, turned her iron cheek into the shadows. Anger and strange hungers bubbled inside her, so to hide them she looked at the wall and said, “I see you’ve made none with war scars.” There were poxed cheeks, there were knife scars. But there were no masks blotched red, ridged and bubbling as if death crept beneath them. No victims of the fey.

 

Maybe even he couldn’t stand that much ugliness.

 

“I show the worst in people,” he repeated. “Not the best. Not bravery.” He was near again. He touched a bare spot on her jaw, and his fingers were warm and flecked with clay dust. “You were trying to protect someone; I’m sure of it.”

 

Jane set her lips and pulled back, turning away from that touch, that level gaze. Warm looks he couldn’t mean; invasive words that flicked her wounds.

 

No options.

 

The workbench in the center of the room was covered in tools, paints, glue. A damp towel covered a mound on the workbench; a lump of clay sat in a white-grey bucket of water. White and pink dust was everywhere. “Are you working on something new?”

 

“As always.” He drew aside the damp towel to reveal the start of a mask. At this stage it did not look ugly. He was still shaping its basic contours: cheekbones and chin, and the eyes were merely two depressions of his thumb.

 

“A mask you cannot look through,” said Jane. She imagined wearing a mask like that, imagined her own iron creeping over her eyes, her nose, her lips. The thought was suffocating, and not just from the imagined lack of air. “Your eyes sealed shut.”

 

“Perhaps there are more masks like that than we think,” he said. He covered it with the cloth, his fingers gentle around its form. He studied the cloth-covered mask as he said: “I am sorry I have not been back to help you. My work—”

 

“You are busy,” Jane said. She was helping him out, granting him excuses. Anything to avoid revelations of truth, which would be—what? He did not know how to help Dorie, he did not want to see Jane.…

 

“Tell me now,” he said. “How have you and Dorie been getting on? Have you made progress?”

 

“Not so much,” Jane admitted. She weighed all the frustrations and decided not to admit defeat just yet. “She is speaking a little more to me now.”

 

“She trusts you, then,” said Mr. Rochart.

 

“I don’t know about that,” said Jane, “since I keep trying to get her to do things she doesn’t want to do. Perhaps I am familiar now, is all. I know she understands everything I say—she could speak in full sentences, if she wanted to.” She remembered that shadow slipping into the forest. “She talks of you sometimes. Says she sees you from the window.”

 

The lines of his mouth fell; a weariness crept over his cheeks. A tiny shake of his head. With an effort he roused himself and said, “But tell me, Jane, what matter of import weighs on your mind? A letter, you say?”

 

“From my sister,” Jane said, recalling herself to her mission. “She is to be married quite soon—within the week, in fact. She wishes me to be there, and indeed, I wish it myself.” Jane found herself slipping into the archaic language he so often used.

 

The weariness returned. “You would give up on us so soon,” he said.

 

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