 
### Love Poison

### No. 13

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl

Text copyright© 2017 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Thank you for your support

# Chapter 1

Those born under Ophiuchus the Serpent Bearer, when the sun takes nineteen days to travel from Scorpius to Sagittarius, are infamous for being impervious to poisons, or for being as supple of mind and body as the serpent.

Now the former of these can make surprisingly successful careers as food tasters for king or queens (of which none alive today can fault their skills). The more industrious amongst them, however, take up either the administering or manufacturing of these very same poisons, ensuring the Serpents of Ophiuchus will always be gainfully employed.

The trade in poisons is remarkably vibrant, for who amongst us hasn't, at some point, wished to rid ourselves of some pestilent fool?

It could be a matter of business, of politics, of nothing more than sheer envy, or, indeed, even a necessary defence – the first to strike first being almost invariably the victor.

Now many of the people who have found themselves unwillingly having to resort to such undignified means have also invariably found themselves following the directions of a well-meaning friend of a friend of an associate who, although wishing to remain nameless, has nevertheless provided invaluable information regarding a Master Caputo of a Lane Without Name.

It is on the Lane Without Name, of course, where you will find the providers of wares you will now and again direly need yet erroneously believe to be unavailable, for they are deemed unsavoury by those in authority even though they are the lane's most regular patrons. Unlike most of the many winding, narrow lanes running like minor veins around the city, it has no obvious landing stage from which you can alight from your gondola but, rather, appears to be the entrance to just one of many similarly dilapidated buildings lining this particular canal.

The door, however, opens up not onto the expected room, but a dark cleft running between the other buildings, one so damp and wet it could reasonably be mistaken for the slenderest of tributaries running off the canal.

Master Caputo's shop lies almost directly opposite a supplier of stilettos that can be easily hidden about your person, and next to a purveyor of the most universally approved love potions. There is, somewhere quite nearby, also a seller of the most pleasurable kind of artefacts, ones designed to secretly adorn the body, for the gratification of both wearer and observer.

On your first meeting of Caputo, he may seem abrupt, rude, moody, gruff; but don't be dissuaded by this most unfortunate attitude that he takes with all newcomers seeking his wares. He needs only reassurance that you are in genuine need of his remarkable products. He abhors the merely curious, who are a waste of his precious time. He loathes those who are indecisive, who are bizarrely in two minds about removing an irritant from their lives.

It is not for him to help you come to a decision.

Yes, he can make your goal easier to achieve than you could possibly imagine.

He can help you assuage any fear of being caught.

He can make the death relatively swift and painless for the victim, if that is your preference.

Or he can make it long and drawn out, describing with the aid of detailed diagrams the various degrees of agony suffered after taking a particular poison (taking into account, of course, weight, build and gender).

But feelings of guilt; how can he possibly be held responsible for that?

So, if your mind's unclear about what you're hoping to achieve, then it is best for you that you stay away from his doorway.

Professionals rarely suffer fools gladly.

Now the man we catch alighting one night at the doorway to the Lane Without Name is no fool; he is wealthy even by the terms of wealth used within this city of the fabulously rich and the equally fabulously poor.

Tonight, of course, he is not dressed in a way that displays this wealth. Rather, his garment is dark and old, shabby and threadbare.

It's not the place, not the area, to be seen wearing anything worth stealing.

Even the gondola is an ancient one, unvarnished, and soon to be of no use to anyone. He controls the boat himself, with difficulty naturally, for even as a youth it would have been ridiculous to describe him as lithe and healthy.

He has always liked his food, his drink, his women.

But now, like many a man, he realises that his happiness hangs on the attention of one particular woman, and one woman only.

Yes, the Impresario Guilfo is in love.

*

When Cauda first arrived in the city of watery lanes, of canalled streets and rivers for roads, she possessed hardly anything to sustain her apart from her suppleness of both mind and body.

How could a gondolier not offer just one, free journey to this girl who reminded him so much of his daughter?

Why would the women who prepared the costumes for a large theatre not find a spare cupboard for such a delightfully thankful and helpful girl to stay in?

When would the young inventor of the theatre's marvellous mechanical devices believe he had earned enough money to ask this most entrancing of girls to become his wife?

Cauda was a pretty little thing, they would all say; a cheerful soul, everyone would agree, whose presence invariably brightened up the dullest atmosphere. She took on any task, no matter how mundane, how trivial, with a smile, sometimes even a joyful laugh.

And yet it was only the young inventor, Forisimo, who noted that she had a natural grace, a flow of movement, that would shame even the theatre's most accomplished dancers.

Every rising of the eyes, every inclination of the head, every gesture with a hand, every step; each flawless move carried information, spoke to him of need, of intent, of emotion.

Why did he see what no one else saw?

'Ah, _now_ I see!' he exclaimed excitedly on the day the answer abruptly dawned on him: they _did_ see what he saw – they just weren't entirely _aware_ of what they were seeing!

But in the way they reacted to her every move, it was the way a cobra hypnotically sways to the moves of the charmer: this was the secret of her charm, of the way she – quite naturally, quite unintentionally – bent everyone around her to her will.

So why was he _aware_ of what everyone else only _saw_?

Because, of course, the inventor Forisimo was in love!

*

The Impresario Guilfo treads carefully along the lane, being perfectly aware that the path is uneven, slippery, even dangerous to anyone foolish enough to think this part of the city is as well maintained as the elegant piazzas.

He knows his way; he almost knows every pitfall in the crumbling pathway.

He has been here many times before, if not to actually visit Master Caputo's establishment; yet he knows where it lies. It stands towards what could be called the very end of the lane, for here it continues to become ever narrower, ever more winding, until it vanishes into a fissure in the brickwork no wider than a serpent's tail.

His previous visits here have included perusals of a wide variety of wares offered along the Lane Without Name; but as to how many times he has been tempted to purchase, that is only for him and the vendors to know for sure.

Certainly, it would be hard to believe that his rise to fame and wealth would have been quite so smoothly achieved had he foregone the advantages of erasing his more bothersome problems with a little help from the merchants of the Lane Without Name.

Nevertheless, he prides himself on the fact that, up until now, he has never had to resort to using any of Master Caputo's poisons.

He regards himself as a man of tradition, one who prefers that his victims know before they die that he is the one responsible for their demise; and this, naturally, is far more readily achieved through the use of the hired assassin – the best of whom also take great delight in letting their victims know why they have been chosen to die.

It was all so more _theatrically_ satisfying, wasn't it? And, it must be said, a remarkably cheaper alternative to poison too.

The stiletto: now _that_ is the weapon of choice of the more honourable man!

The Masks of Seneore, too, the impresario believed, had an air of being less disreputable than poison: they were the perfect guise, allowing the assassin to almost magically take on the identity of someone close to the intended victim. (Not that Seneore's marvellous masks could _only_ be used in this manner, of course!)

Naturally, Guilfo had never visited the recently opened workshop of the young inventor Forisimo, despite its increasing popularity amongst other people of his class. He walked past it with nothing more than a hateful scowl; after all, it was all Forisimo's fault that the impresario had to go against the habits of a lifetime and lower himself to the unforgivable level of utilising poison.

He had displayed nothing but kindness to Forisimo when the young man had worked for him, nurturing the young man's considerable talent for constructing the ingenious mechanical devices that brought theatrical productions to life; all in all, a mutually beneficial partnership, even if the ungrateful Forisimo obviously hadn't regarded it as such.

Then again, had it really been Forisimo's relatively lowly wage and position that had been the cause of contention? Or had it all been down to the girl, to Mistress Cauda?

He had tried to keep them apart for their own good, of course: he had _ordered_ them both to forget any idea of forming a relationship. It would be detrimental to their careers, he had warned them in the fatherly, caring manner he was renowned for, resorting only to threats that he could destroy them when this friendly counsel had proved inadequate.

Someone granted the considerable talents of Forisimo shouldn't be allowed to throw his life away on chasing after a girl who would only entrap him into marriage. As for Cauda, well; she was already justly famous for her dancing, but there was still far more this truly wonderful girl could achieve given the guidance and support that only an impresario of Guilfo's standing could offer.

There would hardly have been any problem at all, then, had not the potions of Mr Gillars – usually so pleasurably effective – proven so surprisingly inadequate when it came to persuading Cauda where her best interests lay.

Yes, so far he had shown remarkable forbearance as far as the treacherous Forisimo was concerned.

But like many a long-running show, there's a time when even the Impresario Guilfo's clemency must draw to an end.

*

# Chapter 2

'Yes, yes; you _can_ do it, see?'

Forisimo exulted in every one of Cauda's accomplishments.

But then, she had – yet again – so effortlessly emulated the difficult dancing pose he was projecting onto the painted backdrop of a square in Seville.

It was a particularly demanding position, one in which a leg was kicked high and held there, the foot reaching higher than the head, the head nevertheless remaining sternly upright. And yet it all had to retain a definite elegance, combining the stance with a raising up on the very toe tips of the other foot, the leg held stoically straight.

In some dances it was a swan. In others a princess, or describing the heroic death of a lost love.

Despite seemingly lacking the strength required to achieve the posture, Cauda wasn't even straining to keep her foot high, her other foot rigidly motionless. Even when she flowed from this now well-practised position into another, fluidly passing through into a third and then a fourth stance, she transformed it all into a graceful twirl.

The projections, of course, were motionless, framed images of dancers that Forisimo had captured much earlier on chemically treated linen, but now fed as quickly as he could through one of his elaborate contraptions. He made a valiant if vain attempt to change them at a rate that could keep pace with Cauda's slower moves, but eventually had to concede defeat.

Naturally, when he had originally cast his lantern upon the original dancers, they had merely presumed it was nothing more than the light of a flame condensed by lenses, designed to illuminate their actions. And, indeed, initially this had been the sole purpose of his contraption, a means of lighting the stage, of drawing the audience's attention to a special dancer or part of a play.

Then he had discovered that the dancers' images could be captured on linen impregnated with light-responsive salts, that the images could be brought back to life once more when another elaborate system of lenses and flames was used.

Utilising these projected images, Cauda could begin practising the dance moves as soon as the last people began heading for home, leaving the theatre empty and silent. Silent, that is, until Forisimo set into motion another one of his remarkable devices, one of suspended weights that turned a cylinder of projecting tips that struck at thin plates of metal, making them vibrate and produce a simple yet charming music.

The theatre, of course, was Cauda's home, the cupboard still her only place of refuge. Forisimo stayed on, supposedly to test his latest devices for rapidly changing backdrops, for launching a man up onto the stage from below, for creating awe-inspiring simulations of explosions, rolling seas, rowing galleys, and toppling buildings.

Despite his enthusiastic response to Cauda's dancing, she – as usual – was disappointed, critical of what seemed to her to be flawed, perhaps even jerky moves.

Tonight, rather than falling into his own usual protestations that Cauda was being too hard on herself, Forisimo merely knowingly smiled, stepping away from his projector and moving instead towards one of a number of sheet-draped contraptions, most of which were work in progress.

The one he uncovered with a deft flip of the sheet, however, seemed complete.

It could have been a horizontally suspended waterwheel, only at its centre there was an array of mirrors and lenses, together with a lantern similar to the one Forisimo used for his projections. Around the rim of the wheel, Forisimo had tautly stretched a number of his linen images, each one a dancer in a slightly different pose.

And so, as he set the wheel spinning, as he lit the lantern with a burning taper he'd taken from his projector, the images were cast upon a painted backcloth picturing an ancient Egyptian palace; and here the dancer burst into life, twirling and leaping across the stone plaza.

An enthralled Cauda clasped her hands in delight.

'It's beautiful, beautiful!' she sighed excitedly. 'But what's the point of _me_ learning to dance if you can capture our very best dancers like this?'

Forisimo secretly glanced her way, sighing inwardly with longing, hungrily taking in her wide-eyed expression of wonder – in particular the way her lips were just so slightly, so invitingly, open.

'Because this machine could never capture your presence, your essence,' he said, straining to veil his increasing need to hold her, to at least find an excuse to touch her, 'it could only ever be an insubstantial mirage of the real you.'

She looked back at him, smiled, quizzically raised an eyebrow.

'I can't see why that would be necessary!' she said. 'It's the grace of the dancing itself that's important; you _can_ see the beauty of the dance in these images you've captured!'

She turned back towards watching the dancer.

'I could watch her dancing like this for–'

'For no good reason!' Forisimo interrupted with an amused chuckle. 'I created this machine so you could practise _your_ dancing; specifically, so you can reassure yourself that you're getting the _flow_ of your movement right!'

'Oh, no, no!' Cauda shook her head miserably. 'I could never attain such grace!'

Despite her reticence, she got up to dance, standing alongside the image, launching herself into a similar pose, an identical leap, a matching twirl: and before she knew it, she was lost in the excitement of the moves, instantly casting aside all her anxieties and doubts.

*

Master Caputo's establishment is so close towards the end of the Lane Without Name that there is only just enough room in the confines of the still narrowing ginnel to turn and face the door: a surprisingly elaborate and beautiful door, it must be said, to be installed within the otherwise grim, dank brickwork. The only windows lie a few levels higher, and even these are dingy, the stretched bladders of the isinglass stained with all manner of accumulated grime.

The building itself appears ridiculously slender, if surprisingly tall, but the Impresario Guilfo is well-enough acquainted with the similarly constructed premises on this lane to know that hallways stretch back, that interior doors open up on to nothing but spiral stairways that can lead down or up, bringing you out into vast rooms filled with the most amazing equipment.

It is rumoured amongst regular visitors to these interior mazes that still other doors lead to corridors that weave beneath or even through other buildings, linking the shops to the grand mansions that the lane's shopkeepers can now easily afford.

The Impresario Guilfo knows of no shopkeepers – even from the Lane Without Name – living amongst the elegant mansions he frequents; but then again, who's to say they don't wear one of Seneore's many remarkable masks when he comes visiting here?

He's wearing one, after all.

He appears today to be a somewhat younger man than he – unfortunately – actually is; though, alas, it is not as young as he would have preferred, for although a mask can transform the face, an overweight, unexercised body such as his is so much harder to disguise.

Not that his excess of weight has ever caused him any real, insurmountable problems. Rather, it is a sign of his success.

He had drawn his own ideas of morality, of all standards of behaviour in all areas of life, from the plays he produced: and yes, naturally, they always had a joyful resolution, where virtue was rewarded, vice punished. Yet anyone with even a berry for a brain couldn't fail to see that these endings were merely artistic creations, with no real bearing on reality – and all purely because the foolish masses demand that it were so, to make an excuse for their lack of achievements, to praise their own virtues, while sneering at the vices of the wealthy.

Therefore, he had made his whole life, in effect, a theatrical event; one in which he was the major player, the one whom everyone else has to revolve around to ensure he comes across as hero, as master, as the successful man.

Which, indeed, he was in every way.

There's no knocker on the door to Master Caputo's, no bell cord to pull; as with all the other establishments on this lane, anyone here for business simply turns the handle and enters.

Inside, just as the Impresario Guilfo expected, it's incredibly dark, the air damp and smelling of mould. It's the first of what will probably be many narrow corridors, leading him to wherever Master Caputo conducts his business.

Set within recesses carved into the walls, the flames of lanterns or candles light the way. Here, as at Mr Gillars, the otherwise dim illumination sparkles with a rich variety of colours, the flames set behind bottles of potions that themselves glitter a rich green, sapphire blue, sunflower yellow, or blood red.

Even the bottle shapes are somewhat similar, mainly of the stoppered variety, yet nevertheless coming in a wide range of styles, glass or ceramic work that is in its own right a glorious piece of sculpture. Their beauty is embellished with carefully draped flowers and fruits, the very source of their potency (for it is Nature herself who grants us the oils and essences that can help bring either love or death into our lives). The blooms appear fresh, alive; yet they too are no doubt simply preserved in the most deliciously perfect state of death.

There are helpful captions describing the particular efficaciousness of each potion: the pain it will cause, the speed of its actions, the natural death it could be said to emulate.

There is also the matter of how detectable its traces are to an accomplished cadaverist, some cities being naturally more suspicious of the sudden death of someone rich and famous.

Every now and again – and once again as at Mr Gillars – there are displays featuring the means of administering the potions, including rings with hidden prongs, or necklaces that simply gradually emanate a substance that will be absorbed by the skin. The captions here inform the potential purchaser of the likelihood of unwanted contamination, the chances that an innocent may unfortunately ingest the potion by mistake.

Despite the exquisite arrangement of these displays, the Impresario Guilfo has heard from a number of his associates (who have naturally heard it from a number of their own associates) that the corridors of the young inventor Forisimo put such exhibits to shame: for his establishment is lit with flames that dance as if alive. Of course, Guilfo dismisses such descriptions as nothing more than mere fancies; he, of all people, should be aware of the boy's undoubted capabilities – but he also has first hand knowledge of Forisimo's talent for theatrically dressing up the relatively mundane as pieces of magic.

The corridor at Mr Gillars is nowhere near as long as that at Master Caputo's establishment; neither does it seem to wind so incredibly serpent-like into the bowels of the earth.

It gives the Impresario Guilfo plenty of time to recall the many reasons why he seeks Forisimo's death.

*

# Chapter 3

Despite Forisimo's unnaturally rapid turning of the carousel, Cauda was now dancing so smoothly, so instinctively, that the flickering images being cast upon a scene of a Japanese garden could no longer keep pace with her.

She didn't need them any longer; the images were already in her mind, in her every motion and move.

She wasn't even aware that the dancing images had briefly come to a halt, a fluttering finish, as Forisimo replaced the large carousel with another one.

It wasn't an unusual occurrence: Forisimo had regularly changed the carousels – just as he frequently changed the cylinders on his musical box – as an increasingly accomplished Cauda had found the earlier dance moves unchallenging. So even when she realised that her flickering companion had vanished, she wasn't in any way surprised or disturbed.

She continued with her fluidly elegant moves, wondering what Forisimo would be expecting of her next.

Another dancer leapt onto the backcloth, this time a man who moved through a number of rapid twirls, a high leap, a landing that flowed into yet another graceful spin on his toes.

For once, Cauda was shocked by the change to the images, even a little dismayed.

'Forisimo! It's a _man_! I can't be expected to dance like a _man_!'

'No, not _like_!' Forisimo cried back gleefully, delighted by Cauda's poor attempt at an irritated expression. ' _With_! You must dance _with_ him!'

'But the practice–'

'Enough practice! You know it all off by heart now; _I_ can see that, even if _you_ can't! Now _dance_ with him!'

Cuada grinned shyly, charmed if not persuaded by Forisimo's flattery. She turned to watch the man flitting amongst the jasmine and blossom of the garden, following his moves closely, seeing when it would be best for her to join in.

At first, it was a rendition of one of the dances she had learnt, by ever so studiously copying every pose, every flow of movement. But gradually, as she let the flow of the music take her, she began to expand on the moves, to experiment with new shapes and positions.

And then it was, at last, the emotion that took her: and she swirled with the wraithlike man, such that they became as two spirits, the spirits of love, of joy.

Forisimo watched, bewitched; oh, how he wished he could be that man – even if his own life were as similarly fleeting and brief.

*

'Good evening, Impresario,' the man politely intoned as Guilfo at last stepped through an open door that led into a large and brightly illuminated room rather than yet another corridor.

It could be an alchemist's laboratory, Guilfo thought, one designed for no other purpose than to transform lead into gold.

And yet Master Caputo's formulae, of course, turned gold into lead; the living into the dead.

It was pure theatricality; Guilfo recognised this instantly, of course.

There was nothing about this room that really struck him as being synonymous with a workplace. Just as he dressed his stage to create a mood, utilising a semblance of a scene that drew more on his audiences' expectations rather than reality, this room had been carefully structured to grant Master Caputo an air of authority, of esoteric knowledge and, perhaps, implied membership of a secret illuminati.

Master Caputo himself was similarly dressed to add to this show of arcane gravitas, his garb more that of some Florentine artist that any manufacturer or businessman – a clear statement that he believed his work was an art, one that few people really understood or appreciated.

He rose from where he had been seated behind a heavy oak table, approaching Guilfo with the customary polite bow of the head, the airy wave of an obviously empty right hand.

Guilfo returned the gesture and the greeting, forgoing any query has to how the master was aware of his name; it was well known, after all, that the shopkeepers of the Lane Without Name had informants strewn throughout the city, that they tended to work together as one wherever possible, their strength lying in their union of purpose to defend each other from any enemies. They had common cause; they all regarded themselves as lying outside the boundaries of any normal authority, existing in a world that lay beyond both its strictures and its usually inadequate protection.

That, of course, was what made Forisimo such a difficult target for Guilfo to take his vengeance out on. (That and the fact that, were Forisimo to suddenly turn up dead without any obviously _natural_ explanation, Cauda would soon begin to suspect that it was just one more strange disappearance in which the impresario seemed to be involved.)

Indeed, Guilfo realised, he would not be able to inform Master Caputo of the identity of his intended victim, for he would not only be met with a firm refusal but might also find himself on a list of those deemed a danger to the wellbeing of the purveyors of especially advantageous goods.

'Who is it whom you wish to be delivered from, so that your own life–'

'That is no concern of yours,' Guilfo snapped, rudely interrupting Caputo's politely delivered request for information. 'I just need one of your poisons emulating a natura–'

'Then regretfully I cannot help you,' Caputo responded calmly, now using a wave of his hand to direct the impresario back towards the door that had silently closed behind him.

'What?'

Guilfo was outraged; he had never been spoken to in this offhand manner before, not even by the other merchants of the lane.

'What has the identity of my intended victim to do with _you_?' he demanded furiously.

'Everything!' Master Caputo assured him. 'If we are to ensure there's no detection of the use of my wares, then I must also work in an advisory capacity; I take into account the lifestyle of the person, his habits – if, indeed, it _is_ a he! – his manners, his weaknesses and strengths.'

Guilfo shook his head dismissively.

'I know him well; I can give you more than enough–'

'I must observe the person myself; otherwise, it is not only that success cannot be assured, but also that attention might be drawn to either – or maybe even _both_ – of us! My potions are _not_ something that can be simply administered on a foolishly ill-considered whim–'

'There is _nothing_ ill-considered about my _motivation_ –'

'I'm well aware of the results of your previous _motivations_ , Impresario Guilfo! Your attitude to conducting certain business transactions has become infamous, to the level were soon no one will be willing to enter negotiations with you!'

Guilfo's instinct was to angrily refute such a scandalous accusation; but he stopped himself, realising that Master Caputo would only regard him as a fool for refusing to accept what was, after all, an accurate analysis of the situation.

Guilfo, of course, was far from being a fool.

He saw that the best course of action here was to admit that Caputo was right, to turn that admittance to his own advantage.

' _That's_ why I'm seeking an alternative,' he said, 'one less _obvious_ , shall we say, than my usual methods? And as you're aware of my _reputation_ , then you must also recognise that I can bring substantial business opportunities your way...'

'I'm in no need of your patronage,' Master Caputo casually replied. 'But tell me,' he added with an equal coolness, 'your usual methods _must_ necessitate that the obstacle to your continuing success is _identified_ in some way, yes?'

Guilfo regarded Caputo's stony face suspiciously, blanking his own expression to hide his frustration; he was accustomed to assiduously catching the tell-tale signs that told him he was being played, but the eyes of a sculpture would be easier to read than those of Master Caputo.

Caputo's face was a mask; one of Seneore's finest, without a shadow of a doubt.

But what would be the point of Seneore's remarkable masks if you could spot one because a wearer remained expressionless? They were made of the finest gossamer, rumoured to be some form of the delicate skin of calf or maybe even kitten intestines; and so the wearer's smile was a smile on his new identity, a grimace was a grimace, and so on. Unlike inferior masks, Seneore's didn't suffer the noticeable flaw of flawless skin; they were real, suffering the irregularities and imperfections of any normal face.

And yet, on Master Caputo, there were no giveaway expressions; those expressions of barely controlled intense emotions, when even Seneore's masks would – albeit _almost_ inconspicuously – reveal fault lines around the delicate skin of the eyes.

Either he'd had an ultra special mask devised for his use alone, or he'd developed a control of his emotions that put to shame even the most professional of card players.

'In this particular case, no; I wouldn't wish to inform anyone of the intended's identity,' Guilfo said in answer to Caputo's query. 'That is _why_ I sought out _you_ : seeking a means to rid myself of this obstacle to my wellbeing _without_ having to name him.'

' _Him_? Ahhh!' Caputo exclaimed, as if this simple slip of Guilfo's had revealed far more than the latter had either intended or expected.

At last, Caputo's face lit up with an expression recognisable to Guilfo: one of understanding, of abrupt revelation.

'You don't wish _anyone_ – not even the victim _himself_ – to know he has bested you in some way that has forced you into removing him; so that would not be _business_ – that would be _love_!'

'Love? Hah! What need have _I_ for love?' Guilfo kept his expression stern, a means of once again hiding his true feelings. 'Even the prettiest of women can be mine on the promise of making her famous!'

'No doubt, no doubt, indeed; and I'm sure that under more _normal_ circumstances you don't mind such women taking a younger lover on the side, as long as they reserve a more certain kind of _affection_ for you? And yet here you are: and a rival, a man, is involved? May I suggest that you try Mr Gillars' establish–'

'Are you _intending_ to sorely try me, Master Caputo?' Guilfo growled irritably.

This Caputo certainly knew the strings to pull to aggravate his ill temper; there was hardly anything worse for Guilfo than to know someone was reading him as easily as if he were an open book, particularly when it was a matter that left him feeling so uncharacteristically powerless – love was such a dreadful thing, the way it stripped away the carefully cultivated defences of even the most influential of men.

Once again, however, Guilfo was wise enough to recognise that this was one of those rare occasions when honesty would pay the richest dividends.

He even hung his head a little, a sign of the dismay he felt that he had been brought so low.

'What use is the _false_ love of a love potion!' he snarled miserably. 'And besides, these potions of Gillars'; she seems _immune_ to them! All down, I think, to the _real_ love she feels for _him_!'

'Good, good! _Now_ we're getting somewhere!' Caputo said. 'You'd be surprised, Impresario Guilfo, how many of my patrons have come to the same conclusion that you have; that if my rival is removed, she will naturally seek a shoulder to cry upon – and that shoulder, of course, will be mine!'

No wonder this Master Caputo had found him so easy to read, Guilfo silently fumed; this manufacturer of poisons had obviously come across a great many other otherwise rich and powerful men who had also found themselves in such a ridiculously humiliating position.

'I fail to see how there can be _any_ progress in our conversation,' Guilfo scowled, 'if you insist on my naming of the man who daily _tortures_ me with his simple existence!'

He frowned miserably.

'Besides,' he added, as if it were a casual afterthought, even though he had already given the matter a great deal of consideration, 'he's no doubt rich enough himself now to hide behind one of Seneore's masks! I could pass him in the street and fail to recognise him: and so how can you eradicate a man who makes sure he's hardly ever the same person more than twice?'

Of course, Guilfo had no proof of this assertion; but he suspected that it must be true for – despite the many guards the impresario had secretly posted around Cauda – it would be impossible to waylay every admirer wishing to pay their respects to the city's most famed and gloriously entrancing dancer; and therefore all Forisimo had to do to slip through Guilfo's cordon was to take on the semblance of a rich and influential patron.

'It would, of course, be quite delicious to me if it were Cauda herself who unwittingly delivered the means to his _removal_ from her life.'

'If you must insist on refusing to name him for the _moment_ ,' Caputo declared helpfully, 'then may I at least know of the girl who has so unfairly placed you in this dilemma?'

'You will have undoubtedly heard of her: it is the dancer, Cauda!' Guilfo murmured resignedly.

Caputo chuckled richly, but thankfully had the good sense to explain the reason behind his laughter before Guilfo exploded with rage.

'Then no wonder you can't name the victim; for you're obviously demanding that I poison at least half of our city! Although I've never witnessed any of her performances, I've naturally _heard_ that she's loved by so many!'

'But _she_ loves only _one_ ,' Guilfo pointed out, adding with all the hard tones of an accusation, 'As for the others, well: as you have never visited my theatre, Caputo, then you cannot be expected to understand her remarkable ability to capture anyone's heart.'

'Even so, I know enough of love to know that sometimes it's not a love potion we need, but some way of destroying the love,' Caputo responded thoughtfully. 'So tell me, have you ever considered any means to turn her against him; you know, the spreading of false gossip, and such forth?'

'Naturally; when I realised what was going on between them, and he refused my demands that he stay away from her – for the good of her career – I brought his employment to an end, with the added threat that I would ruin him. He would return to being the kind of pauper even Cauda would have the sense to stay away from.'

'And yet...he was successful by some other means, obviously?'

Guilfo nodded bitterly.

'And the more I try to dissuade her from continuing to see him, the more it poisons her mind against _me_!'

He was surprised when Master Caputo grinned; and yet he was more surprised than ever when Caputo reached out to place a consoling hand upon his shoulder.

'Indeed, indeed, Impresario Guilfo; it seems we _are_ of a like mind after all!' Caputo exclaimed warmly. 'For I think the solution to your problem really does involve the _poisoning_ of the _mind_!'

*

# Chapter 4

Cauda's every move, as expected, was flawless.

The twirls, the leaps, were especially enthusiastically cheered.

But even the flowing transitions between one form of dance into another were warmly applauded.

The more thrilling moves, particularly the ones that were renditions of emotions – of sorrow, of rage, of joy, of love – were met either with awestruck gasps or sighs of longing.

She possessed an unbelievable litheness, allowing her to throw her body into poses that anyone else would struggle to accomplish even if they had all the time in the world to achieve it; whereas Cauda, of course, moved from one impossible stance almost directly into another, throwing another one in between as the linking transition.

Naturally, although the packed auditorium relished every delicious move, the atmosphere up on the stage was at best one of muted enthusiasm, at worst an almost murderous bitterness, for every dancer had found either her- or himself relegated in the pecking order: they cursed Cauda her good fortune, her unnaturally supple body, or her courting of the impresario – their level of generosity or otherwise dependent purely upon which rumours about her they wished to believe.

The dancers performing the parts of what had become secondary characters were undoubtedly the most sourly envious, having been effectively stripped of their own starring roles. They flattered themselves, of course, that there was little difference between the quality of their dancing and hers, yet the size and elation of the audience should have forced them to admit this was nonsense; even those amongst the crowd who had attended earlier shows, and indeed been visibly impressed by the previous dancers, now wondered if they had only been imagining that the girls possessed great skill, simply because they had originally had nothing to compare them to.

Cauda danced fluidly from scene to scene, the backdrops almost magically, rhythmically changing (this theatrical spectacle was itself hailed as a work of art of great ingenuity, one so dependent upon perfect timing that it wasn't driven by brute muscle – as was usually the case – but rather by the most elaborate systems of ropes, pulleys, ratchets and cogs, all of it powered by pendulums, falling weights, water clocks and delicately balanced or coiled metals). She danced amongst the pyramids, upon the decks of Greek galleys, across the walls of Constantinople and even before Genghis Kahn and his Mongolian hordes.

It wasn't from just the city itself that people now flocked to see her dance. On a regular basis, ships would pull into port, with any passengers on board fully intending to make sure they attended a performance as a part of their visit, whether they were originally here for business or pleasure.

The Impresario Guilfo loved it, of course. Not just the phenomenal increase in his audiences, and therefore his profits; he also loved the performances themselves. He never missed one.

Not that anyone was aware of this. It's one thing for an impresario to show favouritism to his star; another thing completely to display an infatuation.

For that, of course, would also be a display of weakness; a weakness a rival could possibly manipulate to their advantage.

And so the impresario only attended a few of the shows as himself, the unmasked Guilfo. As such, he could be assured of being waved through to the best box, of being served the prize delicacies on offer free of charge; it was _his_ theatre, after all.

Despite these obvious advantages, for every other attendance he was masked, becoming for the night just one more member of the highest echelons of the city who were totally enamoured by Mistress Cauda. He paid his way, as any man of the respectable classes would (the Impresario Guilfo, after all, offered none but the most powerful any special deals regarding pricing).

Naturally, it was far harder to disguise his great weight than it was his face; but a great many of the wealthy were similarly well fed. And so, quite naturally, he blended in seamlessly amongst the upper ranks of the theatregoers.

In this way, he could see and experience for himself the way that Cauda was truly venerated by all those who flocked to see her: these were genuine comments of praise he overheard, not just the overly flattering yet usually false acclaim for his acts that he had become accustomed to receiving from those hoping to gain his good favour.

From his high, ideally situated box, he could not only watch the unfathomably, wonderfully talented Cauda, but also the intense adoration she instilled within her audience: people entranced, rapt in the attention they granted her, as if hypnotised by her every elegant move, her every refined gesture.

The people below him, the ones nearest the stage, had to stand, of course; yet they swayed as they followed Cauda's leaps across the boards, many almost swooning in their ecstasy. The whole effect was like the waves of a tumultuous sea, especially when whole groups rose excitedly into the air, ineptly attempting to emulate one of Cauda's swooping, pirouetting leaps.

The gallery of the second level was again set aside for those unable to afford a seat, but within the third level of lushly decorated boxes the wealthier patrons were no less entranced by Cauda, some even foregoing their comfortably padded seats to mirror her rises into the air, her twists of a head, a hand, even a delicately twirled wrist.

There was a particularly handsome man amongst them, Guilfo noted with a displeased frown; a man whom, despite his proud bearing, his efforts to appear unimpressed, was observing Cauda with a noticeably close attentiveness.

Could it be...?

Would he dare to...?

No, no; of _course_ not!

He'd be a fool beyond belief to appear here disguised as a _handsome_ admirer: if he were hiding anywhere amongst the crowd, it would be in the guise of someone unnoticeable, someone who blended in and drew hardly any attention to himself.

The handsome man was entranced, but then, who amongst the crowd wasn't?

She had bewitched them all, Guilfo thought; and none, of course, more than him.

*

Guilfo was right to suspect that the handsome man might be someone whom he had previously met.

A man who wore disguises, like so many of the more-important and wealthier citizens.

Today, however, he had forgone his usual persona.

This, surprisingly, was the _real_ Master Caputo, creator and purveyor of the world's finest poisons.

*

Like many artists, Master Caputo adored his own creations.

It was the very complexity of their formulae that made them all so effortless to use, so potent in their effects.

Yes, it was indeed an art, the creation of poisons.

He had a feeling for the way you could mix certain liquids, the way solids could be gently warmed until they became a part of those liquids. The way poison could be caressed from the most innocent of substances; the castor oil bean, the apple pip, even nutmeg.

Hadn't someone quite wisely commented that everything was ultimately a poison; it was all just a matter of degrees of consumption?

Not, of course, that all Master Caputo's poisons had to be consumed.

The finest ones could be absorbed through the skin, deadly when mixed in with face creams, but none the less active when administered through simply brushing against someone with an infused cloak or glove.

Others had to be merely breathed in, subtly working as an unwanted addition to perfumes, or imbued within presents of apparently delightful handkerchiefs or ruffs.

And yet Master Caputo's proudest achievement to date was a poison that the victim only had to stare at too long to succumb to its murderous effects, a mixture that could be mingled in with the paint of portraits, the dyes of clothes: and its invisible vapours entered through the eyes, absorbed into an admiring, watery gaze, transforming tears into an unintentionally suicidal concoction.

Ah, it was all so intriguing, so satisfying, developing new potions, their subtle means of delivery.

And yet now Master Caputo had set himself a new problem to solve; how to administer a poison that didn't kill the intended victim but, rather, killed her love for another.

A love poison.

Was it possible to create such a thing?

If it were, then only Master Caputo could ever be its creator.

*

# Chapter 5

Master Caputo realised he had been wise to insist, as he usually did, for time to study his subject before accepting (or refusing) Impresario Guilfo's brief.

He had, of course – and despite Guilfo's insistence that the man couldn't be named – considered that his task would be easier if he were allowed to administer his potion to the man, thereby killing the man's love for the woman without suffering any anxieties over any unfortunate side effects.

However, there was _one_ truly worrying side effect of such a move: a girl suffering anguish over the cooling – let alone the complete _eradication_ – of a man's love for her can end up being all the more infatuated with him.

Moreover, this Cauda was a particularly special case, Master Caputo could now see.

Any anguish she suffered might well ruin her very own unique brand of magic.

The skill she displayed on stage, Master Caputo was wise enough to realise, the spell she put over her audiences, all revolved around not just her remarkable suppleness but also her even more ingenious talent of tapping into her emotions and bringing them to life as gestures, movement, dance.

How delicate was such a wondrous construct?

If you remove any card from a house of cards, then...

And so, if you remove its base, the table it is built upon...

Surely Impresario Guilfo wouldn't want that?

His little caged bird, no longer capable of performing.

Of drawing in ecstatic audiences.

Truly, it was most fortunate in this exceptionally distinctive case that he had not been introduced by his client to the intended victim, perhaps prompting him to start his preparations (he would _never_ be so foolish as to _act_ ) too hastily.

But then, even the alternative, of administering an extra special potion to this Cauda herself, was similarly fraught with difficulties.

To destroy her ability to draw upon a deeply felt emotion was to risk bringing down her whole repertoire of intensely moving dances.

His potion would have to be as finely accurate in its effects as the finest stiletto; its administering as veiled as the most _unnoticeably_ brilliant of Seneore's otherwise spectacularly wonderful masks; its nature every bit as uniquely inventive as any wondrous innovation this young upstart Forisimo could produce.

But to produce something so particularly focused in its intent and actions, Master Caputo would need to carefully unravel the specific nature and details of Mistress Cauda's love; and that meant he had no choice but to discover the identity of the lucky recipient of her love.

*

As usual, Forisimo delighted in Cauda's Dance of The Unveiling.

He swayed with her through every dying move of the Swans of Urgenstein.

He was ecstatic as she took on the fluidly of The Alchemist's Watersprite.

It wasn't the best view he'd ever had of the stage.

That had been when Impresario Guilfo had unknowingly invited him into his very own box, believing him to be a Tsarevich of Jurenski.

Even so, it was undoubtedly the most prized of positions that he'd found himself in, one that anyone in the audience would gladly swap their seat for.

Every now and again, Cauda would have to pass him as she exited the stage for a costume change, a break, or a refreshing drink of champagne. Then she would pass him once more as she elatedly darted back onto the stage, naturally oblivious to his attentions, his presence.

He would catch the merest waft of her entrancing fragrance.

He would be so close to those lips as they curled into a smile, as they opened to receive the drink, as they closed, wet and seductive.

He saw the dance of her natural actions, the sitting down on an old wooden chair transformed into the most graceful of arts, the swift slipping out of a slight gown possessing all the elegance of ancient sculpture brought miraculously to life.

Ironically, the only unusual move in this otherwise continual flow of elegance was the way she would, every now and again, turn her head this way then that, glancing about herself but in a way that the truly observant would recognise as an attempt to hide the fact that she was looking for something, or rather someone.

Her face would even crease slightly in frustration, bemusement, or a mingling of both.

She was looking for him, for Forisimo, of course, hoping she would spot whatever identifying signal he was using today to alert her to his presence.

He had so far delayed offering her that signal for far longer than usual.

He was worried that, today, he was too close, too near her to prevent them from divulging signs of elation and love that others might also recognise.

As it was, he himself had already had to restrain himself a number of times from reaching out towards her, from whispering his love, his agony that they spend so much time apart.

It tore away at his soul, this pain of being in love with a girl whom he could only watch, not touch, not kiss.

Soon, he hoped, his own fame would be enough to draw in the wealthier clients to his establishment on the Lane Without Name. The support and protection of people holding positions of power within the city would be essential if, as he and Cauda had planned, she were to at last join him, leaving behind the enviously vengeful Impresario Guilfo.

His home wasn't magnificent, as befitted a purveyor of necessary items; yet he saw this as a blessing, fearing that the sheer size of such a place would naturally (and despite the presence of the many servants required to keep it running) only add to his sense of loneliness. He lived simply, having taken up residence in nothing but two adjoining rooms hidden amongst the labyrinthine corridors, exhibition halls and workshops of his establishment.

He worked as much as he could, if not actually constructing his devices then at least refining or developing his designs for new innovations, or when necessary either attending to visitors to his shop or fulfilling the requirements of his clients. At some point, however, even he had to admit he was exhausted, retiring miserably to his rooms to eat whatever food his sole servant had purchased and prepared for him.

When the servant had left, Forisimo would douse the lanterns, the candles.

He would stride over to what he regarded as being quite easily the most remarkable of his innovations.

It was similar, in many ways, to the remarkable construction he had developed to help Cauda practise her dance moves.

Yet this device was far far superior to that relatively crude instrument.

Naturally, its core, the elaborate system of lenses, remained, albeit improved beyond measure. But it required no cumbersome rotating wheel, no chemically treated linen sheets. For it was the flame itself – the flame that in all his previous devices had provided nothing but the illumination – that was chemically treated.

It was flames, rather than the linen, that now captured the essence of the dance, the spirit of the dancer.

So when Forisimo lit his flame, there was no handle for him to turn, no more levers for him to pull, for it was the flame itself that danced; and it was this dancing flame that the elaborate system of lenses now took and projected upon a deliberately plain, blank wall of the room.

And it was here that Cauda would dance for him once more, brought to life amidst the darkness as if captured here forever.

*

# Chapter 6

Impresario Guilfo was suddenly stuck with a notion: What a fool he was!

Here he was watching his darling Cauda, the whole atmosphere of delight and ecstasy totally ruined for him by the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, her lover Forisimo was either close by or drawing closer by the minute.

But if Forisimo was here – then who was keeping guard of his establishment on the Lane Without Name?

At most, no doubt, nothing more than the odd servant or maid, perhaps at worst a young apprentice.

Easy prey for no more than, say, two of his own, more robust men.

Yes, yes: despite his many talents, Forisimo hadn't been operating long enough to generate the money to afford a larger staff.

Similarly – unless Forisimo has uncovered a peculiarly generous trait previously hidden deep within that scoundrel Seneore's soul – then what money he does earn is swiftly vanishing in his purchasing of all these accomplished disguises.

What, though, if Forisimo's many disguises were uncovered – then, maybe, even destroyed?

(Or, perhaps, even marked in such a way that Cauda's guards could be warned to watch out for certain revealing signs?)

And if the disguises were ingeniously hidden away? Well, then the presence of any servant becomes a benefit, for he can be easily persuaded to divulge whatever needs extracting from him.

There was no time for hesitating.

Guilfo slipped from his seat, indicating with the simple rise and fall of a finger that his two personal guards should accompany him. They used the back ways, ones almost as well hidden by vanishing doors as the passages marbling the buildings running off the Lane Without Name.

It was quicker this way, if dangerously steep in the way it carved such a direct path through the theatre. To add to the danger, the narrow corridors were only partially and therefore incredibly dimly lit.

Many of the hidden passages remained unused, partly blocked off, even forgotten, their original purpose of aiding assassins and spies no longer relevant now that the theatre attracted a more respectable clientele whom Guilfo didn't wish to scare off. These tunnels remained completely dark, thousands of intertwining cobwebs making them virtually impenetrable to anything but the rats who scurried nosily along them. It's no wonder, therefore, that neither Guilfo nor his men were aware that the muffled scuffling they heard coming from a corridor they rushed past was caused not by the ever-present vermin but by a man who, strangely, hauled at invisible ropes, or tried to stumble forward as if unaware that a dark wall blocked his progress.

Ironically, any unusual noises he made that might have alerted Guilfo to his presence was drowned out by the noisy shifting of scenery, or the music thundering out from the stage.

Bur then, even if Guilfo had come across this unfortunate man, working away at his unseen task as if enchanted, the impresario wouldn't have recognised him; for Guilfo had little time for his own people.

And so, without realising it, Guilfo blithely slipped past an opportunity to capture Forisimo red handed in his attempt to see Cauda.

Still, Guilfo was of a mind that this odious Forisimo would soon no longer be of any concern to him.

The workshops would undoubtedly provide _something_ to bring about the young inventor's downfall, Guilfo was sure of that.

Indeed, it might well prove to be the case that he didn't need this love poison of Master Caputo's after all.

*

Caught up in the emotion of her dance, Cauda hadn't seen Guilfo leave his seat; and yet, when she at last noticed that his box was empty, she sighed with relief.

A new sense of joy erupted into the flows of her dance, the audience thrilling to these new, extra moves of unrestrained elation.

Despite Guilfo's elaborate attempts at disguise, Cauda could never mistake the intentness of the stare that so remorselessly drilled into her, seemingly penetrating flesh, bone, and making her blood run with a shivering coldness. It would undoubtedly have affected her performance badly if she hadn't been able to shrug off it's most debilitating effects with thoughts only of Forisimo whom she knew – as he had promised – would always be close.

He hadn't yet thought it wise to reveal his presence to her; yet she had already recognised him, spotting one ago that Delfaris's hauling of the scenery wasn't anywhere near as accomplished as it usually was.

She hoped Delfaris hadn't been harmed; she was sure that Forisimo wouldn't endanger him in anyway.

Had Forisimo used the new device he had mentioned a few meetings back, a whirling, brightly patterned disc that sent people into a temporary daze, such that anything could be suggested to them and they would unquestioningly obey?

And what of the contraption he had raved about even more, the one he claimed could capture her dancing for future generations to enjoy – enabling her to live on forever, at least in the minds of her many admirers.

She wasn't too keen on the idea of that, she had had to admit to him.

To be thinking of her death, to be planning of how she will be remembered after she has gone.

Isn't that all a bit morbid? Maybe, even, tempting fate to play her hand?

Forisimo had chuckled at her modesty, light-heartedly scolding her for her selfishness in seeking to deny people yet born the pleasure of watching her dance.

Even so, to please her he had removed the machine he had hidden amongst the lanterns and other light projectors fixed to the framework lying in the darkness just beneath the ceiling. Just as he had had to gradually and painstakingly place it there, utilising a number of disguises to achieve this, he similarly had to take on numerous new personalities before he had safely taken down any signs that his device had ever been there.

Her dance was of the moment, Cauda believed.

If you weren't here to see it, then you would never, ever be made aware of the intense emotions it elicited within her.

*

You could never be sure who was watching you whenever you entered the Lane Without Name.

The first man Guilfo sent towards Forisimo's doorway was garbed as darkly as the lane itself. He moved silently yet swiftly, such that even if you had also been walking down that lane at that very moment, and he had passed you, you would think only that a breeze had wafted past.

He was one of the best; phenomenally expensive to employ but worth every penny.

The door presented no problem, one of Forisimo's own ingenious devices being aptly used against him – a hurdy-gurdy-like instrument boasting a large key of whirling, slowly expanding diamond-tipped sharp blades that sliced through the interior tumblers, a series of gears ensuring that the man's turning of the handle was relatively easy.

Naturally, the danger was that Forisimo had prepared some other infernal contraption that would protect his own door from being abused in this way, but Guilfo was taking the chance that the purveyors of the Lane Without Name were too confident in their sense of mutual protection and security to bother with such unnecessary obstructions.

Besides, it would be his man who suffered any consequences, not him.

When there were no signs that the man had failed in his attempt to break into the workshops, the second man made his way silently along the lane, his clothes every bit as simple and black as his companion's.

Guilfo didn't possess their talents for blending seamlessly into the darkness. But he didn't need them.

He had his disguise; and, he reasoned not unreasonably, the occupants of the lane would be quite used to Forisimo returning and departing on a regular basis.

He'd had the mask specially made a while ago, intending to use it for different purposes; to fool Cauda, maybe, although there would be a question of weight, of size. But this was an even better use for it, for here the matter of a wider girth was irrelevant, for Forisimo would simply be taken to be wearing his own concealing veneer.

He strode down the lane with all the confidence of a returning habitant of the lane. He approached then briefly paused at the door as if searching in a pocket for a key; then, after mimicking the action of turning this invisible key, he pushed open the door and entered.

The interior was, remarkably, even darker than outside. His men had had the sense not to light any candles that might reveal their presence.

He fumbled his way down the corridor, cursing them nevertheless.

When he at last caught a glimmer of light being reflected from a curving wall, alerting him to a turn in the passageway, he breathed a sigh of relief that his men weren't lying dead somewhere amongst the darkness, brought down by one of Forisimo's more deadly machines.

He was relieved once more when, on turning the corner, he saw his two black-garbed men standing there; but there was a third man there, one tightly bound and gagged, his eyes wide with fear.

Forisimo's servant, obviously; he must have come to investigate the opening of the door, perhaps thinking his master had arrived home. He would have been no match for Guilfo's heavily built man.

'He says he's the only one,' this man now assured Guilfo.

Guilfo only briefly wondered how this man could trust the word of Forisimo's servant; then he noted the firmly bound man's ugly, malformed hand, with at least two fingers broken, and pulled back at an unnatural angle.

Yes, he'd told the truth.

'Good,' Guilfo said with a sense of growing satisfaction, 'he can lead us through this maze of tunnels towards Forisimo's rooms.'

As he spoke, he looked not towards his men but glowered directly into the already bulbous eyes of the petrified servant, making sure the man realised it was a request that would only be foolishly denied.

As they made their way down the branching corridors, Guilfo's men lit the lanterns they found at corners, ensuring they would be able to find their way back. Guilfo was pleased that, curiously, Forisimo's servant didn't seem in anyway perturbed by this sign that his role would soon be redundant, as it made their task so much easier.

Obviously, this servant of Forisimo's was far too trusting of human nature. He doubtlessly believed that his help, his subservient acquiescence to their demands, would be rewarded with graciousness and mercy.

Guilfo was surprised by the simplicity of Forisimo's rooms, one empty bar a bed and washstand, the other arranged with nothing but humble chairs and a table yet dominated by an intriguing contraption positioned in its very centre.

But then again, Guilfo could appreciate simplicity in certain circumstances.

It was the very simplest of indications, after all, that gave his men permission to slice the servant's throat, the poor man's purpose – _for the moment at least_ – over.

*

# Chapter 7

Forisimo prepared for the changes of scenery, as well as the closing and opening of the curtains, required for the final dance scenes.

He wasn't responsible for every transition, nor was he in charge of it all, of course; he was simply following directions, but he had previously witnessed Delfaris rushing about his many tasks at this point in the show.

Similarly, he had seen on numerous occasions the innumerable curtain calls that invariably followed the finale of Cauda's show.

He glanced up towards the timber scaffolding bedecked with so many lanterns and lights, most of his own invention. He regretted, as he often did, that his device wouldn't be there to record the euphoric applause and adulation Cauda would receive.

Unlike his other, more mechanical contraptions, his Lantern of Life – despite its obvious brilliance – tore at his notion of what sort of person he claimed to be.

In his frenzy to capture more of Cauda's essential essence, he had resorted to utilising less scientific means, more alchemical substances – even enchantments.

The result was a source of pride, of ultimate joy for him; and yet also of deep shame and foreboding, for he had delved into realms he had the wisdom to realise should be best left alone.

But since moving to the Lane Without Name, he had found the temptation to use his compatriots' wares too increasingly strong to resist.

The Lantern of Life's interior wasn't simply an elaborate system of lenses, as many might suppose, but a labyrinthine interplay of the most fabulous of crystals, some reliably reputed to have come from the moon herself. There were also sheer films of skin, the finest Seneore could produce, these taken from many animals, maybe even – he really _didn't_ wish to contemplate this – children. Chemicals came from what would otherwise be the secretive suppliers of both Mr Gillars and Master Caputo, their unnatural consistency achieved with a binding of blood, mercury and venom, their mining possible only because many died in the unearthing of such preciously rare minerals.

Ah, but how wonderfully the Lantern of Life made up for such a colossal loss.

And yet, after all that sacrifice that had gone into its creation, it had recorded only one dance of Cauda's.

It was such a waste; a wasted opportunity to record her every move, her every expression of emotion, so that others might be as equally enthralled by her remarkable effusion of presence as he was.

The signal came to let the final backdrop roll down into place.

It was a realistically rendered scene of Cleopatra's palace.

It was a sign to everyone who knew Cauda (and who, in this city, _didn't_ know of her?) that this was her final dance.

The Writhing of The Asp.

The crowd were rapturous in their cries of tortured agony.

*

The love Cauda showered upon her countless worshipers was indeed most impressive, Master Caputo had to grudgingly admit.

He had come here thinking he wouldn't be impressed, that he would remain steadfastly immune to her charms.

He had been wrong.

And yet this natural effusion of her love was what he was hoping to manipulate.

Had he set himself too high – maybe even an _impossible_ – task?

No; surely not.

Even so, if he were indeed to extract only the faulty strains of love, while also retaining and safeguarding the outpouring of love her skill and her charm lay dependent upon – then he needed to know more, much more, about her and the fortunate recipient of her adoration.

Just when he was beginning to believe that the curtain calls would continue all night, the curtains at last remained firmly closed, no matter the continuing cries for more, for an encore. There were no more flowers to throw from the boxes, unless you counted those decorating his own, which he'd never had any intention of casting towards the stage. Yet he had marvelled as he had watched even the women launching large bunches of blooms towards the bowing Cauda, those incapable of reaching the stage sure in the knowledge that the people gathered below would gradually carrying the bouquets forward on a wave that would finally cast them up around the dancer's tiny feet.

Exhausted yet bubbling with joy, the excitably chattering crowd at last began to exit the building. The only people slow to move now were those in the most expensive boxes, waiting for the worst of the crush from the cheaper ones to dissipate a little before they too began to rise from their seats.

These richer admirers of Cauda, Caputo suspected, would be expecting a more personal introduction to the star. No doubt they had already sent ahead their gifts of flower baskets, delicacies and, maybe, even pieces of jewellery.

Guilfo might wish to deter Cauda's lover from visiting, but even he wouldn't be so foolish as to alienate potentially powerful supporters. This was how the most successful impresarios became rich and powerful themselves, by consorting with and complying with the wishes of the city's elite, by more or less prostituting their most favoured stars.

Naturally, in the case of Cauda, there would be limits to just how much Guilfo expected her to grant favours to her worshipers.

Coming himself from the level of more exclusive boxes, Caputo found to his surprise that his descent towards the basement of changing rooms was relatively civilised and organised, there being a specially constructed private staircase that facilitated a smooth and easy progress, the only possible obstruction being grim faced sentries at every door who quickly took in the state of his dress, his demeanour, and any other signs they took in to determine that he was worthy of this honour.

He grinned, amused by Guilfo's surprisingly inept efforts to keep the two lovers apart.

Obviously, he hadn't bothered informing his guards of the nature of the 'threat' facing Cauda; and yet they'd also obviously been instructed to allow the easy passage of anyone who was apparently rich, famous or powerful.

He must know this is all perfectly inadequate, Caputo thought, when Seneore's masks are designed to face far more rigorous scrutiny.

To add to all the difficulties faced by Guilfo's sentries, the corridor running outside the dressing rooms was a scene of absolute chaos; a jungle of towering fresh flowers, a sea of excitably shouting men, each one angrily demanding that they see Cauda to congratulate her on her performance, that they had sent on pearls or gems worth the richest merchant's ransom.

Guilfo's men would undoubtedly have been overwhelmed by the furious wave of eager admirer.

But then, suddenly, all movement and raised voices came to an immediate, expectant halt as the door to Cauda's room opened.

Cauda stepped out into the corridor, the throng drawing back a little as if in an obedient daze.

She was no longer garbed as the exotic Cleopatra who had only recently exited the stage; she was dressed, rather, in nothing but the simplest and plainest of gowns, one which reached almost to the floor – and yet Master Caputo was surprised to see that her effect on the gathered crowd was far greater than the great queen of Egypt herself could have ever hoped for.

Rather than furious cries for attention, each man here was now hanging on her every word as if it were a personal endearment she was offering him, as if they were words of love, of promises to stay together forever.

Each man's previously raised voice was now reduced to mumbled murmurs, to nothing more than yearning moans.

Each smiled, as if magically entranced.

Their eyes sparkled with joy, wonderment, made child-like once again in their ecstasy and belief that there could be no more wonderful world than this one.

Cauda's voice flowed as smoothly, as soothingly, as one of her dances, such that the whole was every bit as important – if not more so – as each single turn of phrase, as each acutely delivered word. It was hypnotic in its effortless beauty, entrancing in its calming appeal.

Cauda turned and vanished through her door, closing it behind her, such that no one could really identify just how long they had been listening to her before she had unfortunately evaporated from their lives.

With a satisfied, even grateful, sigh, the men gathered in the corridor also turned, filing away as happily as if they had been individually graced by Cauda's presence.

Master Caputo was amazed by the unbelievable influence this slightly built girl had had upon all these powerful men.

He was more amazed than ever when it dawned on him that he, too, was contentedly moving away from her door; and yet he couldn't remember a single word that she had spoken.

*

# Chapter 8

Cauda's dazed, departing admirers were oblivious to the stagehand who needed to pass through them, heading in the opposite direction in his urge to complete some urgent task.

Forisimo almost smiled: he had seen Cauda have this effect on her worshipers on numerous occasions now.

He controlled his urge to smile, however – it would only draw attention to him, and he wished to avoid any possible complications.

As it was, Guilfo's guards stared at him questioningly, if not actually suspecting him, wary of a stagehand descending towards the dressing rooms at a time when the area was reserved for the performers and their admirers.

He waved and dangled the mock Egyptian earring he had picked up after Cauda had deliberately dropped it by his feet earlier. (He had been both amused and yet also startled that she had seen through his disguise, fearing that he had made a mistake anyone else might detect.)

'Mistress Cauda dropped this,' he breathed heavily, adopting Delfaris's painfully growling delivery as well as he could. He made as if to hand the earring to the nearest sentry, saying with all the hints of an order, 'Give it to her when–'

'Hand it to her yourself, you old waster!' the man snapped, refusing to accept what could be interpreted as a command from the ancient stagehand. 'I'm not here to do your job for you!'

Forisimo sighed miserably, like this was all too much trouble for him.

With a resigned shrug of his stooped shoulders, he made his way towards Cauda's door.

His knock seemed regular enough, yet it contained a soft, secondary beat, a signal both he and Cauda had long ago agreed upon.

'Come in,' Cauda shouted out, controlling her excitement, keeping her tone bland and uninterested; just yet another dance she had learned to master.

*

The letter from Master Caputo lay on Guilfo's desk, only cursorily read.

It simply stated that Caputo had agreed to accept the impresario's task: something that Guilfo had already taken as a given, unless this ridiculous manufacturer of potions looked forward to having his reputation shredded by whatever scurrilous rumours could be concocted.

Besides, Caputo's ridiculous idea of producing a love poison became increasingly irrelevant to a triumphant Guilfo. Indeed, the only thing about the letter that had taken Guilfo by surprise was the manner of its delivery: a cobweb-strewn Delfaris claiming he had found it in his pocket, without having the slightest idea as to how it at ended up there when he had spent most of the evening ensuring the smooth running of the theatre's scenery changes.

Guilfo, however, was far too distracted to give even this oddity anything but his most fleeting consideration.

It wasn't, of course, that his mind was on the brutal murder of Forisimo's servant. Neither was he concerned that his original plans – or rather, his spur of the moment idea – to frame Forisimo for the murder had had to be instantaneously changed almost as soon as he had thought of it.

He would quite naturally have preferred an inept dumping of the corpse, one that would have led to it being reasonably quickly discovered; but they had had to leave the servant's body behind once Guilfo had curiously lit the machine's flame and been astounded by Cauda's magically abrupt appearance within the room.

No matter: he had already put into motion the means to ensure the correct people in authority heard that screams of what could only be a man being murdered had been heard coming from the Lane Without Name. As for the suitably well-bloodied knife, that had been hidden in a place where Forisimo wouldn't come across it by chance, yet any half decent investigator would almost certainly uncover it and presume the panicked murderer had secreted it away in what had seemed a plausible hiding place.

Guilfo's interest was fixed purely upon the machine his men had managed to steal away from Forisimo's workshop. It had quite conveniently split into two pieces on the simple removal of a few bolts, and had been just as easily put back together.

The lit flame once again projected a life-like image of a dancing Cauda against the wall, an image so lifelike that Guilfo wished to embrace her, to congratulate her on the incredible beauty of her dance.

As he had when he had first seen her so miraculously and suddenly appear within Forisimo's room, he walked over to the wall to more closely inspect this remarkably realistic semblance.

He could pass a hand through her, as if she were ghostlike: as if this were her very spirit that Forisimo's ingenious device had captured. Indeed, he could even walk through her dancing image, even dissipate her incredible beauty a little by letting the image shine over him rather than against the plain wall.

And yet in every other way, she could now actually be here, dancing in his room for his enjoyment alone. Indeed, he could dance a little with her, his own moves being regrettably far less fluid than hers.

Unfortunately, this was as far as any interaction between them could be extended.

Still – it was a truly unbelievable contraption.

What else could it do, Guilfo wondered, striding back towards the machine to more carefully scrutinise the series of levers he had noticed earlier but had been loath to tamper with, fearing their effects.

For the first time, he suffered a twinge of regret that he had ordered the killing of Forisimo's servant.

Sometimes, he had to admit, he was too impetus for his own good.

They should have forced more information out of that pathetic little worm before despatching him so prematurely.

What if there were some _other_ machine?

One, this one, might only _project_ the captured images.

Some _other_ machine, one still lying hidden somewhere within Forisimo's workshop, might be the device specifically constructed to actually _capture_ the images.

He cursed his bad fortune.

Tentatively, he pushed on one of the levers, the most prominent amongst them, fearing even as he pushed harder and harder against it to make it move that he might be making one more dreadful mistake.

The lever clicked into another position.

With a whirring of displaced weights, of tightly wound springs, there was a shifting of wooden framed lenses, of otherwise firmly pinioned crystals.

It was an elaborate dance in its own right.

But then the flame went out.

And the dancing Cauda vanished from the room.

*

# Chapter 9

Cauda sat before her mirror, wiping away the tear-stained makeup, wiping away the face that was Cleopatra and replacing it with the one that was her real self.

It was as Cleopatra, of course, not herself, that she had greeted and embraced Forisimo.

And it was as Delfaris, the old stagehand, that Forisimo had taken this false Cleopatra in his arms and kissed her.

It seemed so so long ago that they had last held each other as themselves, rather than in the guise of others.

So long ago, too, when their meetings had been something far more than these brief, elicit encounters they had to both pretend they were satisfied with.

Beneath it all, of course, it was the real Forisimo, the real her. And yet how much longer could she go on without seeing the real Forisimo's face and still continue to remember it accurately?

How much longer must she go on tenderly caressing a face that wasn't that of the one she loved?

At one time, despite the disguises, his eyes at least had nakedly exposed the true Forisimo, sparkling with the love and longing he held for her: yet Guilfo could recognise those eyes too, and so now even the liveliness of his gaze had be veiled behind Seneore's more elaborate skins.

It was Forisimo she held in her arms, she kissed, she whispered her longings to; and yet it wasn't him at all.

Even so, she resented most of all how brief these already inadequate, unfulfilling embraces had to be.

How long could the stagehand Delfaris stay in her room before suspicions were raised?

And so he had left after they had spent nothing but a few minutes together.

She began to reapply a fresh layer of make up.

This was her own elaborate disguise.

The skilful, well-practised creation of a simulacrum of a happy, contented face.

*

As Master Caputo followed Cauda's secretive lover, he couldn't fail to recognise the canals they were heading down; for this was undoubtedly the preferred route of people furtively making their way towards the Lane Without Name.

As he had ordered, the gondolier of the boat he had hailed maintained enough distance between the two gondolas to ensure they wouldn't be seen. Like the boat ahead, they had also doused their lanterns.

The city's gondoliers who put themselves up for hire had become accustomed to slyly following other boats, and had become expert at it.

Despite this, Caputo had the impression that Cauda's lover had hailed his own gondola because a rendezvous with a waiting boat had failed to materialise. On leaving the theatre – disguised it seemed as some ancient stagehand – the man had made his way down narrow alleyways towards a less frequently used part of the canal, only to wait apparently aimlessly here for ages before turning to head towards a more populated branch of the waterways, where gondolas for hire were still operating.

The man's disguise had almost fooled Caputo, despite the potion maker's familiarity with Seneore's masks.

Having managed to pull himself out of the stupor Cauda's endearing manner of speaking had appeared to put him under, Caputo had briefly slowed his pace a little, watching with interest as the old stagehand had fought against the flow leading away from the dressing room door. He had timed the stagehand's 'returning' of the earring, wondering with a knowing grin what might be keeping such an old man so long.

He had decided to dawdle a little longer in the corridor, deftly flicking the end of his long silk scarf towards the spreading branches of a soaring bouquet of roses, ensuring it became tangled amongst the thorns.

He momentarily feared that Cauda's visitor would turn to head the other way down the corridor when the stagehand at last reappeared: and when this fear proved to be unwarranted, he suffered the brief anxiety that his ploy of catching his scarf amongst the rose thorns might attract the swiftly retreating man's attention, particularly as one of Guilfo's sentries had kindly offered to free him.

Fortunately, this lover was too caught up either in reveries of his all too brief encounter with Cauda, or in flattering himself at his own cleverness.

He didn't really seem to be according the people in the corridor any significance, doubtlessly believing his disguise was so perfect that they were paying him no interest.

Even so, Caputo suffered a third pang of anxiety when, seeing that there was no light in the man's eyes, as he had expected, as he had been looking out for, he might have misjudged the situation.

And then the man smiled dreamily.

And Caputo knew he had his man.

Presenting the still entangled scarf as a present to Guilfo's sentry as a reward for his help, Caputo began to follow the man at a distance, grateful that if Seneore's masks had one inherent, irritating problem, it was that the layers of extra skin inevitably affected the wearer's hearing, as well as preventing a sudden, full turning of the head to check on what is happening behind you.

The secondary skin didn't, however, prevent this particular wearer from breaking into a faster pace, a more straight-backed gait, once he believed he was clear of anyone who might think his behaviour odd.

It was further proof to Caputo that he had the correct man, an assumption entirely confirmed when the man stopped by a wall and pulled open what would otherwise have been an invisible door.

Caputo waited a while before stepping through the door after the man. He had no idea how straight the tunnel running beyond it would be, and even the briefest flurry of light within a dark tunnel was enough to warn a pursued man that the door behind him had been opened once again.

Fortunately, the tunnel ran close to the wall, and so, like the general structure of the theatre, curved in upon itself as part of a great circle. Caputo had to listen for the man's footprints to work out which way he had gone, sighting at last what must be the dim oily glow of a lantern, in all probability one the man had picked up on first entering the otherwise incredibly black corridor.

Peering intently after the rapidly vanishing light, Caputo judged the moment when his prey seemed to step to one side for a moment, the signs perhaps of him stepping into a branching corridor. Not a corridor that, however, sprung off tangentially but, rather, going by the way the dim light flickered against the walls, one that began to steeply descend.

When Caputo came to the slender alcove in the corridor's wall that formed the landing of the precariously inclined staircase, he cautiously paused. The oily glow, dimmer than ever, barely illuminated another landing, the light from the lantern apparently emanating from somewhere a little deeper down yet another offshoot of this maze of tunnels.

The lantern didn't appear to be moving anymore.

Caputo could also hear voices, the sounds of a conversation.

No, not a conversation; it was just one man speaking. It was more like an incantation rather than any regular form of speech.

'...turn left, walk twenty steps and, on your right, there will be a door. Once you open this, you will come out on the stage-level corridor.'

It was a set of directions.

Who was giving them? Who receiving them?

'Turn to your right, towards the back of the stage. Walk another thirty steps. Then you will be fully awake. You will recall making your way here after taking a lost earring to Mistress Cauda. One she had dropped after exiting the stage.'

As the precisely delivered instructions came to an end, the flickering light of the lantern began to shift along the walls, moving away from the pursuing Caputo once more.

Caputo waited only briefly before continuing his descent of the stairs. Only halfway down, however, he came to a jolting, shocked halt as the man he was chasing appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

The man was nothing much more than a shadowy figure, barely lit by the gloomy light of the swiftly vanishing lantern, but there was enough of a glow coming back from the walls to allow Caputo to recognise that this was indeed the stagehand. Fortunately, if a little strangely, the man seemed unaware of Caputo's presence: indeed, he seemed to be totally unaware of his surroundings, walking in a daze, his face blank of expression.

Rather than turning to ascend the steps, the man continued on his way, crossing the staircase's bottom, heading off down yet another branch of the tunnels.

This must be a man whose identity Cauda's lover has briefly stolen, Caputo realised. Breaking into a swifter yet still cautiously quiet descent of the stairs, Caputo turned after the retreating man, slipping into the dazed stagehand's pocket a letter prepared earlier while seated in the theatre's box.

Then he had returned to his chase of the masked man, following as closely as he dared as his prey stepped out through a small, narrow door into a street that was relatively light compared to the solid darkness of the tunnels, despite it now being late evening. The man, of course, still sought out the darkness, dousing his lantern and heading off down the narrower ginnels running between the tightly packed buildings.

Even now, with the theatre left far behind them, Caputo's prey still refused to light any lantern that might help them navigate the slender canals threading this less salubrious part of the city.

He knew his way around this area, obviously.

Amongst all the different shades of darkness surrounding Caputo, something of a slightly lighter tint appeared in the water beside his gondola.

Caputo thought nothing of it at first, believing it to be the pallid face of one of the corpses that regularly turned up in the canals: but this was a face he recognised.

He reached out for it, fishing it from the water. As soon as it touched his hand, the gossamer thin mask clung to his fingers, such that all definition in the face immediately vanished.

His prey had shed his disguise; which could only mean that he felt safe – that he was almost home.

*

# Chapter 10

Guilfo gasped in agony as his love so abruptly vanished from his room.

He quickly reached for his flint, intending to relight the doused flame of Forisimo's machine once more; but the machine hadn't stopped moving.

The oiled wick sank into the body of the machine, taking with it a crystal lens that appeared to focus its light – then, with the whir and click of a moving wheel, of a ratchet, another similar composition of wick and crystal moved into its place, this fresh wick rising up into the spot originally taken by the dancing flame.

Guilfo breathed out a sigh of hope as he eagerly reached forward and lit the new wick. Soaked in oil, the wick effortlessly erupted into a beautifully flickering flame.

But there was no Cauda dancing across the walls.

Stranger still, there wasn't even any hint of projected light; the wall remained almost perfectly dark, the only illumination being that coming from the flame light echoed by the more reflective objects decorating he room.

Guilfo desperately inspected the machine, seeking out some other lever that might reverse the changes he had made. He wondered, of course, if he had to simply pull back the lever he'd already pushed forward: yet he also naturally feared that it wouldn't be so simple, that such a move might make any damage he'd caused completely irreversible.

He couldn't understand, in particular, why the series of lens wasn't at the very least projecting the flame's light upon the wall, like so many other of Forisimo's elaborate theatre lamps. He waved his hand in front of the lens, his shock more intense than ever when he saw that not even the slightest glimmer of light was coming from the contraption, his palm remaining dark and entirely unilluminated but for the dim light reflected from around the room.

And yet...as he moved his hand, the flame flickered and cavorted, far more than he would expect even if it had been caught in any draughts caused by his waving arm.

His desperation growing, he decided he would have to flick the lever back into position, praying it caused no further ill effects.

He slipped the lever back into its original place, grimacing even as he did so, regretting it already.

The flame wasn't snuffed out. Neither did it or its crystal slip back down into the machine.

But whereas the flame remained firmly in place, the crystals and lenses in the rest of the machine one again went through their own whirling dance, this time completely in reverse.

With a solidly satisfying clunk, the last of the revolving frames clicked to a rest.

At last, a gloomy splattering of the dullest shades of light began to flow across the wall.

No, Cauda hadn't returned, unfortunately: it was all too dark, all to shapeless, to be another image of her flawless dancing – even an atrociously illuminated one.

It was hard to make out what it was, being both completely alien yet also in some ways strangely familiar, all at the same time...

A giant _hand_!

Yes, _that's_ what it was!

Peering at the dark image intently now, Guilfo could just make out the waving of the fingers that, blown up to this ridiculous immense size, could have been the grasping tentacles of a merciless kraken.

He glanced down at his own hand, moving it slightly, recalling how he had waved it in front of the lantern's lenses; he brought it up close to his face, imagining how it would look if it were blown up to the size of a giant's.

Letting his hand fall down by his side once more, he looked back excitedly towards the lantern.

Somehow, it had recorded the moves of his hand as he had waved it in front of the lenses.

And now it was projecting those captured images upon the wall, just as it had done with the captured images of Cauda.

Guilfo chuckled with wicked delight.

There was no _other_ machine to capture the images!

_This_ was it; _this_ remarkable lantern was the device that captured the images!

*

When Forisimo arrived back at his workshop, he was surprised that the hallway was dark and unlit.

It was bad enough that Purnito hadn't been waiting for Forisimo in the gondola at their arranged meeting place on the canal side. It was even more lapse of him, however, to forget to make any arrangements for when his master would arrive home.

At least Purnito had left the door unlocked: but why wasn't the lamp already lit?

Forisimo searched around in the darkness for the narrow alcove containing the lantern and its flint. The lamp was there, but no matter how much Forisimo felt around its base, his hands never alighted upon anything that had been left to light it with.

Indeed, the whole area felt damp, even wet, as if rainwater was seeping down from somewhere, a not unusual occurrence in these older, more dilapidated parts of the buildings fronting the Lane Without Name.

He cautiously made his way farther along the dark corridor, searching out with his hands for the next alcove, the next lantern.

Again, however, the area around the lamp felt damp, and there was once again no flint to light the wick with.

Had the water seepage been so bad that it had washed the flints to the floor? All it needed was an accumulation of rain pooling in a high spot beneath the roof, the supporting beams gradually rotting and weakening until they broke, the released waters cascading down through the entire building in a swiftly moving waterfall.

He hadn't lived here long enough to know the corridors so well that he could make his way effortlessly along them in this pitch darkness; yet he still knew enough of his new home's layout to painstakingly make his way to the areas he'd set aside as his living rooms, both of which were conveniently nearer than his workshops, if lying off at a sharp, unusual angle.

The rooms were also dark.

Of course; Purnito must have left in the gondola, as arranged, but had been unexpectedly delayed somewhere, Forisimo realised.

Forisimo made his way towards where he knew the table stood, the room's lamp being set in its middle.

He tripped over something bulky lying in a heap on the dark floor, sending him sprawling across the floorboards. When he turned to inspect what had brought him down, feeling around with his hands once more in the darkness, he was horrified to find his fingers running through the softness of clothes, feeling the hardness of a body beneath.

Purnito!

It _has_ to be!

_That's_ why he hadn't been waiting at their rendezvous point!

But has he just been knocked out? Has he collapsed through some illness?

Or has he...?

The more Forisimo felt around Purnito's body, the more he discovered that the poor man's clothes were either caked hard or still soaked with a sticky liquid that could only be blood.

He needed light – more urgently than ever.

Rising to his feet, he unsteadily made his way towards the table, crashing into it in his urgency to reach the lantern. There was a thud, a tinkling of shattering glass as the lantern was knocked over. Forisimo scrambled around with his hands across the table top, trying to find in the darkness the flint to light what he hoped would still be a usable wick.

There was an even louder crash back along the corridor: the more thunderous sounds of wood cracking. Forisimo briefly wondered if it were the rotten timbers responsible for the water spill: briefly wondered, indeed, if it had been one of these splintering ceiling beams that had struck Purnito.

But the cacophony of wood being relentlessly shattered continued, drawing a fearful Forisimo back into the corridor, back towards the front door where all the noise seemed to be emanating from.

The door caved in, its heavy wood splintering into almost nothing as if receiving a final strike from a barging bull. Light at last flooded into the dark corridor, lanterns held aloft by a number of armed men forcing their way past what little remained of the door.

'It's true,' one of the men cried, waving his lamp towards the wall, towards the alcove containing its own unlit lamp. 'There's blood everywhere!'

It was indeed true, Forisimo realised with a bewildered frown. What he had foolishly taken to be water soaking the walls was actually a pool of blood that had been stored in the base of the lamp, a pool he had released when he had opened its window to light it.

'There! _There's_ our murderer!' another man screamed excitedly.

The man, Forisimo was surprised to see, was pointing accusingly at him.

And then, in the light of the man's lantern, Forisimo saw that he was also covered in Purnito's blood.

*

# Chapter 11

Although Cauda's dancing appeared characteristically flawless to everyone watching her in the fully packed theatre, she herself worried that her anxieties might be affecting her flow, her ease of movement.

What had happened to Forisimo?

Not only had she seen nothing of him now for over a week, but she hadn't even heard from him; there had been no secretive delivery of notes, no whispered asides from people amongst the theatre staff who still admired and appreciated the skills he had brought to their productions.

None of these people could tell her what had happened to him, other than that his workshops on the Lane Without Name had been boarded up by the authorities.

Stranger still, whereas such an unwarranted intrusion into the lane by the authorities would usually have met with a rebellion of the shopkeepers, each threatening to reveal the secrets of otherwise powerful people who would soon be bent to their will, no one was even prepared to answer the most skilfully worded questions regarding Forisimo's disappearance.

Naturally, for a while Cauda had suspected that Guilfo might have been involved in having Forisimo 'removed' – the fate usually awaiting any rival of Guilfo's he was finding especially problematic or stubborn – and yet reports of the lane's inhabitants' collusion in or at least acceptance of his vanishing suggested otherwise.

True, Guilfo was walking everywhere these days with a certain spring in his steps, and he had been surprisingly forgiving of many mistakes made by the staff that would usually have resulted in at least a furious dismissal. Yet many had put this new, brighter demeanour down to the delivery of a new lantern, one obviously made to the most elaborate of specifications, and beautifully constructed to boot.

Cauda had watched with growing interest as this new lantern was carefully raised into the framework of timbers overarching the stage and its audience, recognising immediately that it was a device worthy of Forisimo's own particular skills.

It had reminded her, indeed, of the contraptions Forisimo had used to either capture or project images of the dancers, but this machine had no chemically impregnated linen sheets, no great wheel revolving about it.

Had Guilfo and Forisimo's series of disagreement somehow been resolved between them?

Had Guifo agreed to purchase Forisimo's devices; but, perhaps, only on condition that the latter stopped seeing Cauda?

That could explain the closure of his workshops on the lane, the belligerence of the other shopkeepers when people asked for his whereabouts.

With Guilfo's backing, he might have set up workshops elsewhere, in more exclusive parts of the city.

As Cauda danced, she tried desperately to erase all these negative thoughts from her mind, being well aware of the debilitating effects it could have on her movements.

And yet she couldn't help but glance up towards the new lantern, wondering if it really were the source of her problems.

Bizarrely, despite the lantern's elaborate array of lenses and crystals – which she had admired as the stagehands had prepared to hoist it up into position – no light seemed to emanate from it.

More terrifying still, the eye of its lens followed her every move, the lantern swivelling smoothly on a complex system of wheels, as if it were being directed by some invisible man, perhaps even a ghost.

She felt odd, uncomfortable, under its unwavering gaze. The flame behind it flickered like a red band in the lens, glowing ominously like the reptilian eye of a dragon.

It could have been some hideous beast, hiding in the uppermost branches of a dark forest, waiting to pounce.

She sensed that, somehow – foolishly, she knew – it could probe deeper into her being than any human eye.

It stripped away any façade, revealing the real, previously carefully hidden Cauda

Most worryingly of all, Cauda feared that it would inevitably bring her life to an end.

*

Even if Cauda were to threaten to leave him – even if she were to die – she would now have to continue dancing for Guilfo and his descendants to the ends of eternity.

That meant she no longer possessed _that_ particular power over him, at least.

As for her other hold over him, that of the love he suffered for her – well, now that that upstart Forisimo was facing execution for murder, soon even that could turn to his advantage.

His shoulder would always be here for her to weep upon, of course, as Forisimo was led to the executioner's block.

What a dreadful surprise it would be for her too, to realise that she had so foolishly fallen for such a devious man, who has so effectively hidden his murderous nature.

It had been a lucky escape for her, Guilfo would point out to Cauda when he thought the moment right. For who was to say that she, too, might not have been one of his victims if his murderous intents hadn't been discovered so prematurely?

How could Cauda resist such considerate concern for her wellbeing?

And all this with absolutely no recourse to one of Master Caputo's ridiculous potions too!

Guilfo gleefully watched Cauda's performance, relishing this moment perhaps more than any other he had experienced.

His amazing lantern was watching every dance she executed, preserving every flawless performance forever within its store of crystals. The more he had studied the contraption before it had been hoisted into place high above the stage, the more he had been impressed with its ingenuity: once the lenses had been focused upon a particular subject with the flame lit, it would revolve on its system of well-lubricated cogged wheels, following that subject's every move (thankfully, it had not followed the movement of his hand earlier when he had pulled it aside from the lens, apparently because his move was too abrupt – his hand effectively vanishing from view – for even the machine to follow).

If he had the machine copied, then it would be possible to have Cauda dancing around the whole world, and all at the very same time!

When he told her that, that this is what he could do for her – sharing her remarkable gift for dance with the entire world! – then surely she must declare her love for him?

There was just one small problem, of course: what would be the effect on Cauda's dance when she heard of poor Forisimo's fate?

But thankfully, it was only a _very_ small problem.

For no matter how much she foolishly moped over her loss, the lantern images could replace her until she recovered her composure.

Indeed, Guilfo thought, relishing the excuse, the _opportunity_ , to display this new version of Cauda upon his stage, it would be a whole new sensation in its very own right.

His gleeful thoughts were interrupted by a pained groan rising up from the audience like a disturbing mist.

He glanced nervously towards the stage, wondering what could have happened to bring about this unexpected reaction from the customarily endlessly adoring crowd.

Cauda's dance seemed no different than usual.

Then he saw it; a slight faltering in the usually graceful movement of her feet – and yet this was too small a difference for the crowd to notice, surely?

Then she slipped as she landed from a twirling leap.

Yes, she recovered quickly, elegantly: but Cauda had never been known to deliver anything less than sublime perfection.

Every man and woman in the crowd groaned once more. It was the same groan that had emanated from them earlier.

Which could only mean, Guilfo realised, that she must have faulted badly then too.

Once, well, maybe that could be forgiven, explained away even by a fault in the stage floor rather than in Cauda's dance steps.

But _twice_?

What _was_ happening to Cauda?

*

# Chapter 12

Cauda was distraught.

She had never, ever performed so badly – not even when she was first beginning to practise her moves.

It was her natural _flow_ that had deserted her!

Every mistake she made was accompanied with a sharply penetrating pain, like a stiletto blade being driven home deeply into her foot, her arm, her leg; whichever part of her body was letting her down.

And ultimately, all those painful strikes accumulated within her heart, slowly tearing it apart.

She wanted to flee the stage, yet instead she struggled on, hoping that she would somehow regain her poise, her grace.

When the curtains at last closed about her, she almost collapsed with shame. She ran weeping from the stage in no mood to respond to the crowd's half-hearted demand for a curtain call.

She ran past the old stagehand, who glanced at her almost fearfully, obviously unsure as to how he should react to her poor performance.

She ran past the other dancers, most of them making no effort to hide their satisfied smirks.

She almost ran into Guilfo, who had rushed down towards the rear of the stage as soon as he realised something was affecting the performance of his star act.

'What happened out there?' he raged.

'I...I don't _know_!' Cauda wailed, now uncontrollably shaking as she wept, as she recalled the humiliation, the disgrace.

' _Something_ must be causing this!' Guilfo fumed, grabbing her roughly by her arms as if intending to violently shake the truth from her.

'I...I...'

How could she tell him it was because she hadn't heard from Forisimo?

That _must_ be the cause of her problems, surely?

'You weren't concentrating, were you?' Guilfo snarled, his eyes as glaringly frightening as any ravenous wolf.

'No, no...it wasn't that, I swear,' Cauda insisted.

It was _partially_ true: her moves normally came so naturally to her, concentration would only spoil the effect, making everything too leaden, too considered and over thought.

But she _had_ been distracted by her anxiety, her worry that Forisimo no longer loved her and had abandoned her without even a word of apology.

It had felt as if all her love for life, all her energy, was being slowly sucked from deep within her. As if it were draining away, perhaps never to be recovered.

'I didn't feel entirely myself out there tonight,' she admitted, realising with a shock that this was true: she had felt as if her body wasn't hers, as if there were a hollowness opening up inside her. 'I couldn't coordinate things correctly anymore...'

'You're _ill_? Is _that_ what you're saying?'

Guilfo said it with a hint of hope; if she were ill, she could recover, with the correct treatment. Depending, of course, on just how ill she was.

The hope vanished from his expression.

'Jus _how_ ill are you?' he asked fearfully.

'No, no; not _that_ ill, I'm sure!' Cauda answered. 'I just need a rest; I'll get over it,' she added.

Guilfo peered at her suspiciously, as if he had detected the doubt she felt about her own statement.

The workers in control of the curtains had let the ropes fall away from their hands; there would be no curtain calls tonight, they realised worriedly.

The curtains remained closed.

An apprehensively murmuring audience was already leaving the theatre.

No one was demanding Cauda's return to the stage.

*

Forisimo was still caked in Purnito's blood.

It had dried hard upon him now, almost black and flaking a little, such that it gave him a scaly appearance, as if he were some captured beast.

He had dried to scrape himself clean using the filthy, rotting straw that covered the floor of his cell, but by the time he had been flung into here by the guards it was already too late to remove anything but the odd streak of what had effectively become an indelible stain.

Were they determined that he would go to his death looking like this?

Probably.

As far as the authorities were concerned, this sheen of blood unmistakeably pointed to his guilt, after all.

And he had no alibi. Nothing to place him in the theatre, where he had actually been all night.

That was the disadvantage of the excellence of Seneore's masks: he had gone as Delfaris, the old stagehand. Many people had seen _him_ there, that night.

But no one had seen Forisimo, even though most people working in the theatre knew him well enough to recognise him even from a distance.

Cauda knew that he had been with her, of course.

But that was only for a few moments. And everyone would swear that she was lying, that the only person she had been alone with had been Delfaris.

There was no point in trying to get word to her. He could only hope that she never learned of his fate.

If she ever saw him in this dishevelled, blood covered state, even she would believe he was guilty of murder.

*

# Chapter 13

This was the part Master Caputo really enjoyed: mingling the ingredients, experimenting with different mixes and quantities, using his experience to predict what the result might be.

It was all based on feeling – a _sense_ that _this_ fitted with _that_ to create a third and more wonderful thing. He saw the elements he dealt with not as precipitates, as chemicals, but – bizarre as it would seem to someone unaccustomed to working in this way – but as shapes, as patterns that had to be fulfilled.

This, he believed, was the true secret to creativity of every kind: you quite naturally saw the components you played with as abstract forms that automatically revealed whether they belonged together in a whole new composition or not.

Yes, it was as simple as that, provided you had the innate skills, the _apparently_ unnatural vision to see and understand the things around you in a completely different way.

And so he happily brought together and connected his shapes, let the patterns take their own forms, sensing that his role was to simply discover what should have long been obvious; and therefore, of course, he was actually merely _re_ connecting these elements, for they had quite obviously always been intended to be married one to the other in this way.

Once you had married two then, like the growing of a family, its product could be married to another, and so on.

Was there no end to the way that so many things could be brought close and – what a delightful surprise! – they _lock_ , a _perfect_ fit: and yet _no_ one had noticed it before!

Colours, taste, viscosity, effects; these were all part of each element's shape.

And that shape could be slightly altered of course, with the administering of other shapes, other solutions or solids. Then there was heat, and cold, making those shapes more malleable, more open to mingling, or bringing out previously unrecognised similarities.

There was crushing, powdering, as well as distilling, or bringing about a glorious crystallisation; but once again, it was all a matter of dealing in shapes, forcing them into another form that unveiled their suitability to enter into a wedding, the male conjoining with the female just so.

The world was such an incredibly wonderful place, full of the most remarkable and yet mainly still unrevealed coincidences, every one capable of bringing about the most unexpected transformations.

His potions had rid that world of what some regarded as unnecessary obstacles to their progress through life: again, it was a changing of shapes, of patterns, if one only had the vision to see it that way.

He was simply acting as the catalyst to what must ultimately be.

Naturally, he realised that some of those obstacles he had helped remove might have lived far more blameless lives than his clients.

But of what use had such fine, upstanding people been to him when he had first turned up in this city, impoverished and willing to do anything to earn enough to keep himself alive? And hadn't _he_ found he'd had no choice but to rid himself of the obstacles barring his own way to a roof over his head, to his first workshop, his grand home?

Indeed, hadn't it been that very first removal, using a simple potion of berries and wine, that had awoken him to his calling? And who now missed or even lamented the passing of an old woman who stole from those renting her rooms – and then only so she could demand merciless rates of interest on the loans you had to take out to pay her off?

Yes, the world's a _better_ place without people like her.

And what of poor Purnito: is the world a better place without _him_?

Probably not. He was well known in the lane, being more or less an attribute of the establishment Forisimo had purchased. He had served the previous occupier – a manufacturer of garments that were not only claimed to protect you against the unexpected assault of brigands, but also included hidden blades – admirably well.

Fortunately, Purnito's death wasn't a removal that Caputo had been involved in, unless you counted the fact that he had witnessed the arrival home of Forisimo just before he was caught in the act of murdering his own servant. He had also seen the blood spattered walls as he moved to close the door left open by the swiftly retreating guards, a scene so horrifying he had dropped the mask he had still been carrying, leaving it staring up in the darkened corridor like some mangled wraith.

The lane protected its own, but loyalties were naturally stretched when the victim was also an occupant: moreover, Purnito had lived here far longer than Forisimo, steadfastly serving his master and the lane's other associates with complete devotion.

Forisimo, on the other hand, quite obviously didn't possess the correct temperament to have ever become an elder of the lane. Naturally, when Caputo had seen the blood covered Forisimo being led away by what appeared to be officers of the city authorities, and then only moments later seen another group of guards carrying away the even more bloodied corpse of Purnito, he had considered how convenient all this was for Impresario Guilfo: his rival for love had been effectively removed, and without there being any danger of Cauda suspecting Guilfo's involvement.

Which, of course, had made Caputo all the more suspicious that Guilfo had been involved in some way in Forisimo's demise.

It was all _too_ convenient.

All too much of a _pattern_.

And yet: Forisimo had been drenched in Purnito's blood.

He had, the guards claimed, actually been caught in the act of plunging the knife into his servant, the consequence of an increasingly irate argument regarding a serious lapse in Purnito's appointed duties.

Hadn't Caputo himself been witness to Purnito's failure to follow his master's instructions? For, quite obviously, it was Purnito whom Forisimo had been expecting to meet at the canal side after exiting the theatre.

Forisimo _would_ have been angry with his servant for leaving him in such a dangerous situation.

No matter; the fate of this Forisimo was not Caputo's problem.

Besides, his execution was now a foregone conclusion.

The only problem that left Caputo was that Guilfo would no longer require the poison he had ordered.

So why was he working on creating this marvellous potion anyway?

Because he had become intrigued by its possibilities.

Mr Gillars, it must be admitted, sold far more love potions than he sold poisons.

Yet how much more attractive to the purchasers of these love potions would be one that surgically cut out the wound of the rival lover – as opposed to effectively placing someone in such a dazed stupor that they began to think they loved you?

Those dependent upon Mr Gillars' potions lived in constant fear that, one day, their loved ones would wake from their trance: perhaps because they had at last become immune to the increasingly stronger and increasingly more regular doses; perhaps because they had heard of regular visits to or deliveries from Mr Gillars' establishment.

Worst of all was the knowledge that the love was unnatural, nothing more than an enchantment.

Every one of these complications, so inherent within Mr Gillars' potions, would be nullified by Caputo's love poison.

The poison would act _only_ on the love that one held for another.

Was it possible?

Well, why not?

The ingredients he had gathered together were those he knew had instilled a momentary madness within his victims, enough to make them kill themselves.

They had, in effect, been made to hate themselves.

And so, if a person can be made to hate _himself_ (or _her_ self), then why couldn't a person be persuaded to fall out of _love_ with some _other_ person?

No; Caputo didn't see why such a thing should be deemed _impossible_.

He just needed to bring together certain _accidents_ of the way his potions worked, to _control_ them, to increase _their_ effectiveness and lessen that of others: the correlations, the correspondences – the coincidences.

Yes, yes; he was already beginning to sense the most _glorious_ of patterns.

A touch of the venom of a certain serpent; that would be its base. How apt, this being the time of the 13th Zodiac, of Ophiuchus the Serpent Bearer.

He was interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door. As usual, as Caputo had instructed him to do if it were a matter of urgency, his servant opened the door without waiting for Caputo's response and entered.

'There's a client to see you, sir, who was most insistent that he sees you now,' the servant apologised. 'It's the Impresario Guilfo.'

*

# Chapter 14

Guilfo was in an even worse mood than usual.

He hadn't expected to be visiting Master Caputo again. He had presumed that the problem that was Forisimo had been dealt with.

But he had seen in Cauda's eyes that this damned Forisimo still wielded influence over her, even when he was no longer around to see her.

That's why she had faulted in her dance: she was thinking of _him_!

That's the only illness she suffered from; an illness called Forisimo!

If his mere absence caused her such pain, then what would she be like when she saw him being carried off to the executioner?

The only answer was to destroy her love for him, as had originally been intended.

Guilfo was in no mood for small talk.

Naturally, this arrogant Master Caputo expressed his surprise at seeing him visiting his shop once more.

'I had thought that, with Forisimo out of the way...' Caputo added, letting his voice trail off towards the end, the implication clear enough: the poison maker was gloating, sublimely delighted that Guilfo was begging for his help once more.

'Is it ready?' Guifo snapped. 'You promised me–'

'I promised you nothing I couldn't deliver; but there is a question of _time_ ...'

'The question of time is already answered: we don't _have_ any more time!'

'My potion hasn't been tested–'

'You've failed?'

'No! But I prefer to make tests–'

'Will it kill her? Injure her, in any way?'

'Of _course_ not! It will, as promised, affect only her capacity for love; though, at present, I can't be sure–'

'Can't be _sure_? That sounds like _failure_ to me!'

'I'm not _sure_ if it will only be her love for Forisimo that affecte–'

'But it _will_ only be her love? And she will no longer love Forisimo?'

'Yes, naturally; but I would advise–'

'Do you insist on lecturing _all_ your customers, Master Caputo? If you do, I'm surprised you actually have _any_ to impart your wisdom to! Simply _advise_ me on the dosage; and the best way to apply it!'

*

'Visitor,' the gaoler gruffly announced, smiling merrily as he jangled a pile of sparkling coins in his hand: undoubtedly his way of saying to Forisimo that he would only allow visitors willing to richly reward him for his troubles.

The other prisoners scattered about the cell, all of them apparently ancient men or women (although Forisimo feared that it was the prison's conditions that had aged them all prematurely), eyed Forisimo enviously: it had obviously been a long time since they had had anyone calling to see them.

Forisimo immediately recognised Cauda as she stepped through the cell's heavy door, despite the way she was covering her face with a handkerchief in a vain attempt to protect herself from the stench of the cell.

'Give me a shout if you have any problems from this lot,' the gaoler added with a sidelong sneer at the other inmates as he retreated back through the door, closing it behind him.

'Cauda; no! I didn't want you seeing me like _this_!'

He held back from rushing to greet her; he was filthy, dishevelled. He stank: he'd not only had no opportunity to wash, but had also frequently found himself unintentionally rolling around in the mess left by the other prisoners amongst the straw.

'I'd only just heard of your arrest...'

Despite his condition, Cauda rushed towards him; only for Forisimo to warily step back, waving his hands out before him to keep her at a distance.

'Please Cauda; there's nothing I want _more_ than to _hold_ you again – but not like _this_!

He held his arms open, drawing her attention to the filth covering his clothes.

'How did you get away from Guilfo's men?' he asked concernedly.

'I'd seen who was following me: I shook them off in the market, where it was crowded.'

Forisimo nodded, but he realised his expression could only be one of someone merely partially satisfied with the answer: Guilfo's men weren't so stupid they could be so easily thwarted.

Then again, even if they were aware of Cauda's visit to him, and informed Guilfo: what more could he do to them? For it was surely Guilfo who had arranged all this.

'It's not true, is it?' Cauda demanded, her eyes flitting over his bloodied clothes, his skin. 'You didn't kill your servant, did you?'

Forisimo shook his head, surprised that Cauda could even ask this question of him.

'No! Of _course_ not! He was _already_ dead when I arrived home after visiting _you_!'

'Then _surely_ there are witnesses...'

He gave another shake of his head, accompanying it this time with a bitter laugh.

'The ones who saw anything who have spoken up say they saw three men approaching my door–'

'Then why are you still here?' Cauda exclaimed brightly. ' _There_ are your real murderers–'

'They say I was amongst them; a _mask_ , obviously!'

'Then the mask maker will be able to say–'

'Nothing; what would that do to his reputation, when it's known he's willing to inform the authorities about anyone purchasing his wares?'

'It was _Guilfo_ , do you think?'

'Who else would do this to me?'

'Then I'm not returning–'

'No, no, Cauda; I'm sorry, but you _must_ return!' In his desperation he leapt forwards to grab her hands, despite the way he had restrained himself up until now. 'My only chance is if you can find some proof that Guilfo is responsible, not me! I don't want to ask this of you, but it won't be for long as–'

He couldn't finish. He didn't want to worry her further by telling her his execution was set to be just a few days from now.

'The machine!' Cauda's eyes widened with excitement. 'He came back with a lantern, that I'm sure could only be one of yours!'

Forisimo nodded in agreement miserably.

'It undoubtedly _was_ Guilfo, then. He took it from my room, when Purnito was murdered.'

'Then you're–'

Forisimo cut off her elated cry.

'No, Cauda, no! I and Purnito were the only ones who knew I'd had it in my room. All he has to say is that it was made by someone else.'

'But won't you know something about it that he _wouldn't_ know?' Cauda persisted hopefully. 'What _does_ it do? No light comes from it?'

'Then he simply claims he'd bought it from me earlier, and hasn't worked out everything about it yet. Like my earlier lanterns, it captures images; but this time, Cauda, it's images that _move_!'

He tightened his already excited grip on her hands.

'When I played it back, Cauda; it was like you were in the room _with_ me!'

'Of _me_? You took images of me?'

Cauda seemed shocked, even a little disturbed, that Forisimo had captured images of her upon one of his machines: and without even telling her, too!

Forisimo was ashamed.

'I'm _truly_ sorry, Cauda: I _meant_ to tell you. But I thought you might be conscious that I was attempting to capture you, and it would spoil your performance.'

He hoped his apology would satisfy her. But she didn't reply; rather, she briefly appeared to be deep in thought, as if she were considering whether she should tell him something or not.

She glanced about their miserable surroundings.

'Isn't there a magical device you could come up with to get you out of here?' she whispered nervously, naturally worried that someone might overhear.

Forisimo chuckled sourly.

'They're not really _magical_ ,' he admitted, adding dejectedly with a wave of his had towards the filthy floor, 'Bedsides, not even Rumpelstiltskin could weave such a magical device out of nothing but straw.'

*

# Chapter 15

Thankfully, Cauda had regained her composure.

Guilfo watched her performance with growing pleasure.

So, it _had_ been her love for that pipsqueak Forisimo that had caused all the problems.

He recognised that he had taken a chance, letting the rumours that Forisimo had been imprisoned seep back to her. It could, after all, have sent her completely over the edge.

But just as he had hoped, she'd tried to slip away from his men to visit him in gaol.

And while she'd been in there, hope that she would be eventually reunited with him had returned.

What had passed between them to restore that hope?

Who knows for sure?

But he could guess.

Cauda, bless her, would have been relieved that Forisimo still loved her; that he hadn't, as she must have feared, found someone else and abandoned her.

A man in prison can still love you. And even a man awaiting execution – particularity an _innocent_ man – can still live (at least for a while) in hope that new evidence might soon set him free.

Guilfo did it!

He chuckled richly as he imagined their angry, conspiratorial whispers.

_I_ know _he did!_

Oh, how he'd wished he'd been there to hear it.

Or, even better, to have captured it all on Forisimo's marvellous machine!

How sweet would _that_ be?

As it was, of course, he needed that wonderful device to record Cauda's wonderful return to perfection.

He would capture her every performance from now on, from a variety of angles, moving the machine around the theatre's overarching framework until he had a whole volume of stolen images.

In the meantime, he could begin administering Master Caputo's own marvellous creation.

He might even up the dosage a little; he didn't want to risk Cauda's performance being affected when Forisimo was finally executed, after all.

*

How hard would it be to find evidence that Guilfo was responsible for the death of Forisimo's servant?

He wouldn't be expecting Cauda to be searching for it, after all.

It was this thought that kept Cauda hopeful that she could save Forisimo's life.

It was this deep sense of hope that now unintentionally came through in her dance. It gave here an energy she had lacked while she had feared what had happened to him, living in dread that he no longer loved her.

Whenever her dance was over, even while she was preparing for the next performance, she was listening closely to the conversations going on about her, reasoning that _someone_ must know what had really happened.

She also made excuses to visit Guilfo's quarters and offices whenever she knew he was out – a forgotten purse, an important item required for a performance – and was quite surprised and overjoyed at how trusting the men were in allowing her access.

When she came across a drawer containing a multitude of masks, she prayed she would find one of Forisimo: but on this occasion, she hadn't had an opportunity to make a complete search of Guilfo's collection, being interrupted by a smiling guard who innocently asked if she'd like him to help her search for her missing ring.

She'd almost got caught red handed; and as it was, she'd had to crumple up the mask she was holding in her hand (thankfully it was gossamer thin, scrunching up into something easily veiled in her closed fist) rather than returning it to the drawer, hoping that Guilfo wouldn't miss one mask from amongst so many.

If Guilfo's men were helpful and complacent about her every move while she was within the theatre, this wasn't the case whenever she left her own well-appointed quarters to tour the city. She had hoped to give them the slip once more, so that she could visit Forisimo, but the men following her seemed strangely prescient when it came to predicting her every attempt to shake them off.

She would have liked to see him, or at least to have heard from him, if only to ask him how much longer she had to find evidence clearing him of his crime. It couldn't be much longer, she realised.

When they had met in the cell, she had avoided asking him when his execution had been set for.

Knowing the answer would have seemed too final, destroying any hope she had that he could be saved.

She just knew she had to work with the utmost urgency.

But now, of course, now that she had searched continuously and diligently for proof of his innocence and found none, she dearly wished that she did have some idea of what time constraints she was working under.

She had received no message form Forisimo, as if – just as she was being denied access to see him – any contact he was trying to establish was being intercepted.

She didn't even have any way of knowing if he had already been executed or not, unless she heard about it from the people around her.

When she dared, she quietly asked some of them, the ones she believed she could trust to keep a secret, if they had heard anything of Forisimo.

They would shake their heads, smiling grimly, perhaps pityingly, at her; but their eyes seemed wide with fear, a sign, she believed, that they were worried for their jobs, their livelihoods, living under threats made by Guilfo that Forisimo mustn't be discussed under any circumstances.

Gradually, she began to loathe these people for their weakness, their betrayal of both her and Forisimo.

At this very moment, Forisimo could already be dead. But she wouldn't know about it until someone had the courage to tell her.

Even old, trusted stagehands like Delfaris had begun to stare at her anxiously, to avoid her whenever they presumed she was about to approach them, as if they feared being drawn into her conspiracies, lest it angered Guilfo.

They were all part of her imprisonment here, weren't they?

The gilding on her cage.

For they all, in their way, participated in Guilfo's entrapment of her within his theatre.

The love she had had for them all was crumbling daily.

It was being replaced by hate.

*

# Chapter 16

Being one of the more demanding sequences, amongst what were already so many difficult moves, the leaping pirouette was always eagerly awaited by the crowd.

To make it work, Cauda had to complete the exact number of twirls: or, rather, to ensure she flowed effortlessly into the next moves, she had to _half_ complete the last spin.

After leaping so high, as if using some invisible springboard, a poor landing could easily result in a badly sprained or even broken ankle or leg. And yet the area she had chosen to land upon was no larger than a dinner plate, and rose two feet above the stage, a platform taking the shape of a stump of a slender tree.

The leap and the twirls, as expected, were perfectly flawless. But the foot came down a little flat as opposed to being upright, and balanced precariously upon the point of toe. Such a landing failed to give her the graceful spring into the next leap, the move – for Cauda at least – appearing ungainly and forced.

The crowd gasped in dismay.

In one of the better boxes, a richly overfeed man sighed with even greater dismay than anyone else in the theatre, his distress made all the more painful by pangs of guilt.

Although this particular fault of Cauda's had been the most potentially dangerous so far, any number of her earlier mistakes could have resulted in an agonising fall or even a shattered leg. Fortunately, each time she had recovered, that natural grace of Cauda briefly sparkling into life once more and preventing the mistake from turning into something worse.

There were gaps in tonight's crowd, something Caputo had never seen before in all the times he had attended Cauda's performances.

Gradually, people were beginning to realise their goddess of dance was not infallible after all. They were becoming less forgiving of her mistakes.

Caputo came to watch her every evening, his bill with Seneore now quite serious, for he had no wish to give Guilfo the pleasure of seeing that he had become every bit as enamoured with Cauda as the impresario was.

Naturally, he repeated a number of his disguises, yet never so much that it would draw attention to the high number of attendances he was making, bringing him to Guilfo's attention.

In his guise as a wealthy, unfit man, he felt suitably attired to slump miserably in his chair.

That bright, exhilarating effusion of love that he had so admired in Cauda's performances was no longer present. Like so many in her usually vast audiences of worshippers, he had felt that he was bathing in that glorious outpouring of emotion, sharing in her understanding and expression of such complex feelings: how could anyone _not_ fall in love with such a remarkable woman?

Now she went through her moves as if it were simply a matter of progressing from one well-practised sequence to another – and if the passages and their interchanges had been of a simpler nature, she might have managed it too. But her dances were renowned for their detailing, their marvellous intricacy, their _intimacy_ : and these expressive manoeuvres just couldn't be achieved by anyone who didn't feel the emotion they were hoping to convey.

And Cauda, Caputo had to sadly admit, now lacked that love she had thrown into her dancing, transforming the unseeable, the abstract, into something physically beautiful and moving: such that that very emotion spun uncontrollably, deliciously, through you, a wave of purest pleasure setting everything tingling in delight and amazement.

Only those moments where her dance reflected sadness or hate now retained those qualities, saturating you in a coldness that would no longer be immediately redeemed by the sheer illumination and heat of ecstasy, of love's vibrancy.

It was agonising to watch, especially for someone like Caputo, who had taken her overflowing of love as an invitation to fall in love with her.

It was first a suffusion, and then an absorption of her love.

And then that love insisted on being reflected back.

It was inevitable, wasn't it, that such a connection flowing between them must eventually be acted upon?

Yes, he had been fortunate enough to be aware that the real focus of her love was for another.

That caused him agonies, not pleasure.

But for how long would that be the case?

Guilfo was gradually nourishing her on his potion, his Love Poison Number 13.

It would slowly extinguish her love for Forisimo.

And that had to be; it was for the best.

For just as Guilfo had feared, news of her lover's execution would destroy her talent for expressing love through her dance.

Yes, yes: it was a love that had to be destroyed, for her own good.

For the good of her skills, of her performance.

That was something that she herself wouldn't like to see destroyed.

And, freed of her hopeless love for a dead man, she would be free to love again.

Free to love _him_ , Caputo.

Yes, all this is what he had firmly believed, what he had willingly embraced to grant him slivers of hope as he admitted he was hopelessly falling in love with Cauda.

But _now_?

He realised something was going badly wrong.

His poison hadn't been tested, after all.

He'd unfortunately had to merely _assume_ that his potion would be adequate to its appointed tasks.

And, indeed, it _was_ poisoning her love.

Poisoning, though – as he had feared, as he had warned Guilfo – her love for her dance.

Surely Guilfo must be recognising this too?

How could he remain in love with someone who is no longer the person he had fallen in love with?

Surely he must soon cut down on the dosages of potion, if not cease nursing her on it all together?

*

She was passed her best: there was now no doubt about that.

He wouldn't be surprised, in fact, that she had gone beyond any hope of recovering her talents.

Thankfully, he had her _captured_ at her _very_ best.

Forisimo's truly remarkable machine had captured the very _spirit_ of her dance!

When the theatre's stage had been completely deserted – and posting his men at all the entrances so he wouldn't be disturbed – Guilfo had played back some of the images he had captured of Cauda's dancing.

It could have been her up there on the stage; there was no doubt about it.

It was her very essence rushing across the stage, leaping into the air, landing silently upon barely creaking floorboards.

Because, yes: Forisimo's ingenious machine also caught the sounds – even the _emotions_ – of her dance!

These emotions emanated from her presence, as if she were the real, truly wonderful thing!

She wasn't there flat, unmoving, as a person was captured in a painting: no, she was there as if she were right there before you, moving _around_ you, allowing _you_ to move around _her_!

As you saw here there, you felt sure you could reach out and touch – even embrace her!

But here was both the only failing and yet also the greatest feat of the machine and the images it played out before you.

For despite the apparent solidity of the Cauda flowing about you, your hand passed through her, as if she were merely ghostlike. And yet when she flowed through _you_ ; _then_ you experienced the most intense burst of emotions, of fear, of elation – of love!

He would briefly feel as if he himself could break into dance, he was so full of joy!

How wonderful was this whole new Cauda?

How _faultless_ was she?

For, of course, unlike the real Cauda, she would never age.

She would never lose her beauty.

Never forfeit her beauty of movement – for every dancer eventually succumbs to the punishment they have inflicted on their bodies, their bones, their muscles.

Every dancer will ultimately suffer the indignity of becoming more cramped and ungainly in their actions than anyone who, at one time, benefited from nothing but the merest sliver of their immense talent, their god-like grace and elegance.

But _this_ Cauda; _she_ would live for _ever_!

*

# Chapter 17

Forisimo was glad that his execution wasn't going to take place in public.

Obviously, neither he nor his supposed crime were seen as important enough to be worthy of a celebrated event.

This more private, more personal death suited him far better.

He wouldn't have wanted Cauda to witness this.

Still less would he have liked to see her suffer as he was jeered by the crowds who gathered on such occasions, regarding the demise of any criminal as free entertainment, an opportunity to sell their wares, meet new girls or boys, get drunk and partake in merrymaking.

He laughed.

It was such a simple contraption when all was said and done, this final setter of scenes, with its single rope, its trio of upright and horizontal timbers.

He could, given the time, had he been appointed to the task, have made numerous improvements in its efficiency.

It was such a small stage for such an unrepeatable, final act.

The invisible curtain being drawn on a life.

*

Naturally, Guilfo didn't recognise the man who had insisted that he be seen, '...or the number thirteen may well be an unlucky number for your master!'

He looked like so many admirers of Cauda who had recently forced their way past Guilfo's men, demanding to know what mistreatments their angel must be suffering to be brought so low.

Wealthy. Overweight. Out of condition.

'You must cut down the dosage!' the man hissed. 'Or better still, cut it out all together!'

'Caputo?' Guilfo said only a little unsurely. 'It _is_ you, I presume, Master Caputo?'

He didn't stand up to greet Caputo. But he did, with a lazy wave of a hand, invite his visitor to take a seat alongside him.

With another airy wave, he dismissed his men.

Caputo refused to take up the offer of the seat. He was raging.

'How _much_ are you giving her?' he demanded.

'Oh, if it worries you so much, Caputo,' Guilfo replied nonchalantly, 'then I'll bring _all_ the dosages to an end. I mean, obviously you're worried that there is something dangerously amiss with the potion you've miss-sold me!'

'Miss-sold you?' Caputo fumed. 'I _warned_ you it hadn't been tested!'

'Hrm, not so much a _warning_ as a simple _statement_ , I believe...' Guilfo coolly replied.

'You're destroy the love she feels for _everything_! Is that what you _really_ want? What use is she to you if she can no longer dance?'

'Oh, perhaps you're flattering yourself too much to claim this is all down to your poisons, Caputo: I _do_ believe she's letting this perfectly wild idea fester within her that _I_ had something to do with Forisimo's murder of his poor servant!'

He feigned a surprised, innocent face.

'But if you love her, surely you must realise–'

' _Love_ her? No, no; it was simply an _infatuation_ – I realise that now. Yes, yes; despite all the problems arising from your ridiculous concoction, Caputo, I suppose I must at _least_ thank you for opening my eyes to my _foolishness_ – without her talent for dance, she's just one more rather pretty girl, that's all.'

'She no longer has the love within her that she brings to her dance! We have destroyed it – destroyed the thing we loved!'

'Loved?'

_Guilfo_ eyed Caputo curiously. He chuckled richly, enjoying this moment.

'So: it seems she has captured _your_ heart, too, Caputo! It is an _astounding_ talent, don't you think?'

'A talent we've _destroyed_!' Caputo hissed angrily, obviously wise enough to avoid making any pointlessly foolishness attempts to deny his love.

'It would have inevitably come to an end at some point,' Guilfo declared airily. 'I've seen it happen _so_ many times, to _so_ many wonderful dancers; sad, yes – but nothing that _I_ can accept any blame for.'

'Why are you doing this to her?' Caputo was quite obviously astounded by Guilfo's acceptance that his prize star's skills were so rapidly deserting her. 'Forisimo is due to be executed soon – indeed, he might already have been executed! The whole point of my potion was to harden her heart to his death, so that it wouldn't _affect_ her dance! Yet you have made sure our _cure_ has been a far worse disease than her love for him!'

Guilfo smiled brightly.

'And so fortunately, I think, Cauda _has_ had the good sense to harden her heart to Forisimo and his predicament; sometimes, we are left with no choice but to do this, if we ourselves are to survive. How much lower would she be brought, do you think, if she wasted her time mourning this murderous man?'

'But she can't _dance_ for you anymore!' Caputo pointed out desperately.

Guilfo shrugged.

'True; but, you know the dance _I_ would must like to see? Forisimo's dance on the end of his rope.'

*

# Chapter 18

Only the prison officials had witnessed Forisimo's execution.

At last, one of the painters and craftsmen working on the theatre's scenery had plucked up the courage to let Cauda know.

On hearing this, all strength vanished from Cauda legs.

They buckled beneath her, such that the painter had to support her as he helped her towards a chair seat aside for one of the scene changes.

Her chest felt ridiculously tight, constricting her breathing, even, it seemed, the furious beating of her heart.

She couldn't dance any more; she realised that.

The last remnants of the deep love she had once held for dance had finally flowed from her.

She couldn't stay here, close to Guilfo, the man responsible for all her deeply felt unhappiness.

There was no point in staying here any longer.

She still had the mask she had found in Guilfo's quarters.

It would help her slip unrecognised past his men.

Why hadn't she thought of this earlier, when she still had the chance to visit Forisimo?

It was odd wearing the mask.

Like she was no longer herself.

Like she was nothing more than the empty shell she felt she had become.

*

'The Spirit of Dance!'

The posters Guilfo had had printed (ironically on yet one more of Forisimo's remarkable machines) proclaimed a whole new experience for those visiting his theatre.

This would be the 'very essence', the 'archetypal beginnings', of dance performance.

Everyone was aware that Cauda had vanished. But they were also all aware, of course, that her talents had abandoned her.

And yet the posters portrayed her dancing, flowing through the most famous of her complicated moves.

'The _New_ Cauda!'

But how could there possibly be a _new_ Cauda?

The city's populace was intrigued.

They flocked to the first night.

*

# Chapter 19

The scenery was the very same as that used in the opening sequences of Cauda's performances.

The orchestra, too, followed the same musical introductions as the crowds settled into their boxes, their seats, their places down where it was standing room only. Here a middle section of the floor had been cordoned off, leaving a narrow passageway running between the crowds and connecting the stage with a small area towards the centre where ropes dangled from the darkness of the ceiling.

It was only when the music began to fade a little at a point where it usually began to rise that the audience's excited, intrigued murmuring changed slightly, immediately aware of the difference, curious as to what it might mean.

A few of the murmurs became groans of disappointment when it was not the new Cauda who leapt out onto the stage but a languidly walking Guilfo.

Caputo frowned, wondering like so many other people amongst the crowd if he had been fooled into paying for a ticket to a show that would prove to be a massive disappointment.

He had heard, of course, that Cauda had left Guilfo and his theatre.

Unlike a great many in the audience, however, he didn't feel somehow personally betrayed by the fading of her talents; for yes, many felt such a deep loss in their sensibilities, in their appreciation of the power of emotions, that they bizarrely held her responsible, as if she had willingly withheld her talents from them – as if she no loner cared, either for her dance, or for them.

Naturally, Caputo was all too aware of the nonsense of such a foolish belief.

_He_ was the one responsible for Cauda's withdrawal from their lives.

Maybe, now she was free of Guilfo's influence, she might also be freed of the influences of his own potion.

If so, she might well return to being the Cauda she had been, the Cauda she still was, but for the malign effects of his damned poison!

Unless, as he suspected, as he had advised Guilfo to actually do, she had been fooled into accepting the poison as a calming medicine.

He should warn her, of course; he could tell her that it wasn't a medicine at all, but the actual cause of all her troubles.

Because he knew where she had fled to.

He had seen the dull glimmers of candlelight in the supposedly abandoned workshops of Forisimo.

Forisimo's workshop was an obvious place for her to retire to, of course.

No doubt Guilfo had worked that one out too; yet if he had, he didn't seem to care enough to bring her back.

Caputo had seen Cauda shuffling from the building in the darkness, when she thought she would be able to pass along the gloomy lane undetected.

She was a distraught figure, one whom nobody but him might possible recognise.

She was no longer the Cauda he had fallen in love with.

And yet, naturally, he still loved her; for he knew that the Cauda he loved still existed, only now she was hidden deeply within this husk she had become.

He knew, too, that this 'new' Cauda was _his_ creation.

So, all he had to do was to tell her to stop taking the potion.

To tell her that he knew it was dangerous for her, the very thing bringing her so low.

And how did he know all this?

Why, because he was the potion's creator, of course!

How could he say all this to her without bringing all her hate – hate he himself had helped bring into being – down upon him?

And so he watched her each day as she stumbled wearily along the dark lane, his heart torn by indecision: realising that, if her deterioration continued, if she still continued to take his potion, he would have to risk telling her that the medicine Guilfo had given her was responsible.

Guilfo was talking to the audience, promising them a dance experience like no other they had seen before.

He calmed the hecklers, explaining that he, too, missed Cauda; even if, as it must be said, her talents had been deserting her of late.

'But now I have something that not only comes close to her perfection; no, it actually _betters_ it!'

The audience responded as much with grumbles of disbelief as with gasps of excitement. Many in the crowd peered expectantly towards the sides of the stage, wondering when this new dancer would at last make her entrance.

Caputo stared off there expectantly too, wondering whom this replacement could possibly be.

Wondering, hoping, against all reason, that somehow Cauda had returned, recovered and fully become herself once more.

From his box, he had a privileged view of the stage, of its exits and entrances hidden behind its layers of curtains.

There was no one there.

There was no 'new' Cauda.

*

Guilfo stepped down from the stage, using a small staircase that led him down towards the narrow walkway running between the crowd.

As he descended he produced a flint from his pocket, deftly using this to light a small wick that had been placed on a slender and graceful pedestal of almost human height.

'Have you ever seen the dance of a flame?' he asked loudly, smiling and ignoring the growing murmurs of discontent.

He took the wick from its pedestal, bringing with it a closely affixed crystal. Confidently striding up the narrow passageway, Guilfo stopped to invite those closest to him to stare more intently into the flame.

'Who can honestly say they have never seen the Spirit of Dance within a flame?'

Those staring into Guilfo's flame breathed out in disbelief, in amazement.

He was right; within the midst of the flame, a woman danced – perfectly, elegantly.

'What is it? What can you see?' other people in the audience demanded in frustration.

'Something remarkable you will soon _all_ be able to see!' Guilfo reassured them.

Guilfo stepped towards where the ropes dangled loosely from the theatre's ceiling. These ropes instantly tautened, and in a moment Guilfo was rising above the crowd, hoisted upwards on a small platform.

As he disappeared into the darkness lying just below the ceiling, he reached out with his flaming wick towards Forisimo's machine, expertly slipping it into place.

'Behold ladies and gentlemen,' Guilfo cried out excitedly. 'The _Spirit_ of Dance!'

And the entire audience gasped as Cauda leapt gracefully across the stage.

*

# Chapter 20

Cauda wasn't quite sure what had drawn her towards Forisimo's workshops.

It was the scene of a murder, after all. Even if it was a murder Forisimo was perfectly innocent of.

Moreover, wouldn't it be locked?

Still, she could think of nowhere else to go. And when she had arrived in the Lane Without Name, she had felt its name quite aptly summed up her own feelings about herself: wasn't she now a girl without name, without purpose?

The door hadn't been locked. In fact there were signs of it being broken into, the lock damaged.

She had hesitated, fearing that those who had done this might still be inside.

No; don't be ridiculous, she'd told herself.

All this damage was down to those representing the authorities when they had caught Forisimo in the 'act' of killing his servant.

But would anyone else take advantage of the shop's broken door?

No.

She had heard enough of the Lane Without Name to know even the city's criminals gave it a wide berth.

The shopkeepers here had influential and yet indebted customers, along with powers than many thought verged on the magical.

In which case: why was _she_ here?

She was already broken: no one could bring her lower than she already was.

In the corner of the dark workshop she'd made her home, she had a simple light, a small oil lantern she'd found in here when she had first nervously explored the building. Fortunately, she'd brought a flint with her when she'd fled the theatre; you will always need a flint, she had soon discovered when she had first arrived in the city, moving from one dark, abandoned building to the next. You need it for light, for warmth, for cooking food.

As she'd fumbled for her flint in her bag, she'd also mistakenly dragged out the medicine one of the kitchen maids had given her, promising her it would cure her anxieties. The bottle had dropped from the bag, her reflexes no longer quick enough for her to be capable of catching it before it smashed upon the floor.

She had seen the blood in the hall, naturally. And in the room Forisimo appeared to have made his quarters.

In his workshops there were a variety of contraptions, many incomplete; as they must now remain forever.

She didn't move around much in the building, for she had no wish to draw attention to other inhabitants in the lane that Forisimo's workshops were occupied once more. Now and again she had to leave, seeking out food, but she kept all this to a minimum, not least because she knew she would have to carefully eke out the money she had brought with her.

She lit the workshop's fire only late on a night, when the smoke curling up from the chimney would be invisible in the darkness.

Fortunately, it was as she prepared to light it once more that she heard someone moving along the dark corridor outside her door.

She rushed silently towards the lantern, extinguishing it with a sharp blow of breath. Then she ducked breath the table, surprised that enough of her grace seemed to have returned to her to allow her to do all this swiftly and quietly.

The door opened, the dim light of a glimmering lamp faintly illuminating the intruder.

'You!' Cauda cried out bitterly, furiously launching herself at him.

*

# Chapter 21

Caputo gasped.

_Magic_!

It _had_ to be magic!

Cauda was _there_ , on stage! Dancing as sublimely as she had ever danced!

The crowd was ecstatic. Everyone had risen to their feet, eyes wide with amazement, with elation and new found love.

It...just...wasn't... _possible_!

And yet he could _see_ her for himself!

The deep love she felt for her dance had returned. It emanated from her in every twist, every leap, she made.

She flowed across the stage, moved through one scene to another, as fluid and bright as sunlit ripples within a stream; ripples that spread out from her, bathing her audience of newly faithful worshippers in her love for them.

Love, love, love.

Yes, it _was_ love!

The Spirit of Dance was the very _essence_ of love!

*

This new Cauda was so less troublesome than the old one!

All those interminable problems she had created for him: the chaotic scenes after every show, when all her admirers congregated around her dressing room door; all those flowers, keeping his people busy with unnecessary tasks like accepting delivery for them, or producing vases of water; the guards he had to deploy, simply to ensure she didn't cause him any more trouble.

The new Cauda had absolutely _no_ faults.

Her dancing, of course, was flawless. She never tired, either. One show could quickly follow another, the only people complaining being his theatre hands, who could always be placated with threats to their livelihood.

Cauda would dance ceaselessly for him if he so wished.

Indeed, Guilfo admitted with a knowing grin, he could even have fallen in love with her if there really _had_ been anything there to love!

Admittedly, too, he'd never won the love of the _real_ Cauda.

But what is love other than requiring something from another, something you can share with them?

Their company.

Their laughter.

Their gift for dance.

Their beauty.

And didn't he, now, have all those things?

The things he cared for most about her were now his for the taking; his for the _replaying_ whenever he wished.

Her very _essence_ , her _spirit_ , was his. And his _alone_ : for wasn't the real Cauda now only a poor, pathetic whisper of what she had once been?

_He_ , on the other hand, would soon be richer, more famous, than ever.

Forisimo's contraption still required copying, of course, to fulfil his dream of having Cauda perform for him in a number of theatres all at the very same time. But his craftsmen were all ready working on that, copying for the moment the details of the machine.

He'd had a special platform, along with access stairs, constructed alongside the machine, allowing them to study it with the minimum of disturbance to the shows. At some point, probably, they would need to take the vast contraption apart – but he had warned them that they had better make sure, before they move even one bolt, that they knew how to piece it all together again!

He didn't want any disruption to the now incredibly smooth running of his shows.

He didn't want to cancel _any_ performance.

He was worried that, if he did, he would lose momentum in his promotion of this entirely new form of theatrical event.

Already, there had been a steady falling away in the numbers making up his audiences.

He couldn't understand why.

What was wrong with the people in this city?

*

Caputo still visited the theatre to see Cauda dance.

See her as she _used_ to dance.

He missed, though, the way that she would personally address the audience towards the end of her performance.

The way, too, that the dance wasn't always _quite_ so flawless, so mechanical – so _predictable_.

Sometimes, he realised now, there had indeed been the odd fault in her dancing; and yet part of her remarkable skill was being to address that brief slip and transform it into some new, entirely unexpected move that left everyone gasping with admiration.

She'd had a relationship with her admirers that the new Cauda could never hope to capture.

Her presence was based upon her _vulnerability_ as much as her perfection.

The way she gasped, breathless with elation rather than exhaustion, as she spoke to the crowds, thanking them for coming to see her.

The way she quick-wittedly responded to the odd jape delivered by some young rascal in the audience.

The way she blushed, briefly disconcerted, at the cheekiness of such comments.

Where was all that in Guilfo's 'new' Cauda?

He still caught the odd sighting of her in his lane.

She was improving, he was sure of it.

She walked once again with a lighter tripping of her feet.

She threw her head back, to catch the odd ray of sun streaming down into the bleakness running between the high buildings.

Her eyes sparkled once more whenever she did this.

She was even smiling once more. More impossibly still, he even believed he had heard her laughing, a musical giggling coming from Forisimo's otherwise abandoned workshops.

The _potion_ ; she must have _stopped_ taking the potion!

She was _beautiful_ once more, a gorgeousness that lit up the darkness of the lane whenever he saw her.

Why did he need to go anymore to see Guilfo's imposter when he had the real thing here to admire?

Even the way she walked was a dance to him once more, in its breeziness, its elegance and sparseness of unnecessary movement.

She no longer tried to hide herself away as she made her way down the lane.

She was gradually beginning to suffuse herself with love.

To _emanate_ love.

Yes: Caputo felt that overflowing of love even as he watched her from his highest window.

She had let the door to the workshops close behind her, yet now it opened slightly once more.

A shadowy form appeared in the doorway.

It was a man wearing a mask, he saw.

For Caputo knew enough of those masks to know it wasn't a perfectly fitting mask; it wasn't one that had been specifically crafted for its wearer.

And thus Caputo was able to peer beneath the deceit of the mask.

To see instead the arrogant walk of a young man.

To see that the dead had miraculously come to life.

To see standing there Forisimo.

*

# Chapter 22

Cauda had seen no point in wearing a disguise.

She _wanted_ to be recognised as she strode through the theatre's corridors.

Many of the people she passed stopped, stared; hesitated as if wondering if they should rush over to greet her, as if worried that their greeting might be rebuffed.

And so they made do instead with a welcoming smile.

A relieved smile, in many cases.

It was well known that the impresario's shows were no longer profitable.

When Guilfo heard from his men that Cauda had arrived to see him, he cordially invited her in.

'You know you have nothing to offer me,' he said sourly, glaring at her from over his desk.

'And yet here I am, Guilfo,' Cauda replied, knowing him well enough to recognise that the brightness of her tone alone would pique his curiosity.

'You're looking well,' he offered, his irritated frown spoiling any attempted graciousness, 'but as for your _dance_ ...?'

'No better, I must admit, than it was,' Cauda said, pouting dejectedly.

'Then I fail to see what you might be hoping to achieve by your visit?'

'Oh come now, Guilfo: why this persistence that you have the upper hand here? Do you think there's anyone in this city who remains unaware that your performances are suffering from ever decreasing audiences?'

Guilfo shrugged, yet his firm grimace remained.

'Your genius for dance deserted you just as mercilessly as my genius for putting on performances has abandoned me! I'm still failing, here, to see the reason for your visit! It's _surely_ not to gloat!'

Cauda intently peered across his desk at him.

And no, she wasn't gloating.

Her stare was one of determination.

'My dance, I must admit – simply lacks _spirit_ ,' she confessed, adding with extra emphasis, 'And only you, Guilfo, can help return it to me!'

It was Forisimo who had pointed this out to her.

Naturally, when he had first surprised her in his workshop, she had been furious with him, thinking she could only be the victim of some devious hoax he'd instigated.

'My career's _ruined_! All through worry of _you_!' she had stormed through her angry weeping. 'All for some cruel _trick_!'

'It wasn't a _trick_!' he had insisted, taking her firmly in his arms to stop her flailing out at him, to reassure her that he still loved her. 'I _was_ hung that day!'

With his return, Cauda had begun to recover once more, even to the extent that she had begun to practise her dance moves once more.

But here her body, her mind, continued to fail her.

There was no flow to her moves.

It was only her love for Forisimo that had returned to her.

Not her love for dance.

'You simply need to regain your _sprit_ ,' Forisimo had declared adamantly one day as her efforts to launch herself into a sequence once again failed to stir her.

'Hah, and just how easy is _that_?' she'd demanded miserably.

'The same way you _developed_ it, of course!' he had exclaimed. 'By practising: by emulating the moves of the most accomplished dancers around.'

'You have your old machine here?' she'd asked hopefully, glancing everywhere about the workshop excitedly. 'It might take a long time once again, but–'

'No: not _here_ ,' Forisimo admitted. 'But I know where you can practise against images of the most gloriously natural dancer the world has ever seen...'

*

Apart from the one he'd loaned from Cauda, Forisimo only had the one disguise left.

It was the mask of Delfaris, the one he had discovered lying in the darkness of his hall. He couldn't remember how it had got there; he thought he had thrown it away.

Luckily, however, it must have clung to his clothes without him knowing until he had re-entered his building. As he had attempted to light the lantern, it must have fallen to the floor.

This time, he didn't need to put poor Delfaris into a trance; he simply took the ancient stagehand into his confidence, the old man being more than willing to take a few days away from work while Forisimo took on his role for him.

Guilfo's men were no longer searching for Forisimo, after all.

He was dead, wasn't he?

Ironically, the theatre guards were checking for men wearing disguises more rigorously than even before. But it was a taller man they were now looking for, a Master Caputo, creator of poisons: a purveyor of goods who lived on the Lane Without Name but Forisimo had not yet come across.

Guilfo had let it be known to the world that it was this Caputo who had been responsible for Cauda's illness and brief yet sorely lamented withdrawal from the theatre. Now, thankfully, Cauda was well on the way to recovery, and would soon be taking to the stage once more.

Naturally, Forisimo couldn't be sure just how much of Guilfo's explanation was true, but it certainly had the ring of truth. Cauda had told him how she'd been tricked into taking a medicine, one that the kitchen maid who'd given it to her now admitted had come from a man who had simply claimed to be a well-wisher.

And there could be no doubt that Cauda was rapidly recovering both her health and her skills.

She now moved flawlessly with the fluidly moving images that his machine cast upon the stage.

It was so strange seeing her dancing like this; the real Cauda dancing with and as a part of the image of Cauda. It was as if you could see her spirit, merging with her as she gracefully reeled and rushed across the stage.

At first, Cauda had struggled to keep up with the elegant leaps and spins and curls of her own image. It had been painful to witness her frustration, particularly the times she nearly gave up any hope of regaining her amazing talent, as she was once again left behind by the effortlessly perfect moves of the image.

But each time she felt this way, Forisimo's contraption was brought to a halt: and the image was made to restart her dance.

Of course, the loyal old stagehand Delfaris had been the one who had volunteered to work the machine, despite it being a laborious and boring task to sit so high up in the darkness of the theatre. He was the one too, who would whisper encouragement to Cauda whenever she seemed to be at her lowest.

And soon, when Cauda danced with her ghostly companion, the two indelibly became one, such that there was no faintly hovering difference between them, even when the most complicated of moves were being performed.

Cauda was completely herself once more.

The old man Delfaris elatedly grinned.

Indeed, some say he almost leapt with joy, as if he were a young man once again.

*

# Chapter 23

Caputo had heard of Cauda's return to the stage.

He had heard, too, how the despicable Guilfo had painted _him_ as the villain of the piece.

His business was in a sad, probably irrecoverable state, the people of the city having taken against him when they heard he was responsible for the attempted destruction of their Angel of Dance.

He _had_ to see Cauda dance once more.

Yes, yes: of course, he _did_ see her whenever she exited Forisimo's workshop. She appeared to be living there now, despite her return to the theatre.

Why did she continue to live here?

Because of Forisimo, naturally.

She had recovered, thankfully; she had regained her love for everything, for her dance.

But she had also regained her love for Forisimo.

And Forisimo, it seemed, had somehow regained life.

How could such a thing be possible?

Because, of course, he had never been dead in the first place.

He had survived his supposed execution.

For a man of Forisimo's obvious talents, talents that had naturally gained him connections with the city's rich and powerful – men, of course, who wouldn't want such useful talents denied them – it would be a relatively effortless thing to accomplish.

Naturally, such well-respected citizens couldn't be seen to be _freeing_ him.

But the knot of the noose would be one that wouldn't break Forisimo's neck as he plunged through the trapdoor.

A simple, secondary floor lying beneath the trapdoor would prevent him from falling too far.

The executioner would merely be executing the orders he'd been secretly given.

It was as if the whole of this accursed city had conspired to deny Caputo his love.

The pleasure of seeing Cauda fully recovered, her beauty and elegance entirely regained, had been transformed into the utmost agony by Forisimo's survival.

It tortured Caputo endlessly, not just when he saw them together, but even more so when it was left to his own mind to imagine them together.

In his imagination, they were forever blissfully happy.

And he was forever miserable.

Ironically, he had to hand in his workshops the very implements that should have been capable of bringing his agony to an end at the simple tipping of a flask or glass to his lips.

Even a mere, tender touching of some powders could have freed any other man.

Or even just luxuriously breathing in the scents of a perfumed handkerchief.

Yet none worked on him, of course.

The only poison that worked on him was that of love.

And so yes, yes: he had to see her dance, to bathe once more in the effusion of her love.

He remembered the secret corridors that wove behind the walls of the theatre like darkly poisoned veins. No one stopped him once he was deep inside the theatre, everyone busy with their individual tasks as they prepared for the show.

He remembered, too, how Guilfo had had himself hoisted up into the area of darkness lying just below the theatre's ceiling. He didn't expect the hoist to be there, yet he was pleasantly surprised to see that access to the framework holding the lanterns was much easier than he had ever imagined it would be.

There was even a large platform lying towards its very centre, one easily large enough to allow him to take up a relatively comfortable seating position.

Next to him was the very machine that Guilfo had set into motion to project the remarkable images of Cauda upon the stage.

It wasn't lit, as was to be expected.

Yet it had all the appearance of many of the other elaborate lanterns surrounding him. Like them, it must contain an elaborate array of lenses, he reasoned.

Lenses that could bring Cauda up closer to him.

Moving his position a little, he peered through the rear of the lantern, sighing in disappointment when he was rewarded for his troubles with nothing but a strangely refracted view of the stage.

But then: hadn't this machine been sent to _project_ images upon the stage?

Caputo briefly studied the machine, noting the system of levers along its sides. One lever was larger than all the rest.

Could _that_ reverse the way the lenses operated?

He tentatively touched the lever.

It clicked forward into position.

*

Cauda felt that she was simply flowing out onto the stage.

It wasn't something of wood, of materials; it was of _her_.

A part of her, an extension of her that she also controlled.

It moved with her, at her command, such that anyone watching her was fooled into believing she was making the most impossible leaps, the most incredible turns.

She didn't dance _within_ this scene, this stage, this theatre, nor even _through_ it: it flowed, ever changing, about her, as the waters of a stream smoothly swell together as one.

She was liquid, as was everything surrounding her.

And yet she was also air, and also fire.

And the faster she moved, the more the water became freely undulating air.

For now she felt weightless, carried along on waves and surges of wind.

And the faster and faster she rippled from one sequence to another, the more she became fire.

Her heart aflame with joy.

Her body was a flaming desire.

A flame, dancing brightly across the stage.

Unstoppable.

Unquenchable.

*

The fire of love burned within Caputo's eyes.

He could see Cauda so incredibly clearly through this remarkable complex of lenses.

He could almost touch her, she seemed so close.

His eyes blazed with desire.

It was the most blissful pain.

A burning pain that spread to deep within his heart.

And here the flames blazed, the Spirit of Dance leaping, twisting, turning.

His pain was abruptly greater than ever.

His heart was on fire.

He was consumed with desire.

*

# Chapter 24

The evening had been a success beyond even Guilfo's wildest imaginings.

Cauda's fame was greater than ever, her worshipers in love with her more than ever.

He had never seen such a remarkable performance, even from her.

Even that strange sunburst of flame, erupting from the darkness high above everyone's heads, had simply been accepted by the worshiping crowd as a part of the show, a pyrotechnic display worthy of the late, lamented Forisimo.

Naturally, Guilfo – being well aware that this was not the case – had sent Delfaris up onto the platform to check that nothing was amiss with the magical lantern. Apparently, there was a small pile of hot ashes lying by the machine, as if something up there had indeed spontaneously combusted: and yet, thankfully, nothing else there appeared to have suffered any damage.

Even so, Guilfo had had the contraption lowered and positioned within his own quarters once more.

He had no intention of using it again to project Cauda's image upon the stage.

Not now he had the _real_ Cauda back.

The _real_ Spirit of Dance.

And yet he did have an important use for Forisimo's marvellous machine.

Yes, Guilfo was far _richer_ than Cauda; but unfortunately, he was only _almost_ as famous as her.

Worst still – as even he was rational enough to realise – whereas the fame of someone like Cauda could live on long after her exit from the world, impresarios such as himself fared less well in this respect.

No matter how many portraits they had made of themselves, no matter how many glowing 'histories' they had written about them, the reasons for their success were always swiftly forgotten.

But _he_ would live on.

More deliciously still, he would live forever thanks to Forisimo.

The machine would capture him as a moving, _almost_ living being.

He flipped the levers that he knew controlled the capturing of images.

As the lenses and crystals gaily performed their waltz, as they settled into their appointed positions with satisfying clicks, he lit the new wick that had risen into place.

Then he moved to the small stage he had had laid out before the probing eye of the lantern.

He had his script, the words he had put together explaining how he had created the talent everyone knew as the Spirit – the _Angel_ – of Dance.

As he spoke, Forisimo's miraculous contraption began to absorb the essence of Guilfo.

It captured his spirit.

But a man like Guilfo, unlike a talent like Cauda, is ultimately a man of little true substance.

He has so remarkably little love to give.

So few emotions to draw upon.

And so at first it was just his voice that began to quake.

He began to feel weary.

Even, yes, a little _drained_.

The flame, however, flickered excitedly, relishing the energies of love and emotion it was feeding upon; no matter how limited, how curiously finite, that energy was within this particularly poor specimen.

As Guilfo's legs began to uncontrollably crumple beneath him, it at last dawned upon him how Forisimo's machine worked.

He stepped down from his small stage, realising he had to douse the flame, to snuff it out quickly before he became little more than an empty shell.

But the eye, of course, followed him.

It took in his very last moves, greedily devoured his very last burst of emotion; his fear of inevitable death.

As the husk of Guilfo collapsed to the floor like a heap of unwanted clothing, the spirit of the flame merrily danced.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl

