Stained Glass Kings | ONC2024

ii. snow roses and porcelain masks

"Jesus Christ, that's horrible," Amir says.

"Well, I think it's beautiful." Divya says, just to contradict him.

Amir rolls his eyes and parks his car in a shadow between two looming towers.

"I'll wait here." he shakes his head. "Can't believe I drove my girlfriend to her first gig as a prostitute. I should get some sort of award."

"For the last time, I'm not going to sleep with him."

"Does he know that?" He shuts off the engine and lights a cigarette. "Don't come crying rape, though. Not when I've given you this many warnings."

Divya's had enough. She steps out, slamming the door behind her.

The air is so cold that her breath curls in the air and the ground crunches underfoot. She pulls her long caramel peacoat tight around herself as she hurries up the stone front steps. She's dressed in a white wool turtleneck and black denim jeans under the coat, with a pair of dark leather ankle boots-the most fashionable she can manage without freezing to death.

The front doors are twice as tall as her and about four times as wide. The cold seeps in right through her gloves when she presses the electronic doorbell.

She counts eight shaky breaths before the door creaks open.

A man in a crisp butler's uniform peers down at her--blue coat, white shirt, black gloves. That's not what makes her stare though. That prize belongs to the painted porcelain mask covering his entire face. It has the bare whispers of features and circles of black gauze turning his eyes into soulless voids. His dark hair is slicked back above his mask with so much hair gel that there isn't a single strand out of place.

"Uh," Divya says. "I'm Divya Mahavant. I'm the pianist Alexander Glass hired to play."

The butler stares at her. At least, she thinks he stares at her. The strange faceless mask makes it hard to tell.

"Who's at the door?" Alexander's voice calls from inside, cold and authoritative.

The butler doesn't turn around. "The new pianist, Sir."

"Bring it in."

Startled by the icy welcome, Divya follows the butler inside. She decides to ignore the churning pit in her stomach.

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Thick velvet curtains are drawn over the windows, leaving only thin strips of fading winter sunlight smattering on the grimy chessboard floor. She is standing in a long hall, framed by two marble staircases wrapped along the walls. It's completely empty save for a gilded red armchair smack in the middle and a giant, five tiered gold chandelier sitting on the floor beside it.

There's a man sprawled on the armchair, dressed in a shirt with the top three buttons undone and a leg hooked over one of the arms.

He's Alexander, except he's not. He has Alexander's face, the sharp nose, high cheekbones, clear-cut jaw. And he has Alexander's lithe frame and height. But that's where the similarities end. Where Alexander's hair is dark, this man's hair is as white as the snow outside. Where Alexander's eyes are diamond blue, he has thick wine red eyes framed by pure white lashes.

Finally, where Alexander smiled at her charmingly, this man looks at her like she's something disgusting stuck to the sole of his tall leather boots.

Candles on the downed chandelier drip to the floor. Wreathed in shadow at the other end of the armchair is a birdcage completely covered by a velvet blanket, large enough to hold an ostrich.