Roshaan
One Hour, Eighteen Minutes To Impact
The sway and list of the Orchid make the glitter on the women’s gowns dance, too. And catches the metal sheen on the masks.
The “big fish” are seated closest to the stage, in a semicircle of tables, as Theo instructed.
The pianist—with his long, narrow fingers and haunted air—has stopped playing for a moment.
He double-checks the clamps securing the baby grand’s casters to the floor as the seas grow rougher.
She watches as he checks the lid-prop latch is fastened so it won’t slam with a sudden roll.
He then wedges a block beneath the pedal base to steady it.
Roshaan inhales deeply but can’t seem to draw oxygen fully into her lungs.
She looks up at the crystal chandeliers above the tables.
They tinkle and wink sparks of light with the vibrations of the thruster engines.
The katabatic gusts funneling down the black volcanic cliffs of Santorini are creating violent currents over the caldera, causing the Orchid to swing despite her finely tuned thrusters.
It feels as though the very spirits of the place are warning them away.
She fears Captain Bellini might at any moment order the bridge to move the ship out of the caldera.
In practice, strong caldera winds have often forced cruise lines to cancel Santorini calls entirely.
Part of her wonders why they haven’t moved already, but she trusts that Sophia Bellini, a true master, knows what she’s doing.
What else can one do but trust? The ship is the lesser of her worries right now. She checks her watch.
The show is about to start.
The percussionist begins a gentle roll on the timpani, creating a barely discernible rumble—like soft, rolling thunder.
It grows louder. The pianist adds a low, repetitive heartbeat rhythm, faster, faster.
Lights over the tables fade. The ship lists again.
Candles gutter in jars as wax sloshes. A wave of whispers ripples through the nervous audience.
Curtains are drawn back slightly, readying for Sorin’s appearance.
A woman’s voice sounds from hidden speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, favored elites, thank you all for coming tonight.”
A rising drumroll swells, punctuated by a sudden clash of cymbals that makes everyone jump.
“If you are not presently wearing your chosen mask, please put it on now.”
As she speaks, the lights dim further. A soft galactic whirl of lights—indigo and mauve and pink and purple—plays in waves across the ceiling and chandeliers as the drums thunder louder.
Everyone ensures their masks are on their faces, and the audience falls silent beneath their gleaming silver and gold and bronze facades.
“Are you all ready?” the voice asks. “Are you prepared to have your souls bared, your darkest innermost secrets exposed? If not, it’s too late, because, ladies, gentlemen, esteemed guests, I give you”—the rolling drums deepen, bells tinkle, and cymbals crash—“Sorin the Magnificent!”
A muted explosion—a flash of light and a crack of musical thunder—and a cloud of purplish smoke erupts onstage. It drifts, settles, dissipates to reveal Theo—Sorin the Magnificent—in his high-collared opera cloak of black velvet bejeweled with stars, and moons.
The audience gasps as he swirls his cloak. It’s as though he’s stepped through an invisible dimension from another world, another era—one of Draculas, stagecoaches, highwaymen, wizards and witches and pagan magic.
Theo spreads his arms and bows as applause erupts.
Roshaan is always amazed by the transformation—the way he carries it off.
The dramatic sweep of his cloak to his calves; the high stand-up collar and bloodred silk lining; the ornate silver clasp at his throat; the gleam of his polished boots; the crisp white shirt and brocade waistcoat, the silver cuffs on his wrists and jeweled rings.
The faint red tint on his lips. The kohl around his eyes.
The way his cheeks seem hollowed, his hair slicked into a widow’s peak. His unearthly poise.
The thunder of drums softens, and the harp begins a delicate countermelody.
Roshaan swallows and glances at Avi—at the back of his head. His broad shoulders strain his jacket. Sensing her attention, he turns. A chill slides down her spine. He wears the mask of Thanatos—the smooth, featureless face of impassive death. Thanatos stares back at her.
It’s time.
Thanatos has given her instructions.
She slips out the back door as Theo steps forward to begin the first act of his most searing performance yet.