Poppy
“My dear guests, my dear masked friends, my beautiful deceivers, welcome.” His voice carries even though it’s low toned, conspiratorial, intimate. He flicks his cloak back and begins to pace across the stage. Every step, every motion, is deliberate—hypnotic.
He spins to face one table, then another, then another. He points. “And yes, you are all deceivers, all tricksters—for what is a mask, if not to mislead? To hide behind? To pretend you are one thing but really, deep down, you are another.”
He turns toward Dr. Marsh’s table. “We all wear them. Every day. Figurative masks. Personas we project, shaped by the stories we choose to tell ourselves about who we are, where we come from, what our worth is, what our role is in society. The doctor’s white coat is a mask of sorts, with the stethoscope draped around the neck.
When he puts that garb on, people trust him.
Look up to him. He can play God.” He spins.
“The executioner of old wears a hood, and then he is allowed to take life without punishment. The soldier puts on his uniform and he—or she—becomes a licensed killer. A policeman wears his mask as a badge and a uniform, too. In this guise society permits him to take away freedom. A judge”—he paces, boots beating slowly across the wooden stage—“dons a black robe, a wig. She wears the mask of justice, of retribution. And we permit her to punish. The librarian in her cardigan, the seductress with her scarlet lips and stilettos.”
He whirls again and his cloak flares, flashing the bloodred silk lining. The lights around the guests dim further, but the spotlight on him remains. Poppy can see only the subtle gleam of masked faces at the tables now. The ship rolls, and she reaches for her glass as it slides.
“But tonight,” Sorin declares, “as the sea rages around us, as the winds tear and test the very strength of this fine vessel, I will open doors to the secrets lurking behind your masks.
Truths dark, heinous, terrible, mortifying, shameful—things many would pay great sums—or even kill—to keep locked away deep in the vaults of their souls.
“You have each chosen a facade inspired by ancient mythology.
Magical creations crafted of gold, silver, bronze—of light and shadow.
Of cold and warmth. Either textured or smooth.
The mask you selected will tell me something about you.
Because tonight, the mask will not hide the truth, it shall reveal it.
It will tell me what you desire the world to see, and in turn whisper what you most wish to keep hidden.
“So . . . let us begin!”
Drums rumble, and the harpist plucks her strings in a haunting melody. Silver smoke drifts across the stage.
Sorin lifts a candelabra. The flames tremble. He watches them for a beat as the smoke curls around him.
Poppy guesses the candles are fake, but the quivering flames sure look real right now. So does the dripping wax.
“Do you feel that?” Sorin almost whispers. “The vibrations beneath your feet? Even the Black Orchid trembles when the truth draws near, when the spirits that haunt each of you come close to me, and begin to whisper in my ear.”
He steps off the stage and starts toward Poppy’s table.
She tenses.
“You may lie to yourselves, but your body can’t keep the truth from Sorin.” He comes closer. Poppy swallows. Her own secrets suddenly loom mountainous in her mind. Every muscle in her body braces. Beside her, Patrick tenses, too.
Sorin lowers his voice as he reaches them. “The hand that tightens on the glass. The heart that races when your name is called—I will ask for no volunteers. The truth always volunteers itself.”
He circles Poppy’s table.
The storm buffets the ship; the Orchid rolls. Cutlery clatters somewhere in the kitchen. Patrick steadies the candle jar on their table.
“Ah.” Sorin stops. He points at Patrick. “The Echo.”
Patrick stiffens as he realizes Sorin is addressing him. Relief quivers through Poppy—not her.
“You’ve chosen well, my friend,” Sorin says.
“Smooth and beautiful features on the outside, but hollow and cavernous within. The Echo represents the nymph who loved Narcissus so deeply she lost herself. Echo was cursed to repeat only the last words spoken to her—to reflect, to echo. This mask speaks of lost identity, unrequited love, self-erasure. Behind it hides a man doomed to mirror what he believes others want him to be—to exist only as a reflection in another’s words or desires. ”
Patrick shifts in his chair.
“Tell me, Sir Echo, whom do you desire to appease? Who shapes the man you try to be? A woman? A mother? Or a father, perhaps?”
Patrick remains silent.
Sorin turns to the audience. “See? The Echo has no voice of his own. He cannot answer. He echoes expectation. He who is never his authentic self.”
He turns back to Patrick. “After intermission—once you, Sir Echo, have drunk deeper in search of courage, once you’ve whispered to yourself your self-denials, told yourself it’s all a circus trick, I will pull back the deeper layers, and all will clearly see who Sir Echo truly seeks to please.
Act one, my friends, is just the beginning. ”
He threads his way among the tables, circling, waiting for his next victim to somehow volunteer themselves.
Poppy glances at Patrick. He sits motionless. She wants to touch his arm, to comfort him. She senses Sorin has wounded him.
He turns his silver Echo face to her. She takes it as an invitation, leans forward, and whispers softly, “You could say those things about anybody, Patrick. Everyone tries to be what they think others want.”
Sorin claps his hands loudly.
She jumps.
“You.” He points across the room at her. “You speak over Sorin?”
She swallows.
He returns to their table. Patrick places his hand on her arm—steady, kind. The quiet strength in his touch bolsters her as Sorin swirls near.
He peers down at her with his fierce black eyes under dark, hooked brows. He scoffs derisively and gestures toward her with a ringed hand.
“It’s just a little Harpy,” he says, turning to the audience. “Disgust. That’s what the Harpy leaves in her wake. She befouls everything she touches. Look at her—she’s neither woman nor bird. A dirty old wind spirit. A snatcher of things.”
He swings back to her. “What made you choose this one? Why?”
Poppy answers, surprising everyone—including Sorin.
“I chose it because it’s a woman’s face.
With wings at the eyes. I liked the shape.
But if you say it’s a Harpy—fine, I can be a Harpy.
An agent of punishment. If I disgust anyone, it’s projection.
No one likes to be corrected or punished.
So they call the Harpy foul. They say she’s a grasping, vile woman because frankly, women with agency scare people, don’t they? ”
A soft rush of applause ripples through the crowd. Lillith claps loudest, raising her hands.
“Go get ’em, tiger,” Patrick whispers.
Beneath her mask, Poppy’s face burns. She knows hives—wheals of raised flesh—are blooming. But she couldn’t stop defending herself. Speaking out of turn has always been her default. It’s why people call her odd, or say she can’t “read the room.” So be it. She’s one of the Harpies.
Theo’s mouth curves in a sneer. A heat enters his eyes. Challenge accepted, his features seem to say.
“Let me see.” He touches his fingertips to his temple, as though reading invisible vibes.
“This woman who hides behind the Harpy is a woman of books. She’s well read.
She feels superior in her knowledge. She looks down on others.
But that superiority is false—it’s a defense.
Because deeper inside she hides alone, and she is lonely. So very, very lonely.”
He walks slowly across the room, then paces back.
“This woman”—he gestures to Poppy—“something tells me her curiosity extends beyond the pages of books. She seeks to see into the lives of others. She desires to live vicariously through snooping, touching, poking, stealing things, as the Harpy does. She’s a taker.
And—” He stops. His eyes close. For a moment he seems possessed; his body shudders.
Then, almost whispering, as though channeling another voice: “Like the Harpy, she not only befouls what she touches, she . . . poisons it. Kills it. Her hunger is that of someone who feels abandoned. Unwanted.”
Poppy can’t breathe.
“Beware the Harpies, my dear deceivers. Not quite women, not quite birds. Not quite anything. Belonging nowhere. Wanted nowhere. A Harpy is never satisfied. Once she tastes something, she comes back again. And what she touches”—he spreads his arms—“it dies.”
Cymbals clash and drums thud. The percussionist rings a cascading sequence of bells.
Poppy’s heart thuds in rhythm with the drums. Her eyes burn with tears behind her mask. She presses her palms hard onto her thighs to stop shaking.
Sorin glides over to Dr. Marsh’s table. He starts unmasking Sarah Frost, but his earlier words loop too loudly in Poppy’s head to hear him. Toxic. Poison. Snoop. Grasping. Searching for weakness. Taking advantage.
Vaguely she begins to register him telling Sarah about the mask of Demeter—how maternal control turns to grief, vengeance, hunger.
The ship lurches. Lights and candles flicker as it sways back again. A tray of glasses crashes as a server loses balance.
Poppy can’t take anymore. Her stomach heaves. She shoves back her chair and stands.
“Where are you going?” Patrick asks.
“Bathroom.” It’s all she can manage. She’s going to throw up.
She weaves through the tables as the ship rolls again. She aims for the door—for escape—before she vomits.
Poppy bursts through the exit and hurries across the carpeted foyer toward the washrooms. As she passes, she sees Roshaan handing Avi a heavy-looking bag. But she can’t stop.