33. Luna
33
LUNA
I don’t see Scarface again. Instead, I’m honored with my father’s presence. He tramples down the stairs and thunders through the dungeon until he’s standing in front of me behind the bars, sneering at me with a certain measure of disdain.
Gone is the man that lost his color when faced with the information of who had attacked his men in Arizona. He may have gone white when he heard Attila’s name, but he’s back to his usual, hard self today as he tortures me with his presence.
I could never understand why he’s never had time for me or why he’s always brushed me aside and treated me cruelly. It can’t be because I witnessed his crime against my mother. It can’t be because a little girl threatened his world with what she knew. It can’t be anything other than the man didn’t have a place in his life for a daughter he didn’t know what to do with.
He puts his hands on his thick hips, forcing his suit jacket back as he regards me thoughtfully. When he tells me about the party, I do a great job of acting surprised — then delighted — that I will be let out of my prison. I act as dumb as I possibly can without arousing too much suspicion.
“You will be on your best behavior,” he warns. “Otherwise, you’ll find yourself back here without respite, and that’s if I’m feeling generous. Otherwise, your home is your coffin.”
Well then, that doesn’t give me very many options.
“Someone will be by shortly to get you made up. And I’ve selected a dress for you to wear.”
“Who will be there?” I ask, trying not to overdo my enthusiasm.
“Expecting someone?”
I shake my head and clamp my lips shut. I can’t say anything more, otherwise he’s going to get suspicious of me.
“Tonight I’ll choose a husband for you.”
My face morphs to one of horror. I know it’s what’s expected of me. Inside, my blood is on fire as I think of all the things that could go wrong tonight. Considering I’m putting my trust in a complete stranger, who may or may not be assisting me, there are so many things that could work in everyone’s favor but my own.
My father smiles when he senses my discomfort. I gave him just the right amount of torment and it was just what he needed to believe that I was well and truly surprised. He knows I’ve never been one to consider marriage, let alone one of convenience.
“Don’t try anything funny, Luna. I’m warning you.”
“Do I even get a choice in who I marry?” I ask. Because of course, that too is what is expected of me.
“No.” At least he gives me his honesty. “May the best man win.”
And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me on my own again.
* * *
A little while later, Scarface brings a woman down to the dungeon and asks that I stand back from the door. She appears to be in her late thirties and she’s carrying a black hardcase that looks like it weighs more than she does. She has a garment bag folded over one arm and she struggles with everything she’s carrying as Scarface lets her into the cell then closes the door again.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he directs at the woman, before he takes his leave.
She sets her bag down on the wooden plank and asks me to sit, her eyes glancing off me quickly. I dare say she’s been told not to ask questions and not to engage me in conversation. She brings out her tools and makes quick work of looking over colors as she turns my face this way and that, considering angles and shades.
There’s no mirror here, so I have no idea what she’s doing, and I probably won’t even see the finished product, but she starts to apply base layers and foundation before she glides a brush elegantly across my cheeks. I slant my eyes towards her as she works, hoping to catch her eye, but she doesn’t meet my gaze, working instead as though she’s on auto pilot.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She doesn’t flinch.
“My name’s Luna.”
She could be deaf for the lack of reaction I’m receiving.
“How long have you been doing makeup?”
She ignores me as she traces a pencil against my lips. I continue to watch her out of the corner of my eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid. Any help I had hoped she could offer me is non-existent. She’s not interested in hearing my story.
I wonder if she even knows who I am. Does she know that I’m the daughter — the one and only daughter — who will probably be sold off tonight? Does she know what I sacrificed to get away from this place? The kind of life I’ve had in this home, so different to the life any person would assume a person in my position would live?
Does she know anything? Does she? Would she have accepted this job had she known it was to makeup a girl that’s been kept in a dungeon? Most likely to torture her some more? What does she know?
She doesn’t want to know anything beyond the job she’s been paid to come and do. She just wants to get the job done and leave, never to see me again. Maybe that’s easier for her. It’s easier to stomach the dark when you know you’ll never see this person again. It’s just so much easier not to care .
“My father killed my mother…” I say. If she won’t answer my questions, at least she’ll hear. It’s the faintest flicker, but her hand stills and the eyeliner stops stroking against my lids. Her eyes flutter, then glance in my direction, before she looks away quickly. Her hand starts to move again, but it’s shaky at best. So, she’s not immune to me. But her fear of my father is greater than her empathy.