Being Adaliza

As soon as the cloaked figures enter the shop I know that they don’t usually frequent the Ruelle de Gargouille. It is a dismal October afternoon, and a whistling wind whips the door back on its hinges with a bang when the first figure unlatches it. The sound catches all three of them by surprise and they stop, flinch, visibly have to gather their nerve as they cross the threshold and enter the Maison du Lemorque.

I regard them silently from behind the counter as they file in out of the rain. They wear dark cloaks with voluminous hoods that shadow their faces, and none of them move to pull them down. I can’t see their eyes but I can feel them appraising me warily. Like many of our human clients they are shifty, suspicious of their surroundings and unwilling to reveal their identity. I don’t blame them for that. The Lemorques have long made a business out of stolen identities, after all.

“We... We’re here for... We need a decoy,” one of the cloaked figures says, taking a jerky step towards me at the counter. Her voice is female.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” I say.

I am wearing the form I often take when I’m front of house: a skinny, sullen girl with lank black hair and a disinterested tone. I have found that it’s the best way to avoid unwanted attention from the less scrupulous punters who prowl the Ruelle de Gargouille. Throsne may be a beautiful city, but every city has an underbelly - a place where the peacemakers fear to tread, where laws are bent to breaking point and shadows hide secrets that the good folk pretend to ignore. Until, that is, they venture into the shadows of the Ruelle de Gargouille for our help.

I reach out and tug sharply on a bell pull, making one of the cloaked figures - the shortest one nearest the door - jump and let out a soft squeak of surprise. The floorboards above our heads groan as someone crosses the room on the level above us and makes a slow, noisy descent down the creaking staircase. When she emerges onto the shop floor, my grandmother wears the shape of a humpbacked crone. She is wizened and tottering, every bit the fairytale villain selling sorcery that these fine folk were expecting. Her eyes, like mine, are entirely black - pupils, irises and whites all. She turns her unsettling gaze on the cloaked customers.

“Yes?” she asks in a feeble, croaking tone. I roll my eyes at her theatrics.

“Are you Madame Lemorque?” their leader asks warily.

“For my sins,” Grandmére replies, giving them a devilish grin that lacks a number of teeth.

“We are in need of your services.” I hear the woman inhale under her hood, as if steeling herself. “We require a decoy right away.”

“For whom?” Grandmére asks.

“For me,” the leader says, her voice growing bolder. She reaches up and pulls the wide hood off her head, revealing the pretty face of a young woman, expression set with determination. “Princess Adaliza of Belforet.”

I stare at her in shock. The princess is a long, long way from the palace. What on earth could have prompted her to evade her guards and wander the Ruelle de Gargouille? The second cloaked figure sighs and pulls down her hood, revealing an older woman with an expression of exasperation on her face as she cuts a narrow-eyed look at the princess. The third figure quickly follows suit. She is young and round faced, and she looks half terrified. My grandmother shoots a sideways glance at me, and I know what she’s thinking. It’s not everyday that a princess walks into the shop in need of a decoy. This assignment will be mine.

Grandmére steps one foot forward and lifts her arms, shifting her form mid-curtsey into a tall, elegant lady with sleek silver hair. She still takes the form of an older woman but she wears the years much more easily; her back is straight, her air is regal, her voice is rich and alluring when she purrs, “What a pleasure, your Highness. Manon Lemorque, at your service.”

All three of the women stare in amazement at her transformation. Perhaps they didn’t truly believe that the Lemorques are changelings with the power to shift their shape at will. There are precious few of the faefolk left in Belforet. It has been 100 years since the gateway to Faerie was barred, separating the realms for good. My ancestors had the misfortune of being stuck on the wrong side of the gate when it happened, marooned in a human land that saw them as untrustworthy fairy tricksters. We, at least, had the capacity to blend in. Many other faefolk were hunted to extinction or pushed to the margins of the kingdom, to hide in murky lakes or misty bowers. The Lemorques quickly learnt that the best way to survive among humans was to be useful.

“Shall we go somewhere a little more private?” Grandmére asks, pointing towards the door at the back of the shop with one elegant hand.

Like me she wears a billowing black houppelande, a long, full gown with flared sleeves and a hemline that rustles the floor. Its loose and flowing fit allows us to change our form without worrying about the restriction of the garments we’re wearing. It also swishes and eddies dramatically as one moves, allowing Grandmére to indulge her love for theatricality around humans who expect the sinister and strange from us.

She leads the three women into the parlour behind the shop room, where they take a seat on the large settle against the wall. I follow silently behind, unnoticed. It is warmer here, away from the drafty windows and the cold that seeps through the cracks around the shop door. A low fire crackles in the grate, casting a soft glow over their faces. Both the princess and the older woman sit straight backed with their hands clasped neatly in their laps. I realise that it’s not just their posture that they have in common; they share the same face shape, the same lustre to their brown hair. It is the older woman who talks first.

“What we tell you next is to be treated with the utmost discretion,” she says stiffly, reluctantly. Her voice is crisp and cultured.

“Of course,” Grandmére assures smoothly. “We respect and maintain the privacy of all of our patrons. Our business depends on it.”

“We wouldn’t be here if we had any other option. But time is running out, and he won’t be dissuaded.”

She pauses, and Grandmére waits for her to explain herself. The woman sighs and glances at the princess to her right.

“As you may have heard, there is a plague ravaging the continent. It is incurable and unstoppable. Many of our neighbouring kingdoms have had their populations devastated by the disease. So far we have managed to keep it from penetrating the borders of Belforet - and we may still succeed. But my husband, the king, grows more paranoid every day. Princess Adaliza is his sole heir. He is terrified that any day now the plague could spread to Throsne and wipe out his family, his line.

“He has convinced himself that the only way to keep Adaliza safe is to send her away. There is a tower hidden deep in the heart of the old woods of Belforet. He wants Adda to stay there in isolation, out of the path of any plague, until it is safe to return to the capital.”

I read the defiance in her daughter’s expression, the rebellion in her stiff posture. I know that my grandmother sees it too.

“And why is it that you need our services?” Grandmére asks mildly.

“Because I’m not going.” Adaliza’s statement is absolute. “I won’t sit idly in a tower, regardless of whether a plague comes to Belforet. I don’t need to be kept safe or hidden away from the world.”

“So you need a changeling to take your place in the tower? Where will you be?” asks Grandmére.

“Far away,” the princess vows. “I have never seen the world outside our castles in Belforet. If I were a boy my life wouldn’t have been nearly so sheltered, and yet I’m still expected to rule one day. How can I speak for a kingdom that I barely know? How can I protect its borders when I’m barred from knowing what’s beyond them?”

“Your father loves you,” her mother says, and I get the impression that this isn’t the first time they’ve had the conversation. “He’s doing what he thinks is best for you.”

“And we both agreed that he’s wrong in this,” the princess replies firmly.

She has already won the argument - they are here, after all. The queen and princess of Belforet are seeking a changeling decoy in defiance of their king. My grandmother’s smile is wide and her black eyes gleam, as if the situation is delectable.

“How long will you need our services?” she asks.

“For as long as necessary,” Adaliza replies.

“And when will the assignment start?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? It’s too soon. Being a decoy is more than just imitating another person’s face. It means learning their mannerisms, predicting their reactions and understanding their back story to make the deception believable. I can’t become Princess Adaliza in less than a day. Anyone who knows her will see through it in a heartbeat.

“As you wish.”

Grandmére’s calm reply surprises me and I raise my eyebrows at her in silent protest. She’s not thinking about the difficulties of the job - she’s picturing the gold that will make its way from the royal coffers to the Maison du Lemorque.

“Aster, come here, child,” she says in my direction, even though I’m eighteen years old and far from an innocent child.

The three women turn to look at me, surprised to find I have been in the room the whole time. None of them meet my midnight black gaze.

“This is my granddaughter, Aster,” Grandmére tells them. “She will be a fine match for the princess.”

The queen and the princess stare at me with obvious skepticism. I don’t take it personally. It suits me to be underestimated, overlooked. I’ve been doing this job since I was slipped into another baby’s cradle when I was just a month old. I’ve been a duchess, a prostitute, a long lost daughter. I’ve been both bait and bodyguard. The princess is just another face for my collection.

I bob a courtesy in their direction.

“Your Highness, would you mind standing?” I ask Adaliza.

The princess purses her lips but rises to her feet. I stand opposite her, my head slightly cocked as I observe her keenly. Princess Adaliza’s hair is long and mink brown, with enough of a natural, restrained wave to ripple over her shoulders and tousle in soft curls at the ends. She has a heart-shaped face with broad cheekbones and a pointed chin. I have noticed that her lips are quick to pout or quirk at the corners, and generally express her feelings with arresting panache. Her stormy blue eyes are wide set and long-lashed, and are currently narrowed with intelligence - almost challenge - as they watch me. All in all there is an alluringly feline way about her. I know she is a little younger than me but she has an air of confidence, as if she is comfortable in her body. It’s rare in one her age.

I let the magic flow through me in a warm glow that spreads from my face to my feet. My body feels soft and pliant as I massage it into shape from the inside like a baker kneading dough. Shifting requires intention. My spine lengthens, my breasts swell, my flesh becomes fuller yet firmer. My lank hair thickens, lightens, curls. Adaliza’s eyes flare wide and her mouth drops open as I shift into her mirror image.

“It’s a little disconcerting the first time,” I say in a perfect imitation of her voice.

She blinks once, twice, then shuts her mouth with a clack. “What about the eyes?”

While a changeling can alter almost anything about their appearance, there are limitations to our powers. We can’t alter our age or gender, and we can’t shift our distinctive all-black eyes. This is a well-known fact about changelings and brings a degree of comfort to the human populace, who are assured that they would recognise a shapeshifter if they ever tried to take the place of a loved one. But we are Lemorques, and we haven’t survived this long in the human world without a few tricks up the sleeves of our houppelandes.

“The eyes require an extra degree of trust,” Grandmére says.

She presses on the wooden panelling of the opposite wall and a compartment springs open at her touch. Inside is what looks like an array of jewellery: bracelets, necklaces, earrings, all set with gemstones in shades of blue, green, brown and grey. Grandmére takes an oval of clear, colourless glass from a drawer and brings it over to me, dropping it in my palm.

“Princess Adaliza of Belforet, do you give permission for me, Aster Lemorque, to bear your true likeness?” I ask.

The princess looks confused as I offer her the small piece of glass, but she takes it and nods solemnly.

“Yes, I give my permission,” she says.

The moment the words come out of her mouth, the glass oval in her palm changes colour. It turns the deep, stormy blue of lapis lazuli - the exact shade of the princess’s irises. I reach out my hand to take it back, and when Adaliza tips it into my palm and looks up at me she gasps in surprise. As long as the stone is in contact with my skin, I can mimic her eyes to perfection. No one would suspect I was a changeling decoy, not even her own father.

“At the end of the job you will get the gemstone back - as a sign of good faith,” Grandmére reassures the queen, whose expression walks the edge between fascination and outrage.

It’s an important stipulation that we offer our patrons. Once they take away the gemstone they are reassured that we can’t fully imitate them without their knowledge in the future.

“This could actually work,” Adaliza says under her breath as she looks at me with something like ... excitement.

She isn’t disconcerted by my appearance anymore.

“If you want Aster to start tomorrow, she will need some way of getting into the palace to take your place,” Grandmére says.

“We have already thought of that,” Adaliza reassures her.

She glances to the third member of their party, who has stayed completely silent throughout the exchange.

“Delphine is my most trusted handmaiden and the only servant I am permitted to take with me to the tower. It is not unusual for her to leave the palace on an errand for me. No one will question you if you enter wearing her form.”

I study Delphine, who is practically quaking in fear. She rises to her feet, attempting to swallow down her nerves under my scrutiny. She is shorter than her mistress, buxom and rounded, with blonde hair the colour of butter pulled back under a cap. She looks as harmless as a dormouse. Her face is expressive and honest, and her wide brown eyes give away her unease in my presence.

I shift my form, my eyeline sinking a few inches until it’s level with hers. I still have the lapis lazuli stone in my hand, and I know it’s utterly disconcerting for her to see herself with her mistress’s blue eyes.

“I need to hear your voice, Delphine,” I tell her, using Adaliza’s confident tone as well.

When I’m not impersonating someone specifically, I often end up as a patchwork of composite parts. I can only take the form of a real person who I have met in the flesh, but once they’re in my mental library I can pick and choose which bits of them I wear. I might want the height and strength of the young midwife but the forgettable face of the beggar girl in the gutter, the strident voice of the duchess and the blue-green eyes of the baker’s daughter who died before she could ask for the bracelet back that keeps her turquoise stone pressed against the skin of my wrist. The jewellery in Grandmére’s cabinet comes from those people who never came back to claim their gemstones. It’s not uncommon - we deal in a dangerous game of deception, after all.

“W-what d-do you want me to say?” she asks in panic.

I try to give her a reassuring smile from her own lips.

“That’s enough,” I say, matching her pitch and inflection.

We repeat the trust vow process, resulting in a tiger’s eye pendant the same colour as Delphine’s golden brown irises that will allow me to wholly take her form. I remain as Delphine as we put together a plan for sneaking into the palace tomorrow. By the time our three patrons leave the Maison du Lemorque, Adaliza is triumphant and excited, the queen is clearly suspicious and Delphine is downright terrified by the part she has to play.

I turn to my grandmother once the door latch falls, shifting from Delphine’s form back to the sulky shop girl.

“One day, Grandmére?” I ask accusingly. “How am I supposed to prepare in one day?”

She waves a hand at me dismissively. “Don’t be so dramatic, Aster. All you’re required to do is sit in a tower on your own all day until the plague passes. It’s not like you’ll be impersonating the princess at court. It will be the easiest job you’ve ever taken.

“Besides,” she smiles wickedly, “I wasn’t going to let this one pass us by. A royal patron - and a royal scandal! The information we are party to is just as valuable as the gold they are giving us.”

Her eyes, black and glistening as pitch, are bright with avarice. I am under no illusion; I know that I am a precious commodity to my grandmother, the only female changeling in the family under the age of thirty. I am expected to serve the Maison du Lamorque unquestioningly. And I do - because what else is there for me?

“Yes, Grandmére,” I say, and I can blame my sullen tone on the girl whose stolen form I wear.