When Alix woke, the light outside her room was so bright she thought only a matter of minutes had passed, or maybe a whole 24 hours. No sound came from the street. The onlookers had dispersed, gone back to their homes. They would return in the morning, trying to catch a glimpse, or a touch, as if she could cure the King's Infliction like some medieval monarch.

Beyond the bay window flames suspended in glass globes flickered like scorched moths. She watched the glow spasm on the trees, the wind mastering the leaves.

Alix wanted to taste its fire, dance under it in the baleful light. Let its heat burn the taste of sulphur and rust from her tongue. Looking on the empty streets a loss fluttered inside. The day was locked behind an iron door, her profile and name the key. But the evening? The evening was still hers to enjoy. By now the spas and baths would be shut for the night. Matrons were sat in well appointed salons, while their husbands gambled away three generations of fortune over the baccarat tables. At night Alix was just a silhouette, a shadow of a woman.

From the wardrobe she pulled her coat, and made her way down the stairs, stepping carefully to not wake her hosts. Outside, her only companion was silence. No-one else moved through the streets.

She crossed the road, leaving the path for the openness of the two hundred acres. Her hand ran over the mark of lips still pressed onto her skin. Unseen, but still there. Hidden, like infidelity or treason.

Taking her gloves off, feeling the cold pick at her skin, she ran her nail through the black mark and moved it up to her lips, letting the dense black grease scrape off on her teeth. In the distance a movement disturbed her meditation. A rush of anxiety rose inside. She slipped her gloves on, to recover decency, and started back to her lodgings. The figure moved again, on her left this time. A flash of black and white cloth stained yellow by the streetlights. Had the cause of her embarrassment traced her, watching from the shadows for her to leave the guesthouse? Surely her name and her accommodation had spread through the theatres by now. Actors were easily the worst gossips. To her right another flash of cloth, billowing in the still air. Was there more than one? Had her tormenter recruited his troupe to taunt her from under the chestnuts and lime trees? Her eyes scanned the streets lying at the edge of her gaze. The figure was unmistakable, even wiped clean of features by the dark. The voluptuous clothing. The cone hat. Her Pierrot waited for her to approach.

Did he want to taste her fear? Had he mistaken her gender for weakness? She, who had stood up to her family as they paraded suitor after suitor in front of her? Would her Czar accept a weak consort? She would not be humiliated or made frit by some low dancer for coins.

Alix glanced over her shoulder toward the centre of town, the warmth of her room and the generosity of her hosts. Turning back she walked across the grass in the direction of her tormentor, never taking her eyes from where he waited, foot tapping with impatience. Mocking. She sped up, ignoring the thick meadow grass soaking her dress hem. Her heel caught and she stumbled. Laughter disturbed the stillness. She recovered her step, and looked up to see the figure gone, a shadow flitting down the street.

Back in the gas glow she refused to be compelled to run like a servant late to the dining room. Either side of her hotels rose like mausoleums, silent and corrupted. She stood sheltering her eyes, looking up and down the street to try and see her player of games. To her left an alley ran behind the hotels, letting the daily grind continue without disturbing the patrons. In the distance she saw a tattered flag of shade, wrapped round tragedy given life.

Keeping to the centre of the lane she followed. He waited against a distant wall. The night breeze straining his costume against stick thin limbs. Here the scents of rotten food, left by indulged guests, coated every step. A sound of babies crying startled her. Two foxes tumbled to the floor, covered in greasy peelings. A disputed chicken carcass lay torn between them.

Alix moved near, but got no closer. He retreated from her steps. With a flourish he vaulted a wall twice his height, cloth expanding like ripe deathcap. Every instinct made her want to run. Curiosity and common sense struggled over which direction.

As she got closer his head rose over the wall, singing taunts and temptations in French and Latin. Dragging her to him with mocking and promises. The wall was high, too high for her to consider climbing. She stood in the lee, thinking. Was this a trap set by enemies in her betrothed's family, a plot to disgrace her? Maybe her parents conspired to tempt her from the arms of her Czaravitch? Then the song started again, rising like a spring tide through the post witching hour air.

Alix ran her hands over the sandstone blocks, each dusty shelf sculpted first by man, then by rain. Even for one of lower rank than her climbing the wall would be out of the question. She bit her lip. The song carried on beyond the wall, teasing and testing. She walked up the street till the stone ended. A green wooden door stood open to the ginnel beyond. She pushed the peeling paint, the door creaking on unused hinges. Beyond, the cobbles were slick, two walls funnelling her first past the garden, then the house. She glimpsed both through wrought iron gates. The song was louder now, wrapping round her like cat's cradle yarn.

In front stood a small park, gate locked to all but residents. Beyond, the Stray spread out endless like the ocean.  She turned. A crescent of townhouses rose, windows curtained against the night.

One door stood open, threads of black and white caught on the door handle. Alix hesitated, her hands clammy. Looking around she walked up the steps, their surface slick with moss. The door's paint hung off in ribbons. A crack bisecting the window light. Reaching out to the handle she held the monochrome twine, twisting them round her fingers. They criss-crossed the back of her hand like chains.

Inside the hall was in darkness, the floor tiled as if a hunter had skinned her Pierrot, stretching his sacrificed hide on wooden pegs, then wooden boards. The stairs rose into the heart of the house, leading her upwards. Onwards. She put her hand out to steady herself, pulling back as if bitten. The cone hat rested on the newel.

All the doors were shut, pushing her on to the top landing. A glow lit the rotten floor, grain hidden under grime and webs.

The room smelt of cigars and carbolic soap. On a chipped dressing table a single candle burnt. By the window steam rose from a wash basin. He sat waiting on the bed, hair thick, hairline pale from clumps of makeup. His costume hung in folds, his body a shadow inside. She stood on the edge of the room. He stared, not speaking, not moving. With a gesture he invited her to sit opposite him on the bed. He smiled, the painted frown turning his expression into a grimace. Alix walked across, moving the box lying on the threadbare blanket.

He took the box from her hands, running his fingers over the polished grain like a lover. Undoing the clasp he opened the lid and turned it towards her, letting Alix see the contents. Inside five cylinders, wrapped in torn and yellow parchment, fought for space with cheap, shallow tins. Each one missing its lid, contents half used and smeared.

With a ballerina's grace he reached in for one of the tubes, pulling the paper back from the cloying surface. The parchment fell like abraded butterflies. He placed the greasepaint in her gloved hand, palm now stained white. She brought it up to her face. The make-up smelt of bacon fat and lavender. He  unbuttoned her gloves. With a single nail she scraped the crust from the greasepaint, putting her finger in her mouth. The taste of talc and lard spread across her tongue.

Pierrot reached for the greasestick and gently ran it across her face. Starting at her forehead he coloured her like a toddler. Her hand went up to stop him. The sadness in his eyes made her arm fall back. He obscured her skin, disguising her as a child of the moon. Her face turned dirty white as sin. Putting the panstick to one side he pushed a finger into a pot of burnt cork, rubbing the powder into her eyelids. His hands smelt of torched treasures on an October dawn. This room was her cocoon. She would emerge changed, marked by this clown of tragedy and loss. With an artist's grace he gilded lipstick across her mouth. Her lips pressed against her teeth. She opened her eyes and watched as he marked the tears on her face, six running down her left cheek to the corner of her down-turned mouth.

Stained fingers ran through her hair, brushing it back from her face. His hand grasped hers and led her across to the wash basin. She looked through the steam. On the surface soap scum and beard shavings floated.

Alix heard a pair of scissors shut, then her Pierrot leant round, dropping a lock of her hair into the bowl.

She stared at the surface, at the unfamiliar face staring back. She was no longer Princess Alixandria of Hesse, grand-daughter of the Queen of the British Empire, betrothed of the Czarevitch of Russia. She was a daughter of Pierrot, the spirit of tragedy. He had claimed her as his own, and marked her. The mark would linger even when scented napkins wiped the greasepaint from her face.

The water clouded. A pair of eyes stared back from her transformed face. Not hers. These were hypnotic and empty. The white of her face changed to water stained plaster, tears becoming corpses leaking their life into the dirt floor. A chair lay to the side kicked over. Pierrot stared over her shoulder. His white face was now skinless with hollow eyes. His fingers without flesh. She felt his touch on her shoulders.

He whispered, "Not now. One day, in many years, but not now."

Alix glanced at her warped reflection, the tears down her cheek no longer painted, her face no longer a mask. Tears for what was to come, and the wrenching knowledge she could do nothing to stop what was to be now she had felt Pierrot's touch.


END


Lyrics for Oyuchasan (The Belle of Japan ) circa 1892-1894 from the Clifford Essex Pierrot Troupe. Thanks to Tony 'Uncle Tacko' Lidington for all the advice.