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“With others of our kind. There are not many of us walking the earth, and most are quite content to keep to themselves, but our paths do occasionally cross. I expect you will encounter a few yourself, given enough years.”
“And they all go about collecting teeth, do they?”
“Not necessarily, though I imagine most have a few tucked away somewhere. Mortal coin has little value when dealing with others of our kind, whereas teeth have been accepted in trade for longer than anybody seems able to remember.” I pick up a molar and turn it between my fingers. “As for why anybody first decided upon them, I am afraid I have never received a satisfactory explanation.”
“Well, that’s bloody peculiar.” She studies the little pile with renewed interest. “And you’ve actually met some of these others?”
“A few. I once encountered a rather curious pair during my travels through the Low Countries, who called themselves Vexor and Xylia. They looked as mortal as anybody else in the street, but recognised me for what I was almost immediately. Xylia was a tolerably pleasant creature, if somewhat reserved, whereas her companion possessed an extraordinary capacity for conversation. I believe he spoke for the better part of six hours before I managed to excuse myself.”
“Six hours of talking at you?” She snorts. “Poor bastard. He must have been exhausted trying to get a word out of you.”
“An ordeal from which I have yet to recover.”
She laughs, and I set the molar back amongst the others.
“As it happens, our acquaintance proved rather useful. I had been searching for a more permanent means of concealing my eyes, having spent the better part of a century making do with hoods and coverings fashioned from leather. Neither was particularly satisfactory, especially when attending the dying, and I had begun to consider whether something more substantial might serve me better.”
She glances towards the mask lying upon the table, though she allows me to continue.
“Vexor, fortunately, dealt in all manner of curious objects, most of which I could neither identify nor imagine a sensible use for. Amongst them was a rather extraordinary piece of bone, large enough to be fashioned into a mask and entirely unlike anything I had encountered before. When I expressed an interest in it, he asked for a pouch of molars in exchange.”
“And you just happened to have a pouch of teeth lying about?”
“I had extracted a considerable number of rotten teeth over the years, and occasionally kept specimens to examine the decay. I had never supposed they might be worth anything, but Vexor seemed quite satisfied with the arrangement.” I glance towards the pale mask. “I spent the following winter carving the bone into something I might wear.”
She follows my gaze, her eyebrows lifting. “You made that yourself?”
“I did. It took a considerable amount of patience, for although the bone yielded readily enough beneath my tools, I had never attempted anything quite so intricate. But it has served me rather well ever since. The mask allows me to attend my patients without giving them any further cause for alarm.”
She makes a doubtful little noise and turns the mask over, running her fingertips along the smooth curve of its beak. I have worn the thing for so many years that I seldom give its construction much thought, but she examines it with an interest I have rarely seen her extend towards it before.
“What sort of bone is it?” she asks, tracing the inside with her thumb.
“I have no idea. Vexor would not tell me where he obtained it, and I have never encountered anything quite like it since. There are hardly any seams or imperfections, nor does its structure resemble that of any creature I know. Whatever it once belonged to, it must have been quite extraordinary.”
She studies it for a little while longer before shaking her head.
“All this time,” she murmurs, “I’ve been staring at this bloody mask every day, and I never once thought to wonder where it came from.”
“Most people are considerably more concerned with what might be underneath it.”
She sets the mask down, and I rest my hand over hers.
We sit together for a while, listening to the muffled singing from the taproom below, her thumb moving gently over my knuckles. I leave her to her thoughts, quite content with the silence between us, until I eventually take her hand and ease the new glove from her fingers. Bringing each blackened fingertip to my lips in turn, I kiss the darkened knuckles before turning her palm upwards and pressing another kiss into its centre.
“Oh, you’re a sentimental old fool,” she murmurs.
“I have been called far worse.”
“I know. Most of it by me.”
I smile against her palm before leaning in to kiss her, cupping her jaw as her lips part beneath mine. Her fingers slip into the hair at the back of my neck, and I ease her towards the edge of her chair with an arm around her waist, enjoying the warmth of her tongue against my own. She lets out a murmur of protest when I leave her mouth, though it soon turns to a sigh as I kiss my way beneath her ear and down the pale length of her throat. Her head tips back, and I linger beneath her jaw, enjoying the gentle tug of her fingers in my hair.
“My beautiful Ophelia,” I murmur, tugging her up to meet me. “You are quite the most extraordinary woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
“Mm. You’re only saying that because I let you kiss me.”
“I assure you, I held you in exceptionally high regard long before you permitted me anywhere near your mouth.”
