Mask of Bone - ONC2021

1 - Zaketa

"Do I look like a plant to you?" Zaketa lifted her chin in order to look down at the older woman.

"A plant?" Master Fleur sputtered. "No, Miss."

"Then what are these?" Zaketa gestured to the designs spread out over the expanse of the large wooden desk. Flowers. There was an overabundance of flowers: crowns of flowers, flowers embroidered on the skirts, flowers twining up the arms and sleeves, ribbing the bodices, accenting waistlines, belts, and sashes. While the drawings were truly stunning —Zaketa had expected as much from Master Fleur— such flowery, frivolous designs were not acceptable.

The older woman writhed under Zaketa's scrutiny. "It is tradition, Miss. You are coming of age— blossoming as they say."

"Tradition," Zaketa scoffed, flipping a thick tumble of rich, dark locks over her shoulder. She turned to the vast shelves behind her, lined with tattered, ancient books. Like much of her family's collection, these were rare treasures. To Zaketa, they were her most precious friends.

Skimming a finger lightly over well-worn bindings, she found the one she was after. The tome was held together by brittle glue, the pages discolored by the weighty passage of time. Carefully, she turned to the desired section, one of many marked with ribbons, and laid it out in front of the seamstress. "If I must be subjected to this ridiculous tradition, how about we honor the traditions of the ancients?"

Master Fleur looked at the photo, dull with age, before glancing back up at Zaketa, eyes wide. "That is a painted skull."

Zaketa flashed the briefest of smiles, a vaguely sinister flash of teeth. "I know. It is from a tradition to celebrate the dead. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Fleur's eyes only grew wider as she stared at her mistress. "You wish me to design you a skeleton costume—for your birthday celebration?"

Zaketa raised a single brow, crossing her arms over her chest and resuming her haughty stance. "It's a masquerade. I want a costume that suits me." Despite her relatively short stature and vaguely soft physique, Zaketa managed to command respect. She was her father's daughter, after all. "I am no delicate flower. I killed my own mother coming into this world—on the very day the ancients called the Day of the Dead."

"Of course, Miss."

Placated by this, Zaketa bent over the book once more, carefully turning a page to reveal another set of photos. "These images are from the ancient celebration in my family's own homeland far to the south. It was a chance to commune with the dead."

She brushed her fingers lovingly over pages. Some had called her cursed, but she knew better. Her mother's death was a consequence of her father's neglect. Though Zaketa had never known her mother, she couldn't help but feel she was closest to her on this day when the veil between this world and the next was thinnest.

"Add a crown of flowers," she said after a moment. That would be her concession, her one acknowledgment of this so-called tradition. After all, the old photos of skulls were often topped with flowers. It was not a grim spectacle. No, the day of the dead was a celebration. While she knew there were few, if any among her people who would understand this, she would.