Procuring the Perfect Pattern

The ebbing light of the setting sun glinted on the glass of the ornate windows of the library. While there were no stars yet in the sky, facets in the panes created motes that twinkled like fairies trapped in the glass. Shadows skulked between the bookcases, beneath the chairs, and along the steps of the spiraling stairs—they were the only visitors at this late hour. They hovered near the tomes like silhouettes of students with necks bent to read the words stamped across the spines.

A new shade appeared with the rustling of fabric. The soft thump of his feet on the carpeted floor announced that the newcomer was more substantial than the shadows. Amidst the darkness, the Puppeteer stood with his cane in hand and top hat perched on his head. “I win,” chuckled a satisfied tenor. The words were little more than a whisper that haunted the otherwise silent and expansive chamber.

While the Puppeteer was not unaccustomed to working in twilight or less, it was hardly suitable for the task at hand. Not even his considerable talents allowed him to read while the sunlight crept from the room like a tired man. Turning, the Puppeteer sought the doorway into the library. Luck would have it that his teleporting had landed him practically in front of it. When he saw the shadowy protrusion of the light switch, he flicked it.

A brilliance as bright as the brightest day burst from the chandeliers overhead, each a construct with cleverly hidden bulbs so that one could only see the glistening glass that dangled overhead. “Ah, much better!” exclaimed the man. Pausing in front of the doorway, he surveyed the storeroom of books neatly stacked on the shelves of dozens of bookcases, perhaps there were even hundred as much of the library was hidden from his view by the bookcases themselves.

Luckily for the Puppeteer, the doors opened into the hall and not into the library itself, for if they had, Kalika surely would have throttled him pretty badly by throwing them open. The demon should be thankful for whoever had determined the convention that all doors open outward in the event of an emergency. It was the hiss that followed the creaking of the hinges that caught the Puppeteer’s attention the most. When he turned, he realized that it wasn’t any mechanism belonging to the doors that caused the sound but his Mistress. It seemed as if pain had shattered the mask she wore, and a small smirk tugged at the corners of the Puppeteer’s lips as he delighted in her discomfort, regardless of how brief it might be. At first, he had no idea what caused her ire, but then he noticed the darkness in the hall, the only difference between it and the library. Light! he realized, eyes widening as he examined her. She was a being of darkness, so it was only natural that the opposite would not set well with her, to say the least.

She recovered quickly enough it seemed, and he waited and watched her disappear between the rows of bookcases. “Stay here? What, am I some dog?” scoffed the Puppeteer. “I shan’t bark for you!” he called out to her so that she would hear him in the labyrinth of shelves. Despite his words, the Puppeteer stood near the entrance of the library where she had left him, arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. At least as he brooded, he had something to think about: how much Kalika detested light. Did it just bother her or did it honestly pain her, he pondered.

He harrumphed in annoyance at her derisive statement. “I have plenty of manners, I just choose not to use them around you. Perhaps if you were better mannered yourself, I might be more inclined to say my ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s.” After his retort, the Puppeteer fell into an irritated silence. The only noises he made were the soft whisper of his inhales and exhales and the sigh of fabric settling on his frame as he shifted in impatience. “Will this be long?” he demanded at last, moments before she returned with her treasure.

Her statement, surely the title of whatever prize she’d procured from the shelves, hardly meant anything to the Puppeteer. While the words themselves were easily deciphered—he remembered much of the romance languages—anything that their stringing together might have revealed to the normal person, gave him little insight as to what she planned. Obedient, as always, the Puppeteer came when she beckoned him.

When she set about preparing the film for viewing, the Puppeteer admired the gadgets. Already, he had discovered and witnessed the marvels of many of man’s latest technologies, but even as the monitor flickered to life, the Puppeteer held his breath. Leave it to mortal men to work miracles that their betters would never have bothered with trying to create, assessed the ancient demon as he settled into the cushioned seat beside Kalika. He wondered how long it might be until the pattern she wanted him to design for himself would be unveiled. For the time being though, he was captivated and, perhaps, to Kalika, more importantly, silent and still as he watched the movie.

A suit, cape, and mask? That was her surprise costume for him? It’s simplicity was insulting, especially since he already wore the main component of the guise. Granted, while his suit would require a few alterations to match the style of the one worn by the character on the screen, it was hardly to be considered a challenge. A disdainful sneer settled on his lips for the early portions of the movie.

Had Kalika not made him sit through the length of the movie to observe the villain with all his machinations and passions, he truly might have been offended by her suggestion. Instead, a grin spread across his lips like the waxing of a mischievous moon eclipsing his former sneer. “Yes, I think that will do nicely,” he answered, the words leaving his lips as a whisper filled with awe. Already, the Puppeteer was distracted by a multitude of patterns swirling in his head like papers caught in an updraft, spinning in a zephyr of his imagination. The gentle thump of the playbook landing in his lap roused him from his reverie and he looked up to see Kalika slip out the door.

He didn’t bother trying to stop her—he had no desire to do so, instead; he was quite set on returning to his thoughts. The Puppeteer’s only goal at the moment was to do the character justice in his medium of cloth and fabric. When he donned the costume, he would no longer be The Puppeteer but the Phantom of the Opera. Reaching a hand down to his lap, he lifted the booklet and admired the stylized mask printed across its cover. The Puppeteer raised his other hand and traced the outline of the design with his index finger. There were so many tiny details he would have to perfect before he’d even begin fashioning the outfit from fabric instead of thoughts. Captured in his own mind, cutting cloth and stitching it together again, the Puppeteer might as well have been gone.

[Eventual exit]