12. The Hideout 

Sofia arrived at a crossroads. One path was plagued with a family of wild ferns and creepers. It looked barely passable. She considered the second, smoother option, where the sun made a way through the surrounding vegetation. The ground was even and paved over with moss.

She took the left fork.

The refined road reunited her to the river. Nestled on the shore was a meager wooden house, most of which was consumed by creepers and parasitic flowers. There were fishing supplies on the deck, which extended over a small inlet. The water here was at rest.

Sofi walked up a short set of stairs to the front door. The wind made it swing inward. One look inside and it was clear that the home had been abandoned. The den and the kitchen were practically one room. There was no fridge, just a sink and an oven with a stove top. Sofi didn't see a washroom anywhere either. Forgotten clothing lay about the floor. Men's clothing.

Old fishing nets dangled from the ceiling. Leaning against the wall next to the sliding glass door was a solidly built speedboat. A solitary couch occupied the center. It looked like an apology.

Peeking out from underneath the couch were the toes of someone's boots. Sofi fished them out, took in their prime condition, and sat down to try them on. All the while, she considered how they would make passage through the forest so much easier. The boots fit better than she expected.

When Sofi put her feet back on the floor, something in the crease of the couch bit into her thigh. She dug up a book. Sofi grimaced as she used a cushion to wipe away the film of dust. Then she studied the buried treasure.

Peter Pan.

As soon as she opened a page, something slid onto the floor. She reached for what was apparently an old photograph and turned it over in her hands.

It's me.

Sofi's reflection somehow lived on the photo's surface. Logic did its best to soften her panic. The hair on the girl was too short. The eyes much lighter than her brown ones. But everything else was there, from the nose she inherited from pai down to the dark mark high on her cheekbone.

Sofi folded the photo in half and repurposed it as a bookmark. There was no point in entertaining the idea that it was anything but a coincidence. She forgot about the haunted photograph, opened the book to the first chapter and lost herself in the pages.

~

By some gracious stroke of luck, Citrus made it beyond the ballroom and onto the palace grounds. Once she left the courtyards, there were no more traces of party guests. The marble and limestone gave way to giant ferns and other garden edifices.

Citrus wandered into a lone observatory, one of several scattered throughout the grounds. She liked this one the best because of the cracks in the stone and blankets of lichen hugging its outer walls.

Citrus disappeared inside and climbed its tight spiral staircase. When she reached the circular studio at the top, she froze and choked back a gasp.

The room was already occupied.

The moonlight pouring in through the rectangular opening in the ceiling illuminated a shape that Citrus knew all too well.

The Shade.

Master's faceless disciple traversed the palace in some kind of infinity cloak, what with its ability to hide every feature and melt around his feet like black cream.

With the turn of his head at her arrival, the cool air sang with metal. Whoever was under the cloak must have been wearing an impressive amount of jewelry.

The Shade spoke first. "Pardon me."

As Citrus suspected, he was definitely male. She had only heard his voice on a handful of occasions, and each time, it made jellyfish out of her spine.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Citrus said, her eyes roving the floor. When she spotted the change of clothes she'd stashed there a few days ago, she scooped up the bundle and edged toward the stairs.

"I was just looking at the stars. There's plenty of room. We can look at them together."

Citrus weighed her options. Stay here in secret with the cloaked disciple or go back out into the garden and risk being apprehended by the Professor or even worse, the Bodyguard.

"Feel free to change if you like," said the Shade. His hooded head inclined towards the bundle in Citrus's hands. "You don't look very comfortable in that dress." Then he turned his back to her and returned to the stars.

Citrus shrugged. I guess I'm staying, then.

After she had shed that beastly peacock dress and replaced it with the white sparring uniform, she approached the Shade on his left side.

"I apologize," he said. "You can't see Mother Moon from this angle."

Before Citrus could stop herself, she blurted, "I like it better that way."

It was the first time she heard the Shade laugh. She suddenly became aware of hairs in places she didn't know existed.

"You cannot tolerate parties, Capoeira, or even the moon? Is there anything that doesn't offend you, fair Maria?"

Citrus hugged herself. "I can tolerate parties. It's just . . ." She thought of Master and all of his power and influence. "I just think he could do better for the clan than dousing his people in feathers and wine."

The Shade was silent.

Citrus went on. "There are beggars in there. Orphaned children. They will dance right alongside the mestres and the scholars who don't give them so much as a passing glance in the streets. And when this is all over, everyone will return back to their roles. The alleyway beggar. The capoeirista. The rogue. The turtle driver. As if this night never happened. And nothing will change."

There was no face to look up at, only darkness, but Citrus tried to anyway. She could feel the Shade weighing her words, giving her internal quarrels the consideration that she always yearned from their Master.

Then, with a gentleness Citrus had never felt from one of her own kind, he said, "These revelries are not meant to change anything. We have them to remind us of what, despite the state of the clans, will never change. The spirit of the Jade Clan is just as the stone. Never eroding. Everlasting."

Citrus rolled her eyes. "That's meaningless if you're a rogue."

The metal hidden in the darkness of his cloak chirped. "Is it? Have you taken a moment to really look at the bohemians? They come from hardly anything, yet on nights like these, they perform their hearts out. They need these parties just as much as everyone else. Trust me," the hood turned toward the stars, "you don't want to see what it's like for them when there is no celebration to look forward to."

Citrus wasn't convinced.

The Shade sighed. "I'll let you in on a little secret. Your Master doesn't want to be here any more than you do."

Citrus shot him a look.

Another deep chuckle. "It's true. He does this for his people. And I know you feel like he wants to simply parade you around in front of the other mestres, and perhaps he does, but . . . ."

Citrus searched his hooded face for an answer. "But?"

Almost reluctantly, he said, "Your Master. He's proud of you. Truly, he is."

Citrus looked back out at the stars and nibbled on her lip. After a while, she said, "You keep saying 'your Master.' Aren't you a disciple?"

The Shade draped his cloaked arms over one another. "Our connection goes back to the time before masters and scholars."

Citrus nodded, not needing further explanation. She gave a little bow. "Thank you. I'm going to go see Master now."

The Shade inclined his head. "Give him my regards."

Citrus stole down the staircase of the observatory. As she returned to the lights and tightly packed crowds, she looked on everyone through a new lens. She could see the gratitude in the faces of the bohemians and the mestres. She could see the wonder in the watchful eyes of the children. She felt them take in her lack of feathered garb. Eyebrows and whispers hit her from all sides, no doubt questioning her plain cropped blouse and matching sweatpants.

Citrus kept her gaze straight, her walk confident, until she arrived at the VIP sector of the ballroom. Both female and male mestres watched her intently. They formed an intimidating fence around the strongest of them all. None of their exuberant, feathered costumes came close to his.

Master was a deity reborn. His headdress stretched towards the ballroom ceiling — a behemoth of quetzal quills inked black. The illusion of otherworldliness dripped all the way to the bridge of his nose, where his face was eclipsed in shimmery black paint. It was the same for his hands and feet. The line across his face that divided the paint from his sun-kissed skin was hard and dramatic. Dusting Master's eyebrows and lips was jade rock grounded into a powder and then smeared on like gloss.

He is beautiful.

Citrus stood before him, awaiting a response to emerge from his regal, unreadable gaze. With dark eyes bathed in shimmery kohl, the Master assessed his student. By now the music and dancing had gone still while everyone awaited his next move.

Finally, without breaking eye contact with Citrus, he gestured to no one in particular.

"Draw up a roda." His voice never exceeded a conversational volume. "Fetch a berimbau. Some drums."

Movement resumed. A shift occurred in the body of the clan. Their intoxication was forgotten, the carefree energy replaced with ritual purpose. Citrus remained where she was while Master's hand servants threw up a curtain and helped him change.

Moments later, he and Citrus were the only ones standing inside a large circle, its boundaries determined by a chunky rope on the floor. The rest of the clan sat cross-legged, huddled and watching them.

Like Citrus, Master had changed into a fresh pair of sweats. He didn't bother with a shirt and though his headdress was gone, the dramatic face paint remained.

The traditional instruments filled the dancehall with a slow sound. After Citrus and the Master had bowed to each other, they began in ginga and let the music guide their choreography.

In many ways, Capoeira had become too embellished, something short of performance art. But its foundation was where Citrus drew most of her strength and patience. Before Capoeira had evolved to include more acrobatic aerials and armadas, it had begun predominantly as floorwork and grappling. Citrus and her Master chose to honor these roots. They skimmed the floor, crouched like spiders that spun no silk. They sparred with traditional technique, deliberate slowness, majestic composure.

Through the rhythmic leg sweeps and feints that ignited the adrenaline, Citrus kept her gaze locked with the Master's. All that the Shade had said was confirmed right there on Master's face. Though it was masked in jade and jewels and darkness, Citrus saw what was underneath – his personal sacrifice for this evening. Through the formations of Capoeira, Citrus apologized for her act of selfishness.

The berimbau accompanied them through the dance. Though her back ached and her lungs labored, she pushed on through the slow, steady spar. She was prepared to go on for as long as the Master wanted. He had sacrificed most of the night for his clan.

What was left of it belonged to him.

~

When Sofi opened her eyes, there was a yellow butterfly perched on the book draped over her abdomen. The dream had brought her clarity despite the fact that she had no recollection of it.

Was it a coincidence that the butterfly intruder had drifted in the same direction she took to track down Amancio? It floated into the backdrop of the rainforest when Sofi finally found him.

The Encantado couldn't hide his confusion. As Sofi approached him, she was reminded of the boy from the fairytale. Stuck in time. Tethered to paradise.

Sofi extended her arm and offered some fruit. Still regarding her with caution and bewilderment, Amancio mirrored her, holding out his own hand.

"I'll help you find your memories."

She dropped an orange into his outstretched palm.