fraudest
THE FRAUD.
kang jin-ae.
jane kang. fraud, fraud, fraud. spiritualist, 25, they/them. “i am forever chained to myself; that's what i am, and that's what i must try to live with.”
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kavi-fekim.
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The night’s seance wawas not as smooth as many Kavi had attending; a disappointment when they attended them more for the spectacle than hoping to get anything out of them. They were an event, something all the rage in London, and so, naturally, Kavi had to be seen at them. They had spent too much of life on the outskirts and had no intention of missing any of it now that they had the means to partake. “You were off your game tonight,” Kavi says almost casually, tugging down the sleeves of their colorful shirt. “Something you didn’t like about tonight’s crowd? Or something else the problem. I’ve seen you manage better.”
jane’s mouth popped open, a whined excuse ready to leave their lips. maybe it was you, they almost snapped; it would have been so easy to do so, but instead, they let out a ragged sigh. “yes, i was,” they agreed. they eyed the other cautiously. “sometimes the crowd isn’t perceptive to a spirit’s need. sometimes i’m not either. unfortunately, we are all entirely human, for all the inconsistency that entails.” and sometimes, it was not so easy to blow out the candles without anyone noticing; sometimes, she looked over all those wealthy, pampered fools and could not guess as to the hardships they wanted to see in the shadows. “do you think you could do better?”
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ferihas.
there is something in her house. she does not know what it is, and she does not think it’s human. to her, spirits do not linger; the dead do not roam the earth once they’ve passed. yet— there is something in her house, and it looks like a woman.
if she cannot figure out what it is, maybe someone else can. maybe they’ll know how to make it stop. how to make it leave her alone. there are supposed to be experts on this sort of thing, and nate said he knew one, and that expert walks up to her now, their gaze traveling from painting to photograph to statue. feriha is not observant enough—or perhaps not concerned enough—to notice how jane catalogues with just a glance, sharp eyes missing nothing.
“what?” she looks abruptly up at them, dark eyes meeting theirs. “oh, i’ve been well, if i ignore the bad dreams. you?” she tries for a smile. “i’m not—” it would be a lie to say she isn’t, and jane knows this. she wouldn’t have asked them to come otherwise. she shrugs instead. “i suppose you’re not frightened. you’ve probably heard worse stories.”
in jane’s limited experience, hauntings begin the same: a creak in the house, a glimpse of a shadow, dreams spilling over. as if to prove them right, the wealthy woman shudders -- bad dreams. jane nearly whispers a prayer of thanks that it is this easy.
( how foolish, a voice whispers, deep and frightened. to believe this might be real, just this once. )
“you dream of someone?” a haunting needs a face, after all. as they walk past feriha, they squeeze her hand in brief comfort. the gesture feels foreign. “there is nothing to ashamed of. it is a bit daunting, seeing something your mind isn’t quite prepared for, isn’t it?” they say the words they have heard others say; they act as a puppet to the memories. “the first time i saw my father after his death, i wept. i would have thought myself mad, if i hadn’t heard of others like me.”
they look around once more before turning back to feriha. “it doesn’t matter if i’ve heard worse. it doesn’t change your experience. the emotion tied to it, good and ill.” a gentle smile. “i am glad you contacted me.”
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verdanium.
she hasn’t seen jane coming.
(in a collection of hazy memories, it’s her father’s words that remind bonnie of the harshest of lessons ever learned. among the blind the one-eyed man is king.
take care, child. the cost of seeing is high.)
when she turns at last, lazily, it’s to find the other watching her. she smiles, a lopsided grin which fills her face with fox-like mischief.
“you’re hard to surprise these days, did i tell you that already?” she counters smoothly, raising an eyebrow at the gift that’s offered as index finger and thumb tentatively close around the dried out stem. she is no fool but some part of her sees and wishes that she didn’t. jane isn’t a person to contend herself with but oh, they’re someone who could understand.
silence lingers, but not uncomfortably. bonnie clears her throat, lost in thought.
“is it merely a guess or do you know?”
“you can always tell me again.” jane so rarely feels the praise of another -- why should they accept praise, when often it is based on a lie? but these words, these simple few words that bonnie offers, are words that jane tucks away.
( you’re hard to surprise these days, the illusionist says. good, the fraud thinks. all the better to keep myself alive. )
“mirrors.” a finality to the word, rushed out like a child in school might hurry an answer in an effort to impress. it would embarrass them, if they had not done this dance before. if they were not so focused on the way bonnie takes the gift. nothing comes without cost, jane knows. not even a flower. “slanted mirrors. i’m certain this time.”
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who: @kavi-fekim
where: after a seance.
when: march.
“you’re staring.” they might have said more. they might have tried to smooth over the bumps and bruises of their last seance, so stilted compared the effortless flair of the spiritualists’s own. they might have smiled, charmed; they might have turned away too, flush with excitement or embarrassment or both. jane did none of these things, their exhaustion climbing and their patience with themself worn thin. so they approach the individual they have seen more than once, and they do not say, your eyes tell a story i am afraid to know.
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who: @ofwhatsleft
where: a session.
when: march.
it has been a long enough while, since the pair of them have sat down across from each other, hands hovering near to something dangerous, that jane feels a thrum of nerves at the back of their neck. they watch nathaniel steadily. it is easy to declare someone a mark; those who are easy to swindle wear their delicate innocence like a coat -- what is it to jane if they are the one to take advantage of it? but they watch nathaniel, and they feel that thrum of nerves turn to something else. turn to hesitancy, however brief.
“it’s been a while.” a fact, stated. “i had begun to believe you rid yourself of your ghost. or perhaps made peace with it.”
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it is strange, to be recognized in this way --- to be sought after. it is stranger still to turn their attention to the one who asks, this woman who speaks with soft words yet wears the boldest of clothing. ( everything says: this is an enigma. this might be a preening, beautiful predator. this is someone interesting. ) jane blinks, taking the scrap of paper, and still, they do not say anything.
who are you? they want to ask. her name is on the tip of their tongue, but they have so rarely paid attention to actresses and fame. ( that is, until they saw the illusionist perform for the first time. ) who are you? they need to ask, before they can answer.
they are used to people providing them the very things they seek; they are used to being a reflection.
“you’ve caught me unprepared,” jane says, careful, careful. when you are made of smoke and mirrors, the briefest jolt might shatter you. but still, they cannot quite help themself. everything says: this is a woman whose money might become yours. they sigh, a smile tugging at their expression. “but yes, of course. of course, i will help you.” how hard might it be, to craft a story of love and loss from a century prior? “where did you find this letter?"
closed to : @fraudest
location : the theatre royal
time : mid-march, evening.
the art of performance extends far beyond the stage. it is a fact not only true to zoya’s own life, but to the spiritualist movement, as well—how many of these mediums truly commune with the spirits they call upon? she knows how easy it is to make people see what they want to see, the line blurred between those who listen to the dead, and those who only claim to. when she looks at polly and ruth, she knows the former to be true. but when she looks at jane kang, she wonders, where do you fall? are you everything you claim to be, or are you made of smoke and mirrors?
these are questions she hopes to answer as she catches jane on their way out of the theatre, diamond smile fixed upon her lips. she was not the star of tonight’s show, but she is still utterly recognizable, cutting a striking figure in deep blue.
“you are jane, yes? spiritualist and magda’s protégé?” she asks, as if she isn’t certain. “if you have time to spare, i’m looking to contact someone who’s passed.” she holds up a torn scrap of paper, its looping handwriting faded and edges yellow. “this belongs to a letter written by an actress who died nearly a century ago. i’m sure you know many ghost stories fill the theatre, and so the details always change, but i’m looking for the truth.” a pause. her voice softens, and it’s almost pleading. “will you help me?”
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who: @spiritvalist
where: magdalena’s home.
when: march.
frustration mounts in jane, something deep and wide --- if it had a color, it would be the dark blue of the seas; if it had a taste, it would be salt. they cannot do this, and they feel foolish, sitting in the dark, their hands outstretched and their eyes closed. they want to do this.
“i still haven’t heard him yet.” as if they have ever heard anyone. as if it is only one spirit giving them issue. they drop their hands and look away, for it is rare they will bring up that him that hangs between the pair of them. ( jane’s father, half-invented and half-real. ) and then they ask the true question that they are curious about, the thing they know is important when it comes to these things. “why is it easier for some spirits than for others?”
the undercurrent of the question: if i do not get it right, how might i twist someone’s expectations to convince them i did?
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who: @inventorlee
where: kai’s shop.
when: march.
curiosity. curiosity is not a good trait for survival; curiosity is dangerous. it is a lure, they know. they know this. they have tried to remind themself of this every time they thought they caught a glimmer of something out the corner of their vision.
and yet, here jane stands, in the shop of an inventor -- because they are curious. ( because they know that he is curious too. ) maybe there will be nothing here but new tricks for their show; maybe there will be the exact thing they need to turn their show into something real. they stand just inside the shop, not knowing which way the fates will fall.
“if you are reorganizing,” they start, eyeing the mess. “i think i liked it better the other way.”
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who: @ferihas
where: feriha’s residence.
when: march.
a place has feelings, whether they go acknowledged or not; a place is a person, mirroring back the individual who resides inside. and feriha’s home is not an exception. jane walks slowly through the entrance, trying to catch details they may have missed their first visit -- photographs, paintings, favorite spots, the way the light hits corners, anything, anything, anything at all. this is a house that does and does not belong to feriha; this is a house that speaks of a legacy, of a family, of a rich girl with too much.
( this, then, is familiar. figuring out a way for those with too much to share a little, willingly, with the wide-eyed stare of belief as their guide. )
“and how have you been, miss demir?” they try not to stare, but how can they help themself? they stare at everything -- the expanse of it all. it is like staring into the hungry mouth of a creature all too eager for them both. and, last of all, they stare at feriha. how might one have so much and still end up haunted? “are you frightened?”
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who: @verdanium
where: the theatre royal.
when: march.
“your timing was better this evening.” better is the wrong word, jane knows; better implies that the past performances were not exquisite, that they lacked something. ( better implies that jane did not have sketches in their bag, capturing the beats of the illusionist’s performance spanning hours, days, weeks. as if jane did not study these performances, as if they had not hoped to find the secrets present there. ) no, it is not bonnie that was better tonight --- jane is now just beginning to unravel the show. it is jane that has improved.
they had waited for bonnie after the show, lingering, always lingering. and as soon as they speak, they offer a gift: a pressed flower, its color still and its scent still clinging. a thank you for the performance.
“if i guess how you’ve done it, will you tell me?”
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jane kang. kang jin-ae. they / them. twenty-five. the fraud.
[ introduction | skeleton | wanted connections ]
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I glimpse myself in the mirror. I’ve been warned
never to stare in a mirror while here. Don’t even ask why, just do it
anyway. My gaze a gaping question. Pupils an abyss. The center of
an inverse universe, eternal corridor of mirror reflecting deeper
into some ancient beginning that is also an always and impossible
future staring back. Mouth of a hungry ghost. Narcissus. Bloody
Mary. I want to see—I’m not sure what.
— Ely Shipley, from Some Animal
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