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Chapter seven: A betrayal bouquet

Chapter seven: A betrayal bouquet

1st of April, 1907

Another quiet, rainy and gray day. The April showers have begun in force.

I am, sincerely, grateful.

I spent today curled in on the chaise lounge, my chair of choice, in our commons area – like an expensive, expansive library and a mansion’s parlor had a child.

The commons is normally a hub for debates, trivia during late, cold winter nights, and other social activities.

Jokingly, and, certainly lovingly, my cousin and I – and Tasl and Etko – have taken to calling the room the “enrichment center”. The crown doesn’t want their scientists getting too understimulated or sad, now, do they?

The four of us have claimed a small nook nestled between two looming bookcases – the fiction sections, specifically horror. Any and every alcove of empty space is used or filled.

Ours is no exception, with its colonial era rug – a beauty of craftsmanship, albeit Makale craftsmanship – and its numerous chairs and tables. Tasl seems proud that the rug is of Makale make; we only know because pegasi and hydra are amongst creatures featured predominantly in the pattern.

While I claim the chaise, Tasl and Rad and Etko, somehow, manage to squish into the loveseat – Tasl and Rad next to each other, Etko draped across Rad’s lap.

Etko is no scholar, no scientist. Simply someone so beloved and so frequent a visitor that most of the staff, students and other residents recognize him by name.

Across the way, in the world of speculative fiction shelves, there is a debate raging about some translation of some Aulnian epic or another. I tune it out.

I am content around these three, who are so effortlessly happy and comfortable.

I wish I could be so open.

I rub, absently, at my left hand, which is firmly bandaged. I’ve had to change it twice, already; last night, I practically bled through the first two gauze wraps.

I certainly don’t regret it. Why would I? Sure, all of them would fret and fuss, but I can handle the repercussions of my own decisions, however ill-fated they may be.

When I return to my room, content and lazy, a cat stretched out in a sunbeam, I expect no company. Instead, I am greeted with a shrill, if oddly musical, “Dearest! I thought you’d never show!”

The words are in high Kergazini – the dialect I still struggle with. It’s much rounder than the Kergazini the rest of us speak – it resembles Lansori far more than any other language.

My attempt to speak like the wealthy is pitiful, a weak little squeak of a response, in my alarm and haste, “I’m sorry? Should I know you, madame?”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She rolls her rs. I don’t know how it didn’t phase me before, but it does now.

“Why, lovey, of course! The name’s Lizbetha Dannen. Lady of Threads, Lizbetha Dannen. Surely you’ve heard the name before? I thought your ilk were meant to be…smart.”

I wince. I know exactly who this elegant, theatrical woman is. The godsdamned royal seamstress. The very same who makes the queen’s own dresses and collects the political pillow talk and other bits of gossip like they're trophies.

Tasl and I had had a running bet that she was Crocus, but it wasn’t to be. Crocus talks about her fairly often – about her, rumored, affair with the Earl of Densyth, one Mister Booths.

This woman looks and sounds the peacock – but really, she’s a tigress. And I realize I’m on the wrong end of her claws. Her grin is too perfect against her dark brown skin – she looks like a goddess come to life. A statue taken form.

In other words, my antithesis.

That saccharine, ceramic smile – as cheery as the one I plaster on at court – widens as she holds up the most beautiful gown I have ever seen in person.

It’s a rich, deep, verdant green that makes me want to weep for joy. It’s stylish with the times, with its cuts and trims. Embroidered with gold chaffinches and starlings and the odd hawk, it is something to gawk at, truly.

“This,” she practically purrs, “is for you, my dear. Anonymously commissioned – though we both know who it's from, don’t we? Otherwise, why would he have sent the matching jewels? You’ll look splendid.”

In my haze, I manage to stutter, “F-for what, exactly?”

“Why, the ball for Damaskhein course!”

“Right,” I get out, a touch drily, “of course.”

Damaskhein, is, rather notably, one of the only religious holidays that the Kergazini still practice from the old ways. The Sturrish beat the rest out of our ancestors.

It’s a celebration of life and new blooms. Springtime and youth. A day of courtships and love and flower petals coating every corner of a room. One of my favorites as a child.

In other words, a holiday rarely acknowledged within the institute – why would an academic think about love and growth and life and light? Or, at the very least, a holiday best considered a private affair. No need for fanfare when one can celebrate all by one’s lonesome.

I look at the evening gown again – really look at it. I do know who it’s from, and, when we see each other at Damaskhein, he’ll be getting an earful from me. And, matching jewelry? The man didn’t know when to quit.

“Naturally,” she starts up again, “you’ll need to have a final fitting. I cleared my schedule for you, you know.”

When I do try it on, it fits eerily perfectly. Dannen smiles a slow, satisfied, smug smile, mutters something about, “Oh, he’s smitten” under her breath, and says, louder, “Looks like I can leave it with you.”

She takes the dress off and puts it, gently almost religiously, in my closet. A small box follows suit. The jewels she mentioned, then.

With a final wink and dramatic flourish, she says, “Green really is your color, dear.”

I blink, confused and a little sour, after her.

So, he thinks he can play that game does he?

Well, he should prepare to lose.

2nd of April, 1907

The flowers that are sitting, slightly brown and limp, against my door, are the first sign that I am in trouble. Deep trouble.

Damaskhein is tomorrow. I am all out of my favorite possession, luck.

I pick them up. It’s a strange mix – the black roses associated with royalty, cheery buttercups and a smattering of daisies and softer flowers.

The paper crinkles in my arms as I bring it inside and place it on the only open spot in my room – a little sliver of space in a bookcase.

The note falls off. It’s typed out – no handwriting to go off of – but its message speaks volumes.

“Queen of hearts, harlots, and spades

What you own, you cannot trade

But, you cannot trade what you do not own

Wilt in the sun, forever alone

Be trampled underfoot,

And be grateful

I didn’t shoot.

– C.”

I drop the paper like I’ve been burnt. So much for a friendly message.

Strangely, no one I’ve met talks in riddles or poems…or borderline threats.

I think I will take this to the Bunsen burner.

(This page contains the paper message from the bouquet, which has thin streaks of long-dried blood on it, at the corners.)

Written on the back of the original message are the words:

“I can’t be grateful. You pulled the trigger, anyhow – Jan. 1908.”