29th of March, 1907

Little of note today. No tabloids from Rad. Unusual, but not unheard of. No good gossip, according to him.

Instead, he had one of those cheap, pulpy paperback romances he enjoys so much. And, yes, he still insists on annotations.

Meals were quiet without the usual rotation of gossip and his little rants.

30th of March, 1907

Quiet day. It rained. Nothing new from Rad’s collection, for some reason. With the chaos the palace has been thrown into, it’s surprising.

Me and Tasl spoke much of draconic lore this afternoon, though. Their love for the oldest creatures we’ve known, at least on this side of the Murko, is immense. No wonder Rad practically has heart eyes when he looks at them. Anyhow, Tasl reminded me of how my parents must’ve been – full of passion for such monstrous creatures.

If they loved dragons that much, perhaps they would’ve loved me in the same way. I could be myself, all bristles and scales, teeth and flames, and still be loved, still be treated with awe, respect.

Maybe I would be happier had the Calths not taken them away from me. I’ve grown up hearing of their accomplishments and their legacy sits heavy on my shoulders.

But, at least I would’ve had love. Unconditional love for an ugly, vicious creature. Because, even girls that breathe fire can know the sweet embrace of love in its purest form. And, they should. They should without bargaining. It is something almost magical to be loved like that. To be sure about your worth in such a fundamental way.

I’ve never been so lucky in my life – and lucky is what I tend to be.

31st of March, 1907

Finally, some monotony has been restored. A new issue of The Intrigue was clutched in his hands at lunch and his grin was almost manic.

I returned it in equal fervor. Restoration of routine. Good.

This time, it’s something about the Marquess of Hawksley’s coffers drying up rapidly. It features quite the telling picture of the man – cravat untied and askew, jacket half-off, eyes heavy lidded, slightly glazed. His hair is rumpled, sticking up in several directions, as though he’d run one too many frantic hands through it. The tightness in his knuckles as he holds his hand of cards is unmistakable, though.

For the first time, I recognize the resemblance between the marquess and his heir. Alexei may have the same heavy-lidded look, but it leans more toward tired and high than crazed and drunk.

“He’s losing at the tables again?”

“Why wouldn't he be losing, Till? The rich man thinks he has all the luck.”

“That would be because he’s rich. He has a cushion.”

“Indeed. The marchioness should be cutting him off soon enough. If that family wants to keep its fortune, they’ll need it.”

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“True enough. And, no one wants to see one of the most influential families of this generation lose power, now do they?” My tone is thick with sarcasm, “Not when the royal family has them in their pocket.”

A beat of silence. No one comes up with something good to say, nothing better than what the scandal sheets have laid out.

And, then, “So, what gossip was so bland you refused to show me?”

“Something about the potential roster of young ladies vying for the prince’s hand.”

“You thought I wouldn’t want to hear that?”

“It was far more political than gossipy, honestly. You’d think it was a column out of a right, proper newspaper.”

“I’ll take your word for it, then, Rad.”

And, then, quiet descends. None of us break it.

When I go back to my room, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. That something massive has just happened.

And, so I begin to fidget. I bite at the skin of my lip till I bleed, bite my nails down to the quick, and continue to bite – this time at the skin around my fingernails.

By the night, when I am ready to snuff out candles, I am raw and slightly bloody. Haggard.

I look in the hand mirror and I see a crazed, disheveled young woman.

Not someone working to become a chemist. Not the daughter of former revolutionaries and scientists, themselves.

I look like a child.

And, I sob.

I want to punch the mirror, but it is too small. Less satisfying.

Instead, I throw it, sending glass down in a bright rain of sparks. I wince, and pick up the most jagged, ugly looking piece.

And, I run it across my knuckles and dig it into my palm until I am coated in scarlet. Until I look like I did punch a mirror – or like something rabid and distressed bit me.

(The rest of this text is obscured by thick, now-dried blood. It is streaky and dots the entire reminder of the page. Only stray letters – an ‘I’ here or an ‘l’ there – are visible.)

❂

The Intrigue

The 29th of March – 1907

Dearest readers, I return to you with most interesting news regarding our beloved – sometimes be-loathed – Prince of Jesters. According to only my most trusted of sources, there is someone who could have already won our Jester’s heart. We shall call her Firespitter, dearest readers. A dragon of mythical proportions.

But, alarmingly, she is no noblewoman. Merely a student at our palace’s own Broadhearth institute. Laughable, truly, that either she thinks she can climb out of destitution or that he thinks he loves her. A match made in the lowest of hells, it seems. You see, beloved Jester has been rather kind to our upstart Firespitter, whose parents are known criminals. Our Jester’s grandfather was judge, jury and executioner.

Their heads rolled, so to speak – and, now, their progeny seeks to see her own join theirs, it seems.

She has, according to sources and even to Jester himself, “..seduced, bewitched and beguiled. Utterly enchanted him with her total lack of wit or brains, save for her silver tongue and the few honeyed phrases she repeats like a parrot. And, naturally, her looks. For someone whose family wasn’t even ennobled, she is, well, pretty. Charming to the right person.”

To think she thinks that Jester will marry her! I almost feel bad for the girl, my lovelies!

Almost.

Until tomorrow,

– Crocus

❂

The Intrigue

The 30th of Match – 1907

Editorial submitted by “J. H.” (otherwise, anonymous):

Dear Crocus,

Your article yesterday was both succinct and all too telling.

I thank you for the service you give to the public. This Firespitter, as she is called, sounds like nothing less than a conniving, underhanded whore, with the cruelty to match Sturrish occupation.

I am glad you disparage her so. Poor girl probably thought she would end up married to his royal highness – if she’s lucky, she’ll be a beloved mistress, wearing furs, the talk of gossip for years to come.

It is almost insulting to see that a lower class, free-thinking, criminally adjacent slut like her thinks she can get anywhere near the crown.

They’re like weeds when you let them learn. They crop up everywhere.

* J. H.

Editorial response and further remarks:

J.H.

Pleased to see my reports are so well-reviewed as ever. Thank you for such a swift, brutal response.

You are all too right, my friend.

Poor Firespitter is a social-climbing vixen, one we should keep our Prince of Jesters and Circus far away from.

He needs a wife, not a bed-warmer, for gods’ sake. It seems, despite her student status, that all that is between her ears is fluff.