I spent much of my eighteenth year travelling abroad throughout Europe. It was while passing through the south of Italy that I made acquaintance with the beautiful seductress Rita Galeazzi. Our initial encounter was largely playful, even flirtatious, and we shared the night together (my first with a woman). The following morning, Ms Galeazzi invited me to spend the day at the institution she ran, in the mountains. It was here that I would spot, for the first time, my father’s work outside of our home.
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Maria crept into Antoinette’s bedroom late that night and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Goodnight, Antoinette,” she whispered. In the corner of the room, bathed in a square of moonlight, she saw Antoinette’s packed bags with a chosen outfit on top.
Maria felt a pang of unsteadiness, retreating from the bed. Her slippered feet on the floorboards made a languorous creak. Yet, the girl did not stir, sunken into the deepest of slumbers, the sort only young children had. Maria returned her eyes to Antoinette, watching her for a moment, then left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
When she reached the estate stairwell, which connected every floor of the house, there was a deep quiet. She considered how this silence made her feel. The building was heavy around her, the walls large and cumbersome, the expensive details in the stone more ostentatious than functional. When her younger brother had died, a significant sum of his wealth had ended up with Maria and Alfred—not to say either of them were particularly in need of the money, but this was how things had fallen. With a portion of the inheritance, she had paid a deposit on this once-ramshackle estate, and for the next two years made a project out of it. Now it served as a lodging spot for witches, who each paid Maria a small fee.
Hugging her burgundy nightgown around herself, she walked down the stairs.
On the first floor, she was greeted by Caterina, who was carrying an empty washing basket with her, and a broom. Caterina was older than most at the estate, but she worked hard and was reliable when it came to keeping the house tidy.
“Evening, Caterina,” Maria said softly.
Caterina smiled gently as she lugged the basket onto a bench and withdrew a scrunched-up piece of paper from her breast pocket. “This was recovered from Antoinette’s clothing. I admit, I was curious, and glanced at it. Sembra un problema.” She handed the small piece of paper to Maria, who frowned deeply as she took it.
Reading, she could not help but sigh.
Oh, Otto, she thought. Of course, Maria was aware of his work; she was not involved, specifically, but she did make use of his library. She found that it was important to keep an eye on the manuscripts passing through illegal channels, for some information was not meant for the public to consume—information concerning witchcraft, for example.
Folding it back up, she handed it to Caterina and told her to dispose of it, say nothing to Antoinette. “It got lost in the washing,” she suggested to Caterina, and so this was the story they would go with. Perhaps she would speak with Otto about it later on. After all, when they had spoken earlier, he had requested as much. She wondered, then, if Otto had spotted anything circulating that might relate back to her brother’s recent exhumation. Such things tended to manifest in unexpected and unconventional ways.
“Is that all, Caterina?” Maria asked.
“Yes, Maria. Good evening.” Caterina picked up her basket and disappeared through the house. Maria continued on her way. Earlier that evening, she had finalised the documents pertaining to the cabaret and had them handed off to Hermine for the interim. The cabaret was in a moderately stable period, so nothing much to worry about. There were meetings to be had with creative teams, and others to be rescheduled for Maria’s return. She had signed off on a few things in advance to start ticking boxes, but trusted Hermine with ticking off others. Hermine dealt with a lot of this stuff anyway, and she generally was of a similar mind with Maria, or at the very least, knew how Maria liked to run things.
While at her desk in the study, Maria checked over her last correspondence with Alfred and continued to re-read the first line: I have been made aware that a certain grave in Fosseville was desecrated and exhumed several nights ago. It exhausted her, more than anything. But perhaps it was also the heaviness of the long night folding in around Bellvoir and taking the day’s energy with it.
She read downwards. As of yesterday morning, we have apprehended a possible suspect...
This referred to a member of the cabaret, hence Maria’s duty of involvement.
A likely future step, her brother had written, will involve a hearing of sorts. If avoiding this means anything to you, perhaps your presence in Carcassonne would help to imminently...
Her brother was cryptic at times, but he was making no attempt in this letter at being subtle. I understand it is in nobody’s interest to involve the courts in talks of such things as, well, you know what I mean. Their youngest brother did a number of things in his time. One of these was making witchcraft practice acknowledged and even popular in places such as Bellvoir and Carcassonne. He had heralded “witch law,” which, as the term sounded, helped separate those who identified as witches from the general legal bodies of the state.
This did several things, but most of all it enabled key members of the witch’s jury to punish and trial people for “crimes of witchery.” It helped avoid public scrutiny and keep witch practice out of the public eye, which as far as Maria was concerned, was always for the better. She had found that the general public tended to sensationalise such things, and misunderstand it at the best of times, which made for dreadful results.
But different processes for different places. Maria knew Carcassonne leaned anti-witch in the modern day, and this showed in their legal process. Alfred’s offer for her to come and resolve the matter before it was heard by the courts seemed to be more a personal favour than anything officially recognised by those who ran the legal system. But, if it meant keeping one witch from facing severe punishment, it was worth it to her.
Maria’s eyes skipped from the letter to a hardback tome on her table. Its title in gold foil was Principles of Witchcraft. Her brother had written this manuscript following an expedition to Italy one year. It was her opinion that Italy had not done this family any favours. Ever since Edgar had gone there, studying mysterious teachings, her life had been hard work.
And now more so than ever. She wondered, would the day ever come when she’d no longer be left cleaning up this family’s mess? Most of all, Edgar’s.
Several hours had passed and Maria entered the living room where Josephine awaited her on a red velvet couch. She sat there with a distant gaze, her hands clasping the armrests. Flames churned in the hearth, an all-encompassing warmth invigorating the room.
“Brighten up,” Maria said. “Carcassonne is not that bad.”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Josephine looked up at her across the room, and shook her head. “I’m not thinking about that. I was thinking about when you first brought me to the girls’ shelter on Du Boir street all those years back. Do you remember it, Maria? I was only fifteen when I arrived there. I was about the same age as most of the girls. We bunked in threes or fours. I remember the days quite vividly. You didn’t introduce all of us to witch theory. Dinah, for example, she wished to learn but you never allowed it. How did you choose?”
Maria frowned, wondering what Josephine was getting at. Maria did not think often about the times gone, certainly nothing much earlier than when her younger brother died. The girls’ shelters in Bellvoir still operated, but Maria had not been involved for many years.
She sat down on the single-seat couch and stared into the fire. The effect of the heavy curtains over windows and creaking timbers of the house was a feeling of detachment from the rest of the world. “I find it difficult to recall the details of older times. I saw Dinah again a few years ago. She was with a child, and frankly, happy. When I saw that, I decided that whatever I had been thinking back then, the right choice was made.”
“I hated you for a very long time,” Josephine said.
“I bet,” responded Maria bluntly.
“I really hated you. For the things that happened back then.”
Maria smirked in a testing way. “Are you trying to send me a message, Josephine? If you still have those feelings towards me, you are not the only one. I hope you know, it makes no difference to me whether or not you despise me. But since I’m not keeping you prisoner, and you have not yet walked away, I’ll assume we have an understanding.”
Josephine sighed. “I did what you asked me to about De Kock. Made sure he won’t trouble you any longer. At least, if he’s smart. Is he smart, Maria?”
“Pfft!” Maria didn’t even have the words.
“For my sake, I hope he is.”
Josephine pulled the ends of her sleeves down around her hands; her long fingers with painted nails clung to them tight. The younger witch looked askance and met Maria’s eyes across the room, her expression biting. The firelight glowed against her skin and red apple lips in the same way it might against a lacquer.
“Shall we be departing then?” Josephine asked.
“I imagine you have sent forward our luggage?”
“As requested.”
“Thank you, Josephine.”
“Of course.”
They walked together out of the living room, through the parlour of the empty house, and then out the door. Maria took in a lungful of the night air, the frost on the wind like a soothing inhale of mints. The rest of the street was quite empty, little movement except for things rustling in the breeze, and burning of gas lamps.
Maria examined her feelings towards leaving Antoinette behind. She would have felt worse if she had made any promises about taking her anywhere, but she hadn’t. No matter what Antoinette thought of the situation, she could not say that Maria promised anything.
She risked a final glance at the house, standing amidst a block of other houses.
“Calm night,” said Josephine, snapping Maria from her reverie.
Maria nodded. Winds were still. She licked her lips, but there was no taste in the air. She would predict good weather and fair travels to Carcassonne.
“Before departing, there is something else I must attend to,” Maria said, thinking of what Otto had told her earlier, that he had to show her something.
Josephine raised the most inquisitive brow. “Do tell?”
“It is not what you’re thinking. It’s business with a friend.”
“I should have figured.” She appeared disappointed.
Maria sighed. “I will see you in Carcassonne, then.”
Josephine nodded, and with a flash as easy to miss as a streetlamp flickering, Josephine had metamorphosised into a black bird and set off into the night sky, her clothes falling in a neat pile on the side of the street.
Sickening, Maria thought glumly, her stomach tilting. How I truly hate doing this. The only reason she had elected for such a mode of transport was the speed and secrecy it provided.
She stepped towards the pile of clothes and gently nudged it into the shadows with her foot. She then collected the handlebars of a bike that leaned against the brick wall, and half-mounted it, hauling it in the direction of the street. Then she rode.
#
Maria arrived at Otto’s tenement, having left her bicycle at the front, and knocked at his door. Otto slowly but surely appeared, dishevelled yet (Maria knew this for a fact) not from sleep. In fact, he was wearing shoes, and carried with him a book even now.
“Come in quick,” Otto said. “I know you must be off soon.”
Maria walked inside and Otto closed the squeaky door behind them. His residence was dimly-lit, the curtains all drawn, the bookshelves providing a complicated maze that seemed unnecessarily difficult to navigate in this darkness. “Did you realise Antoinette nicked one of your inventory sheets?” Maria asked, proffering the stolen page to him.
Otto took it, frowned. You couldn’t see much in the low light.
“How...?” he began.
“You ought to take better stock of such things.”
Otto grumbled, putting it on the nearest shelf. “That thief. Thank you, Maria.” He went into his study, and came out again with a small and flimsy saddle-stitched manuscript with embossed leather covers. She took this, flipped through it, and immediately seized up.
“A chapter from my brother’s book,” said Maria. “How did you get it?”
“It’s not an official copy. Of course, Maria, you’ve the only one officially. Somehow, it appears, the texts have been stolen and are being reprinted.”
“How did this happen?” Maria asked. There was one possibility she immediately knew of. Contrary to what Otto had said, there was one other copy of this book that had been published. However, only Maria knew where it had ended up, and the idea that such a thing would fall into public hands was unlikely. However, if these pages had been stolen from the tome in Bellvoir, it meant that somebody in the cabaret had leaked them. She could tell that this copy was a bad impression, not done by a steady hand. Somebody trained, but if she was right about her brother’s expectations, not something he’d be impressed with.
“Someone had access to the book, copied it precisely—well, as much as one can—and then it was circulated,” said Otto. “It was not necessarily the same individual performing all three of those things. But there is no way to really trace where it came from.”
“So you purchased this?” She waved the pages.
“Yes,” Otto said. “Why, I had to. But now it’s off the market, at least.”
Maria cursed under her breath, handing it back to Otto. “How much did you pay?”
“Evidently, more than its worth,” Otto said. “The problem is, in this business, information like this is valuable. Somebody will pay a good price for it. And unfortunately, on this occasion, I am the fool who has lined the criminal’s pockets.”
“Have it destroyed,” she grumbled. “How many have you found? This is but a single chapter. I will assume there are, or will be, more?”
“Actually, I own several different chapters.”
“Have them all destroyed. Any you can find. Where are they even from?”
“Black market bookstores. Manuscripts are moving all the time. I hardly have the ability to intercept them all, although I have many eyes and ears around France. If there are whispers of more pages from your brother’s book, I will follow them up.”
“Thank you,” Maria said.
“Sorry for telling you this at such an inconvenient time.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. She wondered, could there be a connection between these manuscripts and her brother’s corpse being stolen? Both things must have occurred at a similar time. It would not be the worst idea if Otto kept an eye on any developments regarding this.
Her brother’s book was not written to be read by anybody outside of the cabaret, hence why he’d only created the two copies—one of which had been stolen by his mistress following his death. But to not just steal the secrets for one’s own gain, but reprint them widely? That suggested it was more of a business move, rather than distributing it to anybody specific. Collectors or scholars, not would-be witches. To this end, it bothered Maria less, but it was still no good to have out in public. The more people knew about the cabaret, the worse for them.
“Keep me informed,” Maria said.
“As much as I can. Before you go, can I offer you tea?”
“No, I shouldn’t.” She did not wish to overstay her welcome; and besides, it was still many hours to Carcassonne and she ought not to be waiting around. “If you can, Otto, please keep an eye on Antoinette for me. Check in with her?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“If I may.” She walked through the residence and out to the balcony. The cold air washed over her as she moved to the edge of the railing, gazing out across the small town. Fine mist rolled in the breeze, over brick roofs and chimneys. A sheen of dew clung to the ugly architecture. Otto followed, but stood in the doorway, looking out.
“Is there a trick to this?” he said. “A...vanishing act?”
Maria began to remove her cloak, continuing to stare across the town. She lifted the fabric slightly off the goose-bumped skin of her shoulders. “Well, you have quite an amount of my brother’s book now, don’t you?” she said to him, only half-looking.
Otto scoffed. “Shall I give you privacy?”
“Do as it pleases you,” Maria muttered.
With no hesitation, she let her cloak fall off her shoulders and an instant later metamorphosised into a swallow, spreading her wings and letting loose into the midnight sky for a long-delayed family reunion.