There was simultaneously something impressive and mildly disorienting about the incline. Octavia was convinced she was hallucinating, at first, given how the ground beneath her feet seemed to rise ever higher with every step. The path to the bell tower, unmistakable in the distance, brought with it steady elevation that left the streets sloping steadily upwards. She feared she’d trip, and peering over her shoulder was dangerous. She did it anyway. Her formal confirmation of an incline came in the form of a city descending in full beneath her. Each step was difficult, her calves aching somewhat in the process of pursuing the glimmering bronze so high aloft. She assumed it was worth it.
She hadn’t been to a church in years, by which her only memories of such were draped in black and stained by tears. She could hardly juxtapose that of Silver Ridge with the one crowning the Blessed City, and she was more or less beginning to understand the moniker by sight alone. The bell tower had captured her full attention from the moment she’d set foot in Velrose, and yet that to which it was tethered was--ironically--divine.
The architecture was splendid. The stature was unfathomable. The atmosphere was as grandiose as it was imposing, and the glasswork that ensnared every stray burst of sunlight was one thousand times more radiant up close than she’d seen from afar. She was fine with being blinded, if the glistening stained rainbows were how she lost her sight entirely. It put every last suncatcher and carefully-crafted vase she’d ever seen in her life to utter shame, and she stole every color with wide eyes.
The prismatic splendor was as symbolic as it was lustrous, angelic depictions assembled with such love and care splashed upon wall after wall. Octavia’s eyes traversed each and every scene, chasing the story they seemed to paint in full. Of particular note was that which shimmered brighter and stretched further, sprawling glasswork speaking to an angel and a human all at once.
Where one born on high remained as such, the iridescent girl so far below raised her glassy arms skyward. Under no circumstances was Octavia religious. Truthfully, sleeping in was more appealing than attending services for any given deity--that of Velrose or otherwise. Still, she at least paid her utmost respects to the incredible craftsmanship that went into the resplendent art of the church itself.
The doors, born plainly of wood, paled in comparison to the splendor of the structure if not for their size alone. Even the entrance to the city itself had left her more unnerved. Still, she hesitated atop the steps for a brief moment. Delicately, she knocked several times over--provided that was how this worked.
“You might have to knock harder than that,” Harper whispered teasingly.
She glared over her shoulder, meeting his smug grin with a roll of her eyes and unwavering eye contact. With him pinned in her sights, she refused to face forward as she violently slammed her balled fist against the wood again and again.
He snickered. “Better.”
It took time to earn the foreboding creak that followed, by which the doors still opened slowly enough to allow for a deep breath. She wasn’t sure what compelled her to adjust her braids, although Viola smoothing out the little bow tethered tightly in her hair made her feel somewhat better. She already planned to assault the acolyte with every conceivable question she could concoct. She opted to at least make a solid first impression, in that case.
The small face and round eyes that poked out from behind the door, then, left her more or less perplexed. It took her a moment to even register the need to look down rather than forward. Octavia raised one hand slowly and awkwardly, offering a half-hearted wave.
“Uh…hello?” she tried.
The tiny tilt of the tiny head that followed left a stream of blonde spilling over little arms, curious eyes peering up at Octavia without a word. Objectively, she didn’t stare for long. It was still more than enough to make the Maestra uncomfortable.
“We, uh…we’re looking for the acolyte, if she’s available?” Octavia pressed.
The word was enough to prompt her departure, apparently. Still, Octavia found her moments later, blessed with the full view of the church interior as little hands brought the doors open wide. The child, too, was in full view, every bit as small as Octavia had expected. Her tiny touch rested atop pearl-tinted robes, as elegant as they were slightly too large on such a little body. If she was an acolyte, she fit the mental imagery of the word. It didn’t make her miniscule visage any less confusing, if that were the case. She couldn’t have been a day over seven years old.
“You’re…are you the acolyte?” Octavia asked, somewhat unnerved by the endless silence--age be damned.
It was almost a relief when the girl shook her head, yet more sandy cascades streaming freely over thick fabrics. Instead, she motioned for company, one little hand beckoning for four sets of footsteps in her wake. Octavia caught Viola’s equal look of confusion, given the stature of their wordless guide. Still, she shrugged, surrendering to the nonverbal orders of a child half her height.
The interior was somewhat less vibrant and exotic versus the exterior, and yet was still more than breathtaking in its own right. Where the grandiose nature of the church upon first glance had slammed into her from outside, the peaceful atmosphere within settled onto her shoulders with grace.
It was what she could expect from such a holy place, plush carpet rising to stifle her every step and distant choirs echoing her concept of angels on earth. It was accurate enough of a stereotype, and she appreciated it nonetheless. The sound of the doors slowly coming to a close at her back, in the midst of such beautiful silence, managed to scare her somewhat.
Madrigal’s eyes glittered. “It’s so…royal,” she breathed.
Octavia wasn’t exactly inclined to disagree, although her wording would’ve been significantly different. She only allotted half of her attention to her little guide, the child’s iridescent robes scraping the maroon below with every tiny step onwards. Octavia had substantial concerns she would outright trip, and yet she navigated the length of every ornate corridor with aplomb.
The mounted candles along every wall illuminating her path were as beautiful as they were ironic. The thought that Madrigal could easily plunge them into darkness with one swish of her wrist made her smirk. For now, she appreciated the flickering view.
It was the most notable aspect of the walls at all, frankly, given the utter lack of artwork or even windows. She was thankful she wasn’t forced to endure it for long, in part to their tiny guide’s swift navigation. The doors she threw open--rather, pushed against with effort, on behalf of her little stature--made far less noise than those of the entrance.
Octavia almost felt bad for not helping. It wasn’t as though she knew exactly where she was going, let alone what she was supposed to be helping with at all. Ignorant to whatever deity blessed the Blessed City itself, she was more than blessed with abundant sunlight in excess.
The chapel was all she’d expected of a church from the term alone, if not excessively flooded with streaming sunshine in every sense of the word. The glass above surrendered to daylight without resistance, and the spilling skies on high left ray after ray kissing her boots. The atmosphere was almost more holy on behalf of the light alone. It put every pitiful speck of candlelight left in the hall at her back to shame. If nothing else, the pews were crafted of the same pine as those in Silver Ridge. Wrapped up in the splendor of Velrose, it was at least one more comfort of home clutched well across the continent.
Only now, drowning in a sea of sunshine, did Octavia lose her little guide. So preoccupied had she been with the way she was left to squint and wince that she’d hardly noticed company at all. The child hadn’t, apparently, and she made for the men at the far end of the chapel without hesitation. Yet the same pristine garments met her for a second time over--and a third, technically. Even as one extended his arms, a soft smile born for the child as he knelt to her height, she never returned his embrace.
“Little Allison, hello! It’s good to see you out of your room,” he greeted.
And still, his offered warmth was wasted as she simply stared. The message was lost on him, seemingly, and the man at his side took the hint. Granted, his attention was largely for the Maestros alone as he gave the child his quiet words. “You’ve brought visitors, it seems.”
Octavia waved nervously. Madrigal’s own wave, by comparison, was much the opposite.
“Lady Acolyte, it appears these guests have entered your sanctum. What shall be done?” the first man asked.
It had taken them time to shift enough for the beaming sunshine to splatter on yet more company. If their presence alone, mysterious as they were in such a place, was disorienting, then the girl who claimed the pedestal at their backs was enough to steal the breath from Octavia’s lungs.
She was unfathomably beautiful, resplendent in a way that left her shimmering brighter than even the radiant glasswork painting the church exterior. Every drop of light spared from the skies above rained down upon her with grace, landing perfectly in cascading blonde that sparkled in turn. She was an angel clad in white, perhaps more regal than even that which Octavia had seen cling to the others of the church thus far. Upon her delicate skin, the aura was entirely different. She was draped in purity befitting of Heaven, and the billowing fabrics rippled with every tiny movement. Octavia’s mouth was painfully dry.
From what Octavia knew of acolytes, the soft and lyrical tone of every word that left the girl’s lips was to be expected. “Let me speak to them. One of the clergy has told me of their arrival.”
“Yes, Lady Acolyte,” she heard in tandem.
Given how easily she’d prompted the departure of both men, it left Octavia raising an eyebrow. In seconds, she been offered first impressions of an angel, an acolyte, and a princess all at once.
They kept the child, at least, equally transfixed on much the same gorgeous acolyte of many faces. The door coming to a gentle close behind them left Octavia draped in another flavor of silence entirely, plagued by sunshine and blessed by the presence of an angel. It was broken up, somewhat, by the soft shuffle of little feet against plush carpet.
Her movements were hurried. Her arms were outstretched at the last possible moment as she collided with thick fabric in a gentle thud. Their tiny guide didn’t hesitate to bury her face deep in the acolyte’s robes, clinging fiercely. So, too, did she earn an embrace and a soft laugh for her troubles.
“Did you miss me?” the acolyte teased, stroking streaming locks not so unlike her own.
The child nodded in the confines of the crisp garments, splashing the same sandy cascade in every direction. Octavia smiled. At the same time, she stiffened. She was absolutely interrupting something or another.
“Is, uh, is this a bad time?” she asked nervously.
The acolyte shook her head, rubbing the child’s back as she relaxed her tight embrace. “Not at all. I’ve been expecting you four.”
Octavia tilted her head. “Wait, do you…know who we are?”
The acolyte beamed. Her smile was equally radiant. “Those of the church have spoken of you. Velrose is a small city, and word travels fast. I’ve heard of your remarkable display in the plaza.”
“Our…display,” Viola spoke with an agonizing slowness. Granted, Octavia would’ve hesitated to use the exact same word.
The acolyte's best efforts to part from the small child clinging to her robes were only half-successful, for how the little girl slipped behind her anyway. “You four are Maestros, are you not?” she asked.
There it was. Octavia breathed a sigh of relief. At the very least, she wouldn’t have to say it.
“I apologize for not being more cordial,” the acolyte spoke, one hand settling gently over her heart. Her slight bow almost felt lost on Octavia, humble as she already felt. “My name is Sonata, acolyte of the Velrose Church and heir to the Ivory family. I’d like to formally welcome all of you to the city of Velrose.”
Octavia fought the urge to smirk. She was already aware that she belonged here, in stark contrast to the harsh words she’d been given at the city gate. Now, too, she had the acolyte’s blessing. She battled the urge to retrace her steps and rub it in the man’s face.
It didn’t particularly surprise her that Viola could keep up, elegant and refined as the Maestra already was. Her curtsey was more or less perfect in return, just as Octavia remembered it. “Viola Vacanti, heir to the Vacanti family. And Maestra, of course.”
“Madrigal Talludo,” another Maestra nearly interrupted. With fingers split into a familiar V as they settled proudly over her eyes, her own brilliant grin gave the bursting sunshine a solid challenge. “Heir to the Talludo Inn and liberator of the darkness!”
Heir to an inn was a step down versus the heir to an entire family. Granted, Octavia doubted a single person could rival Madrigal’s second title. She once more stifled a smirk.
“I, uh, I’m Harper,” the Maestro in question began with a nervous wave. “I’m not really heir to anything, but I’m still a Maestro, so we’ve…got that.”
His eye twitched somewhat in the process of saying it. Octavia tried not to analyze it too much. She didn’t do a spectacular job ignoring it.
She did such a poor job that she nearly forgot to introduce herself entirely. Her best attempt at a curtsey paled in comparison to Viola’s, although she liked to imagine the sentiment was still appreciated. “O-Octavia. Octavia Ellis. Maestra.”
She winced. She and Harper had something in common, then. It wasn’t as though any of it was supposed to be a competition in the first place.
She strongly doubted the acolyte would’ve cared, anyway. She didn’t, and for that, Octavia was thankful. “Viola, Madrigal, Harper, Octavia. I will remember your names. And this little one,” she added, gesturing behind her, “is Allison.”
The attention the girl gave to each of the Maestros was fleeting, her eyes scanning the four in turn before she disappeared behind the acolyte’s robes once more. Again, too, the acolyte laughed.
“She is my beloved little sister,” the acolyte continued fondly. “We’re often separated during the day due to my duties, but still she runs to my side when she can. This time, it seems she’s brought company.”
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“What do the Velrose acolytes do, anyway?” Harper asked.
“Acolyte,” Sonata corrected. “Singular.”
Viola’s eyes widened. “You’re the only acolyte in Velrose? In this giant church?”
The acolyte only beamed with pride in response. Silver Ridge hadn’t required acolytes, if memory served relative to the handful of times Octavia had bothered to come within ten feet of a church. Still, from what she knew of the concept, she was at least aware of the holy system that necessitated multiple--usually. For one singular acolyte to attend to the sprawling splendor that was the absolutely massive Velrose Church was unfathomable. She briefly entertained the idea that the comment was a joke altogether.
“Honestly, the term ‘acolyte’ is not entirely accurate. Like others, I assist in day-to-day services and responsibilities as is necessary. However, most in the church share that burden, the young ones included.”
She offered an illustrating glance behind her at the clinging child, still such within the depths of her trailing robes. Her smile softened at the sight.
“I heard someone say ‘Lady Acolyte’ when they talked to you,” Madrigal offered. “You sound a lot more important than a regular acolyte.”
Sonata laughed softly. “Yes, the word ‘acolyte’ is a bit different. My role is more…ceremonial. Formal, if you will.”
“Like a priestess?” Octavia tried.
The acolyte shook her head. Octavia could’ve sworn she saw something nearly playful settle onto the girl’s lips, fleeting as it was. “Not quite. There is one duty I can fulfill that no one else can. It…might be easier to simply show you. It’s a bit of a walk, though.”
“A walk?” Viola asked, her eyes already trailing the acolyte’s every departing step.
“Well, not really a walk,” Sonata clarified, somewhat content to preemptively leave them in her wake. “I hope you’re all okay with stairs.”
----------------------------------------
Octavia was beginning to reconsider her initial labeling of the acolyte as an angel.
In a feat that could be classified as naive at best and outright diabolical at worst, the Velrose Acolyte had forgone mentioning exactly how many stairs they were expected to be “fine” with. “Massive” didn’t do the staircase justice by one word alone. It was sprawling, spiraling, climbing skywards to such a degree that Octavia wouldn’t have been surprised if she ended up in the clouds. The bursts of sunshine that erupted from the splattered windows along suffocating stone were the one thing that gave her any motivation to move higher.
Sonata had zero difficulty ascending, apparently, and it was clear to see by her every unperturbed step ever upwards. She didn’t so much as pause for breath, let alone show any indication of labor whatsoever. Octavia, under no circumstances, considered her athleticism to be poor. She was a phenomenal runner, to say nothing of her other general movements in the nature of Silver Ridge. Still, her calves were beginning to burn. Even Harper wasn’t immune to the beads of sweat that had begun prickling his skin, and he himself outshone her in at least one of her prized physical strengths.
Viola, then, was in absolute agony. Not once did she beg for reprieve, even with her labored breaths more than audible and her gasps echoing somewhat off every wall. Her face, splashed with brilliant red, spoke to more than simple exertion, and Octavia sincerely feared she might outright tumble in reverse to the first floor of the church once more. Madrigal guided her along with patience, and she fought with all her heart for every step that followed. No amount of slowing down collectively, nor any amount of inquiring as to her well-being, was enough to deter the Maestra.
Octavia had already seen the limitations of Viola’s athleticism--if it could even be considered such--in the midst of their initial encounter with Renato. She’d been told of the complication in passing, by which the girl was simply born this way. That she’d ended up with a flute for a partner, her lungs as delicate as they were, was a cruel twist of fate. She’d never exactly been blessed with an easy path in life.
It did end, eventually, although not without substantial effort and physical tribulations. Octavia was somewhat convinced she’d been forced to ascend to Heaven itself, for how long she’d been pressed to climb. The breeze that kissed her heated skin, even before she’d exited in full, was her first blessing.
The second came in the form of the sky at her fingertips and the city at her feet, infinitely miniscule below as Velrose besieged her pupils in every direction. She nearly tripped over the limestone, disoriented and dizzy by the sheer height she’d been granted. If she strained, she could see people moving, little ambulatory specks as they’d become. If she stretched, she could probably touch the sun. She was tempted. She had a third blessing, and she found the sun somewhere far more accessible.
The bell, up close, was absolutely breathtaking. Every glance she’d stolen from ground level was pitiful by comparison to the bronze before her eyes. What sunshine had been seized unflinchingly from the sky above lay captured and glistening along its surface. Every last subtle movement she made left it glistening at any angle. If she were to step in the wrong direction, she’d perhaps be blinded for life. It was unweathered, unhindered, and tethered with incredible care to the eaves well above her head. In that moment, on sight, Octavia could understand the moniker of the Blessed City.
The size difference between the acolyte and the tremendous bell was striking. Still, she was undeterred, one palm coming to rest flat upon the shimmering metal. “This is the bell tower of the Velrose Church. It is the pride and joy of our city,” she spoke.
“That explains the stairs,” Harper muttered, rotating his suffering ankles carefully.
“I’ve…heard it brings peace to people who hear it ring. Is that right?” Octavia asked.
Sonata blinked. “Who told you that?”
Octavia winced. Pulling words from Drey’s lips so soon was, more than likely, not her greatest plan. “I-I just heard it in passing when we got our passports.”
The acolyte paused for a moment. “You’re correct. Its song is a charm against pain and suffering. Those of Velrose are safe under its care.”
“Something…only you can do,” Viola began, her breaths still somewhat labored. “Is this it?”
Sonata’s smile returned, laced with yet more pride. “Very good. It’s true that I am an acolyte, but I am also the bell-ringer of the Velrose Church. Thrice daily, I play its song.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait, this bell?” Harper asked incredulously, gesturing to the bell in question with equal astonishment. “This giant thing? You can actually ring this yourself? Like, without help?”
The acolyte nodded, beaming ever brighter. “It’s not easy, I assure you. It took years upon years of practice to fully perfect.”
When their disbelieving silence lasted for much too long, Sonata tossed one glance towards the sun. “Would you like to see? It’s a little early for the next toll, but I’m sure no one would mind.”
Madrigal’s eyes were perhaps all that could sparkle brighter than the bronze beneath the sunshine. “Please please please please please!”
Sonata was practically aglow. With slight effort, she adjusted the draping sleeves of her abundant robes. “I advise you all to cover your ears. It can be quite loud at such a close distance.”
She did as she was told, albeit slowly and with hesitation. Those around her followed suit. With one less active sense--mostly, for what still bled through as Sonata’s footsteps echoed against the limestone below--her eyes trailed the acolyte’s every movement. The tolling rope was equally grand, splendidly golden and spectacularly woven. The selfish bronze spared at least a crumb of sunlight, and the shimmer upon the material was well worth it.
It was there that Sonata’s unhesitant touch came to rest, slender fingers curling deftly around the length of the rope. The acolyte braced against the ground, somewhere between overextended and not. It was a highly specific position, and yet she’d adopted it with such near-instant ease. Even before she gave so much as one tug, Octavia was already incredibly impressed.
“Ready?” she called, her words of warning slipping through Octavia’s guarding fingers.
She nodded. Still, it was almost a reflex to claim several steps in reverse. She didn’t quite flatten herself against the railing, but still felt more than justified in adopting a bit of distance.
The acolyte ascended. The moment gravity reclaimed her, Drey’s prior words clicked into place instantly.
Sonata’s graceful demeanor was utterly unthreatened by the physical labor that came with such a feat. In truth, it was augmented ever further. She kicked hard off the floor of the bell tower with such force that she practically flew, anchored to the tolling rope alone and rising like the angel she was. With what was necessary to earn her title as bell-ringer, the true effort of every toll left her suspended for several moments. Each and every time, she descended with elegance, a being of Heaven returning to the world below with so little exertion to show for it.
Even like this, she was beautiful. She was the second-most beautiful thing to be found atop the bell tower at that moment. The acolyte absolutely was not lying about the volume. Octavia, in no way, shape, or form, cared.
The bong that followed rippled through her blood and resonated through every inch of her soul. She couldn’t move. She didn’t try. It came in waves, pure in every way as her heart vibrated in tandem with the tower itself. Every breath she could steal from the wobbling air was fleeting, and she was lucky she could breathe at all.
In no way was the sensation terrifying. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, her whole being made of crystal that sang beautifully beneath every toll. Somewhere between complete calm and unbelievable astonishment, Octavia was more or less robbed of her thoughts. It was wonderful.
Sonata repeated the same cycle twelve times over, by which she was an angel in flight and yet again descending at the mercy of one guiding rope. When the bell came to a standstill at last, Octavia hardly registered its tapering song. She was more than tethered to where she stood, possibly forever. Untangling herself from the glistening rope, the acolyte was hardly breathless. Really, she was hardly plagued by exertion at all, content simply to smile as her feet finally kissed the floor of the tower.
That same smile was almost prideful once more, given the stunned silence that had besieged all four Maestros simultaneously. It was only the residual echo of the tolling that sliced through the stillness, showering the city below with much the same blessing. Viola, to her credit, did her best. It took a significant amount of attempts to clear her throat, regardless.
“T-That was…you’re…excellent. At what you do, I mean,” she stammered, her voice cracking slightly.
Harper nodded in agreement. “Really impressive stuff. I mean…that’s a seriously big bell,” he repeated, his voice tinged with the same mild fluster. At the very least, Octavia wasn’t the only one inexplicably disoriented.
“No one else in the church rings the bell? Why do you have to be the one to do it?” Octavia asked at last, battling to steady her words.
Something in Sonata’s smile shifted. Octavia couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. “That’s an excellent question. In that case, here’s a little riddle for you to answer.”
“I love riddles!” Madrigal exclaimed, her voice utterly unhindered. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.
The acolyte clasped her hands comfortably behind her back. “Why do you think I’m the only bell-ringer in the Velrose Church? Take your time and think hard.”
Octavia blinked. She thought it was a joke.
“How many guesses do we get?” Madrigal asked. At least one of them was taking it well--not that the person in question would’ve had it any other way.
Sonata beamed. “As many as you’d like. I’m in no hurry.”
“Is it...because you’re the oldest?” Harper offered. “Like, relative to the other acolytes?”
“There are no other acolytes,” Viola whispered.
Harper winced. “Forgot that part.”
“Is it because you’re the…heir, did you say?” Viola tried. “To the Ivory family, right?”
Sonata tipped one hand back and forth playfully. “Somewhat. You’re on the right track, though.”
“It’s physical!” Madrigal exclaimed, throwing her arms skyward. “You’re the strongest person in the whole church, right?”
Sonata laughed. “I wish. I assure you, it’s no major feat.”
“In our defense, it’s a big bell,” Harper argued. “Like…really big.”
It wasn’t so much that Octavia was uninterested in the acolyte’s sudden puzzle--which, frankly, she seemed to be enjoying a bit too much. The bell was simply just that captivating, and all the more so for the way it had left her vibrating from the inside out. She only hesitated for a fraction of a second before grazing the bronze with her fingertips, wonderfully warm as it was. It didn’t burn in the slightest. The smooth texture was a wonderful plus, and she savored it as she trailed her touch downwards endlessly. Up close, it was strikingly clear, splendidly reflective and still more than capable of annihilating her sight should she step out of place.
She stole the shade it offered, somewhat silly as it made her feel. It took effort to crawl beneath the rim of the bell and claim the darkness within, the light of the world beyond still spilling around her ankles. The shift in temperature was surreal, cool air settling upon her skin as she stood tall.
If she were to shout in its bronze embrace, sheltered from all that was beyond, she wondered if the echo would instead steal her hearing. Once more, she repeated the same ministrations, running her fingers along the length of metal now cold to the touch. She felt secure. From the outside, she might’ve looked ridiculous.
When Octavia was silent, Viola’s eyes drifted to the only other item of interest atop the bell tower. The boots visible beneath the base of the bell left her raising an eyebrow. She looked ridiculous.
Harper and Madrigal were more or less onto nothing. Viola blocked them out to the best of her ability, pushing aside the mild irritation that came with the acolyte’s delight at their befuddlement. She started at the top and trailed her way downwards, in that case.
It was a city fond of Maestros, apparently, if not simply aware of such to begin with. The revelation was instantly trailed by insistence as to an audience with the acolyte, unexplained as the recommendation was. The acolyte in question had acknowledged them as Maestros less times than she could count on one hand. The acolyte in question was starting to drive her insane, for how Viola could hear the rising satisfaction in Sonata’s voice with every distant incorrect answer.
She sighed heavily, opting to actually count on much the same hand physically. Sonata was revered. Her role was “ceremonial”. The city’s religion was still anyone’s guess, although Octavia had done quite a splendid job at framing it as mildly intimidating.
Sonata had been intimidating, granted, right up until exactly five minutes ago. If Viola didn’t know any better, she’d genuinely believe the acolyte was enjoying herself more than Madrigal. The thought alone had her convinced the bell was still messing with her head.
Octavia was immune to Sonata’s muted glee, although she could definitely hear the soft laughter beyond the bell. She still claimed sanctuary within its metal walls, her footsteps echoing gently with each experimental movement. For the acolyte’s sake, she at least attempted to play along.
It was, more than likely, an absolutely horrible idea to rest her full body weight against one curved wall of bronze. If she were to send it ringing, she’d probably deserve the banishment from Velrose she’d surely earn. It hardly mattered, given that it didn’t move one inch whatsoever. She tried at least once more, albeit far more carefully--not that it would’ve helped. She was met with the same resistance. Sonata was infinitely more lithe than her, if not exceedingly delicate on sight. How the girl didn’t break every bone in her body three times daily was beyond Octavia.
She was teasing. Viola could’ve sworn the acolyte was outright teasing. If she were in either Harper or Madrigal’s shoes, she probably would’ve lost it by now.
Viola fought onwards to run through her mental checklist, eyes shut and still struggling to block out the sounds of unnecessary enjoyment. Sonata’s physical ability was nothing short of miraculous. She could perform a task that “no one else could”, apparently. “No one” was ambiguous. She hardly considered herself strong, ringing a bell dozens of times her size with hardly any effort. Never once, in any church Viola had set foot in, had she seen a bell even half the size of Velrose’s precious own rung by those without incredible strength. In the face of this bell, supposedly, strength was irrelevant.
Viola paused, slowing her thoughts to a halt. She mentally retraced that one once more.
“Sonata,” she tested aloud, “can you…do this with any other bells, or only this one?”
Sonata continued to smile, her playful expression still painfully such. “I’ve never tried any other, but I doubt I could do the same anywhere else.”
Octavia’s fingertips were going slightly numb beneath the eternal sting of the cold metal, for how long she continued to physically explore every inch of the bell from within. At the very least, she didn’t need to fear risking her eyesight in the artificial darkness. When she met with tactile resistance on the far side of the bronze, it was almost startling. Where once had been smooth, uninterrupted curvature came the slightest indent under her touch, dipping slightly as she traced the indiscernible outline.
She had to squint, tilting her head. For all its shade-plagued twists and curves, she first thought it to be the rosy crest pressed so neatly into her passport. Still, up close, her pupils could steal the sunshine from below. It was enough to confirm her one other suspicion. She froze.
And so, too, did Viola’s eyes go wide in tandem with Octavia’s own.
“Viola!” Octavia called, her voice echoing violently from every inch of bronze encircling her. She winced immediately, struggling to poke her head out from beneath the rim instead. She nearly injured herself in the process, given how quickly she moved.
“Viola, it’s…she’s a--”
“A Maestra,” Viola spoke softly. “You’re a Maestra.”
Where she’d teased and tormented so gently, the gentle dusting of pure satisfaction that settled onto the acolyte’s face was far from explosive. It hardly mattered, for how she was radiating delight.
Sonata beamed. “Correct.”