“You’re serious? I missed the second one, too? You could’ve woken me up! It would’ve been fine!” Harper cried. Octavia winced.
“I swear, I didn’t even know it was going to happen! It kinda just…did!” she explained desperately.
“You better actually tell me about the next one,” he muttered, only half-serious as he gently poked her forehead. She smirked.
“Oh, it was awesome. Wish you were there. Real sparkly, little light show and everything. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Absolutely unbelievable. You really missed out,” Renato tormented, arms crossed and enjoying every moment of it.
Harper glared daggers into the boy. “You have no idea how much I hate you.”
They were only semi-relevant. The way Viola had side-eyed Josiah since they’d come back inside had Octavia equally defensive and uncomfortable. Josiah wasn't ignorant to the attention, avoiding eye contact with the Maestra wherever possible. It was too much, and the tension in the salon was starting to get to Octavia. She wanted to bring it up. It wasn’t her place. Ultimately, he was the only one who could stand up for himself.
It didn’t keep her from pleading with Viola visually, shaking her head with sharp eyes every time she could capture Viola’s own for longer than a second. She didn’t particularly enjoy being aggressive towards Viola, even given the context. Still, the way Josiah shifted awkwardly in his seat was even more distressing. Some part of her felt protective today.
“That’s…two of them, then,” Viola said, her voice more monotone than Octavia would’ve liked. She really, really wished the girl would stop staring at Josiah as she spoke. “Ninety-four to go. Progress, I suppose.”
“Why’d you leave Stradivaria in the foyer, anyway?” Harper asked. With the case at his feet, he gripped the neck of the violin loosely, raising it aloft in one hand.
Octavia nearly lunged for the instrument, practically snatching the violin and bow from his grasp. “I-I forgot.”
He tilted his head. “Be careful about that.”
Of all people, she didn’t need him to be the one to give the reminder. He’d been equally as guilty at that time. Still, she nodded, gently settling both halves of Stradivaria into her lap.
“Well, this has certainly been an exciting day,” Renato joked, sprawling out just a bit too comfortably on the sofa. With his arms stretched wide, he hooked the left one up and over the headrest nearest to Madrigal. “We gonna eat and start spilling our darkest secrets to each other again? Kinda liked that.”
“Then you cook this time,” Viola hissed.
Harper smirked. “You got something to offer? I thought we got everything off our chests. It better be good. You better make it up to me.”
“Damn, are you the grudge-holding type?” Renato muttered with a shudder. “That’s new.”
Octavia winced. It wasn’t, apparently, if recent events had taught her anything.
“I have…something to talk about,” Madrigal murmured, raising her hand quietly. Her voice was so soft that her words were nearly lost.
Renato side-eyed her with mild confusion. “We’re listenin’,” he offered.
Madrigal paused for a moment, her hand descending into her lap. She fidgeted somewhat, casting her eyes at the carpet rather than those around her. “I…I had a really bad day today.”
Nearly in perfect unison, Octavia and Josiah scoffed. Renato’s poorly-concealed smirk didn’t help. That was an understatement. All three had collectively agreed to keep the tale of Lyra’s wrath away from Viola and Harper, for how much stress the two Maestros had already accumulated in the past several days. Apparently, it was going to come up regardless. Octavia stifled a subsequent sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Harper asked gently, ignorant to the truth of the matter.
Madrigal sighed. “I got…news from Minuevera yesterday. My mother sent a pigeon.”
“She sent a what?” Josiah shot back.
“I know, just go with it,” Octavia muttered to him under her breath.
“Something happened to one of my brothers. In Whitebrook,” she continued sadly.
Octavia’s eyes widened. The name sounded familiar. “What happened?”
Madrigal squeezed her eyes shut, clasped hands following suit. “He’s…he grows fruits and vegetables like we do, and he sells them at his stand in town. A few days ago, someone broke into his house in the middle of the night and ruined everything he owned. T-They destroyed all of his crops, they broke all of his things, and they made his whole home unlivable. He can’t go back now. No one knows who did it, a-and he didn’t even have anyone who was mad at him. I don’t understand.”
Renato flinched. “You’re serious? They just went after this guy for no reason?”
“Was he okay?” Viola asked with fervent worry.
Madrigal raised her head, her eyes shimmering with tears lying in wait. “That’s the weirdest part! Someone sent him a letter hours before that, literally hours, telling him it was gonna happen! They told him he was gonna get hurt if he stayed, so he went to stay with a friend. Whoever it was, they were right! I just…I don’t get it!”
“Did it have a name on it or anything? The letter, I mean?” Harper interrupted.
Madrigal shook her head. “It wasn’t even in an envelope! It was just a piece of paper!”
The sight of Madrigal in distress yet again left Octavia’s heart aching. “I’m…so sorry that--”
“Stop.”
Josiah’s singular demand, low and firm, was enough to bring the salon to a halt. Head in his hands and a piercing gaze lodged in the carpet, he soaked in the resulting silence. He exhaled heavily.
“An attack on a homeless camp,” he began, “a man’s life sentence suddenly being changed to the death penalty, and now someone goes after your family.”
When he paused, she pressed. “Josiah?” Octavia tried.
He looked up at her, and it was her fault for earning his sharp eyes. “What the hell is going on?”
There were no words to answer him. Even now, Octavia, too, had no response. She clung to his words, bitter and hastily-assembled as they were. She wasn’t the only one.
“Once is happenstance, twice is circumstance, and three times is something seriously wrong,” he went on. “I thought these were just…freak incidents, but it’s only been a few weeks. We can’t get anywhere closer to figuring any of this out because things just keep friggin’ happening, one on top of another. We’ve still got absolutely no clue what prompted any of this, or who even did any of this.”
“You think all of this is…related?” Harper asked quietly.
Josiah gritted his teeth. “I can’t prove it. Something is truly, genuinely not right.”
“But they didn’t even do anything,” Viola argued. “Madrigal said her brother doesn’t have any problems with anyone. My father is in prison, and the only people I can think of who’d take issue with him are…maybe the families of his victims. Still, they’ve had years to do that. And in Harper’s case…well, I don’t know.”
Harper took over. The dark flash in his eyes at a choice portion of Viola’s words wasn’t particularly subtle to Octavia. “I have problems with certain people. Big problems. Even so, I don’t know who put them up to it. I’m still baffled at where the hell two teenage girls get that much raw gasoline, frankly.”
“Maybe someone’s mad at us, then?” Renato suggested.
Madrigal winced. “But we haven’t done anything wrong, either!”
Viola was indulging her bad nail-biting habit again for the first time in a while. “What’s changed recently that would prompt someone to go after us? This isn’t even us, though, it’s just…people affiliated with us!”
Josiah closed his eyes. “Octavia becoming the Ambassador, for one.”
The implication was deeply disturbing, and Octavia’s heart skipped a beat in the worst way. “Y-You think someone’s angry about that?”
“Who the hell even knows about that, though?” Renato asked. “That’s not exactly common knowledge.”
“Just throwing things out there,” Josiah clarified, his eyes still shut. He rested his forehead against his hands as he ruminated, leaning so far forward in his seat that Octavia feared he might fall.
Harper tensed. “Is there even anyone besides us who knows that Octavia’s the Ambassador?”
“Or knows what the Ambassador is, first of all?” Viola interrupted.
“I mean, there’s eighty-nine--eighty-eight more Maestros out there aside from the five in this room,” Josiah rationalized, his voice strained with the effort of contemplation. “That’s eighty-eight people who could’ve potentially figured out what’s going on.”
The math on his correction didn’t add up. Octavia didn’t question it.
“And a motive, then?”
He shook his lowered head viciously, his bangs brushing against his closed eyelids. “I don’t know yet. Maybe to…keep the Muses here? Keep their Maestro abilities? I don’t know!”
“No offense to Octavia,” Renato said, “but then…why go after everyone else if they know she’s the Ambassador?”
Octavia’s stomach twisted into a knot. The simple idea of them suffering over her title was beginning to make her feel ill. Focusing was a struggle.
“I can’t even argue she was involved with all three incidents, because she wasn’t!” Josiah growled. With his fingers gripping his hair, Octavia worried he’d start pulling it out soon enough. “She had nothing to do with Madrigal’s brother! She wasn’t even there!”
“So, what if they’re not related incidents, then?” Harper tried.
“I can’t see them as anything else. This is way too specific, and the timeframe is way too close! This is ridiculous!” he groaned.
“Is there anything, anything else we have to go off?” Harper asked, his own voice touched by growing irritation. “Me, Viola, Madrigal, we’ve already got all that, but...anything else that doesn’t add up?”
“I might have something.”
Viola’s words were surprisingly calm. The collective attention she drew as a result was well-deserved, particularly given the careful movements she made to reach down towards her left. When pinched fingers returned, they carried with them dual envelopes. Both were as confusing as they were uniform, barren and differentiated only by the slightest warring whites. One was cream. The other, somewhat beige. Otherwise, sealed. Equilateral. Unblemished by ink trails of any shade or flavor.
There actually was, if Octavia squinted, text tethered to the back of either one. It took until Viola shifted her palm to unveil them in unison, although there was apparently no sender to which they could return. It was one more similarity, battled by the contrast that came with the ink. The cream bore blue. The beige, black. She wasn’t sure if it mattered. Of far, far more interest was the name atop the address for Vacanti Manor. It didn’t match the residents.
“While you were…doing whatever it was you were doing earlier,” Viola spoke softly, “I…got these. They were in the mailbox. I don’t know if they were there overnight. I don’t know what they are. It’s not my place to open them.”
Octavia supposed she should’ve appreciated the sentiment. After all, it wasn’t polite to open someone else’s mail.
Her fingers shook in the process of claiming the mysterious squares of her own accord. She split them evenly, taking one into either hand as she steeped in her own disorientation. No amount of turning them over time and time again was erasing her name. Perfect penmanship bore her identity twice over, with not one inky blemish left behind. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two, scanning for anything beyond useless handwriting. It was the most she could find. It was the most she wanted to.
Octavia raised her eyes to her silent audience. The panic she gave them with her gaze alone earned her only apprehension in return. She knew what they were waiting for. It didn’t make it any easier.
Unclogging the words lodged in her throat took immense effort. She turned her head to Viola, fishing for what little support she could find. Even that, too, would only assuage so much of her distress.
“Left…or right?” Octavia breathed.
Viola flinched. “I-I--”
“Pick one for me,” she pleaded far too quickly.
Viola gulped. “Left.”
That was enough. Octavia’s eyes drifted to her left hand, her full attention following suit shortly after. Gorgeous royal blues of ink long since dried would’ve been almost pleasant, for how every letter sweeped and curved. In any other context, she would’ve enjoyed it. Even now, she was still convinced she was overlooking a return address.
Ideally, this was an unfortunate prank. Still, the number of people who knew her full name in Coda were strongly few in number. Her best guess came in the form of those who’d overheard her desperate testimony at a certain trial not so long ago. Were that the case, it would’ve been equally perplexing. Her fingers trembled as she pinched the delicate paper, tearing in the neatest line she could manage. It sufficed.
The contents were exposed, gracing the open air. If she waited too long, they’d surely be saturated in her radiant discomfort. She simply stared at the somewhat-serrated opening she’d crafted for several seconds, utterly still. It took far more willpower than she’d anticipated to delve beyond the paper pocket, and she nearly fumbled the entire envelope in the process.
Trembling, shifting fingertips brushed against more than one item, possibly. They were smooth, flimsy enough that she feared damaging them with her nails. Unseen as they were, separating them was difficult. Clasping one edge and setting the material free was challenging for a different reason altogether.
Octavia did end up dropping the envelope, actually. It took long enough. Just as it fluttered pitifully to the carpet, every butterfly in her stomach fluttered in the worst way. Frankly, soft whites outside did a great disservice to gorgeous reds within.
She’d long thought it to be lost. She still regretted to this day that she’d only ever requested one from the photographer. The memento had traded hands of her own volition, and it was never to return. Of the universe of four pressed to vibrant color within, she’d imbued it with all the love she could send for distant travels. Burning it into her mind was enough. There was someone who needed it more, alone as she’d be.
Even now, the most striking reds of crumbling autumn were immortalized in a still image, a smile paired with scattering freckles that never ceased to be beautiful. The faltering leaves in the background had matched that day. It was the sweetest irony imaginable. Priscilla was lovely. That would never change, and the family meant to trail at her side through a single picture hopefully brought her comfort.
It was here, now. It shouldn’t have been here. It shouldn’t have been anywhere.
Octavia was conscious of the way her breath was rattling, her own heartbeat impossibly loud. She couldn’t will herself to move in any capacity for a solid thirty seconds, her neck stiff from shock rather than earlier physical trauma. It was with immense effort that she again found Viola’s eyes, equally wide and equally terrified. Context was irrelevant, and what expression she found on the face of the Ambassador surely spoke for itself. There came a point where Viola’s gaze wandered to an envelope recently forsaken, languishing helplessly on the floor. Octavia’s own followed. She regretted it instantly.
She’d been correct in her assumption of multiple contents, and yet more so at the assumption of identical items. The coloration was equally well-preserved, and it was almost impressive. Octavia had never seen this one in her life, familiar silhouette or not. Even from behind, even with a passing smile thrown over her shoulder, even shying away from the lens, Priscilla was splendid at every angle. That was eternal. That was unsurprising, by comparison to what shock continued to roll through Octavia’s blood. The sun tangled into her locks, and the illusion of a woman blessed by angelic flames wasn’t unwelcome. There were no mountains in Silver Ridge.
The pregnant silence that followed was agonizing, as was the concept of shattering it. For a moment, no one tried. Of those who hadn’t been there from the start, Octavia had made doubly sure to fill in the blanks. They knew. They knew the context, too. It was obvious enough anyway, and she found confirmation on every face. It took far, far more than a moment for even a single word to sting the air.
“Are you…serious?” Renato murmured.
If she breathed too loudly, Octavia feared she’d lose her hearing for life. Her eyes drifted to the remaining envelope, settled atop Stradivaria in her lap. There was curiosity, granted. Mostly, she wanted to run. From what, she had absolutely no idea.
“What does that even…mean?” Harper asked nervously.
“Is it a threat?” Josiah tried. Even his own steady words were laced with hesitation, somewhat.
“This,” Octavia said, her voice wobbling, “is not supposed to be here.”
No one questioned her. The photograph rested upon her thigh, and the sealed envelope came into her hands. She somewhat feared she’d smudge the swirling handwriting simply by clinging so tightly to the paper, and yet she couldn’t help it. Willing her fingertips to move at all was a battle she lost almost instantly. Octavia didn’t want to know. She needed to know. She needed to be anywhere but here.
“It’s our families.”
Her eyes snapped to Josiah. She wasn’t the only one.
The boy continued to cradle his head in his hands, salvaging a low-spoken calm that had fled him minutes before. “It’s something to do with our families. All of us. Harper’s camp, Viola’s father, Madrigal’s brother, and…Octavia’s sister.”
“Why?” Madrigal whimpered.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Then what about the two of us?” Renato tried.
“Again, I don’t know. The absolute only thing I can think of for myself is that my family left Velpyre. Maybe whoever’s doing this…doesn’t know that.”
“You think they know about Velpyre at all?” Viola asked.
“Completely throwing things out there, like I said. Otherwise, I have no idea. For all I know, we’re next, then. Don’t our families live in the same place?”
Renato narrowed his eyes. “Selbright, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yeah, they do.”
“I can…write to my parents and warn them that something’s up. Will your family be okay?”
“Don’t care.”
When Josiah raised an eyebrow, Renato shrugged. “I mean, they can take care of themselves. They’ll be fine.”
Josiah didn’t pry, visible discomfort or not. “Then…at least we’re making progress, I think. This still sucks.”
“It still doesn’t explain why,” Harper murmured, crossing his arms. “That’s the most important part, if it really is our families.”
They were background noise, whether voluntarily or otherwise. The second envelope was just as devoid of resistance as the first, and it stole Octavia’s attention in full. Stilling her shaky fingers was a struggle, and yet she did her best. Whatever was inside, when she found the courage to plunge within, was rugged. Creases bit her skin, and paper surely replaced photographs. She pinched and pulled, and she was correct.
It was thrice folded, ivory, and perfectly opaque. She handled it poorly, and it unfurled somewhat. Whatever was freed, on initial inspection, was blank. When she unfolded it in full, she was rewarded with talented lettering, crisp ink in stark black long since dried. Her attention was claimed in so few syllables, and the remaining paper was practically useless. It was almost a waste. It hardly mattered how much care she gave them, at first, for how little sense they made. With wide and fearful eyes, Octavia scanned them once. Two times. Three times.
Witness the sins and you’ll find the truth.
Four times. Five times. Six times.
It clicked.
Everything clicked.
Eight words crashed into her heart with such force that she literally leapt to her feet, Stradivaria locked in a death grip. She risked breaking the violin in two, her knuckles dyed white as she strangled the neck of the instrument. Octavia was gasping for a breath she hadn’t realized she’d lost. She was vaguely aware of envelopes and photographs drifting to the carpet. She was vaguely aware of five sets of eyes thrown in her direction. It didn’t matter, and the world faded. It nearly spun. What was left was all-consuming.
“Whoa, Octavia?” Harper asked.
Madrigal blinked several times over. “Are you okay?”
“I know what’s going on," Octavia breathed.
She could already hear them questioning. She could already hear the heated whys and hows, drowning somewhere in her distant thoughts. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She tucked Stradivaria’s bow behind the violin, gripping the instrument upright with both hands. She stared. Stradivaria stared back. Even now, Octavia couldn’t breathe.
Do I get to choose?
As to what? Stratos answered calmly.
You know what. Do I get to choose which one I see first?
You are the Ambassador. If you know what is to be seen, then it is your right to decide.
How?
Feel the name in your heart.
Octavia couldn’t believe she was doing this. She was fairly certain she was going to faint.
Do you need to be here? Physically?
Your circumstances are unique. I do not.
She didn’t want to do this.
Promise me it’ll be the one I choose.
It shall.
She didn’t want to do this.
Swear it!
I do.
Her palms were clammy. Her vision was blurring. Her entire body was shaking so fiercely that she feared collapsing. She felt lightheaded. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to do this. More than anything in the world, she didn’t want to do this.
Say it. Say it!
Octavia Ellis, your toll has been paid twice over. Now, Ambassador, see through the eyes of the ones who paid the toll.
She so, so, so desperately did not want to do this. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run.
Octavia practically slammed her forehead against the scroll of the violin, and the world went black.
She didn’t have a choice. She had to know. She had to be sure.
◆ ◆ ◆
It was a life she never wanted to live, through eyes she never wanted to steal.
It was a world of order and peace she didn’t care about, deceptive in every conceivable manner. It was marked by the joys of adulthood rather than the trials of childhood, devoid of the stumbles and mistakes that came with growth. In any other context, it was perfect. It was as perfect as he could have wished it to be.
Octavia could see it on the faces of those he charmed. She could hear it in his every elated, poetic word. She could, were she more ignorant to the blood that stained his gentle hands, fall for it much the same. She’d already done so once. He didn’t hesitate to dream, content to thrust his head into the clouds and fly forever more. He’d never been afraid of heights--not in the brief time she’d known him. It wasn’t a dream he kept close to his heart.
And as to you, my friend, what manner of study is it which you seek to pursue?
I hope to be a historian someday. The culture of the world is incredibly diverse and fascinating, to say nothing of what we’ve left long in the past. To uncover what was gone and learn from it again, isn’t that its own magic?
We share ideals down to the thread, my friend! I could not agree more. The treasures of yesterday are indispensable, a gift unto a world that would be cruel enough to toss them by the wayside. Does it not wound your heart so?
I wouldn’t go that far. Still, yes, it’s a sorry sight. There’s a lot that I wish could be saved. How much culture are we losing each and every day to time and all that comes with it?
Yes, yes! And yet there are still those much like you and I, with an appreciation for what should be preserved for future generations to come. Tell me, does that not warm your very soul to know? We are perhaps two of a rare breed, we who would prioritize the past for the sake of the future.
You talk…so poetically. Has anyone ever told you that?
Call it passion, call it fantasy, call it what you will. It is simply joy brought into words.
You’re an interesting person. What did you say you’re studying, again?
With God as my witness, I shall dabble in business and trade before long. There is an ambition I will fulfill, even at the cost of my own life.
That’s a bit dramatic. What’s your dream?
Even from the peripheral she was granted, his wide and dramatic gestures weren't subtle. It would’ve been endearing, once. Octavia cared little for his dream. She might not have cared at all. She herself dreamed of moving her stolen hands, if not to fashion a rope around her borrowed neck and pull so tightly that her fingers bled.
I wish to create a home for such memorabilia, a place where what has been lost and ruined may be restored to its former glory. I dream of spreading the joys of works long thought to be beyond salvation to the world at large. In that way, even the youngest child may grow with knowledge once preserved only for our ancestors. It shall be grand. Perhaps you, my friend, would appreciate it just as much as I.
You mean a museum, then?
Oh, far from only that! A house of research, restoration, architecture, art, culture at large, traded and preserved in every way. I wish to begin from nothing and birth something new.
How…ambitious. I can respect your drive. You seem like a dedicated man.
With your ideals as they are, so close to mine as well, you would surely flourish in that environment! The hands of a historian would be a priceless asset in the creation of such a place. So, too, would you hold access to all of the history you could desire in this life. What say you?
He laughed. This man, plainer than her stranger in every capacity, spoke softly and gently. His smile matched, his attire more muted than that which Octavia donned against her will. He was simple, and his confidence was surely a byproduct of the prestigious environment they shared. She respected his eyes. She doubted his eyes. She hadn’t yet explicitly come to hate them, nor trust them in equal measure. Their one encounter was fleeting, and he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to wrong her. By virtue of association alone, he was dangerous. His gaze was guilty. In that way, it paired well with the one she’d adopted.
You ask so much of someone you’ve just met, yet you haven’t so much as asked my name?
M-My apologies, my friend! The preservation of yesterday is a…passionate topic for myself. It seems I’ve gotten carried away. I thoroughly apologize for my lack of manners. Do tell, then, with whom do I have the utmost pleasure of speaking?
His face was soft, his expression warm. His arms were crossed only with endearment, if not amusement with the eccentric figure who had crossed his path in turn. He, too, had fallen for the charm that Octavia loathed. That she couldn’t warn him was agonizing. That she couldn’t tell him of the trap he’d stumbled into was painful.
My name is Samuel. And yourself?
The name alone, whether on his lips or not, was enough to destroy her from within.
Alessandro Drey, at your service.
Kill him.
Kill him.
Kill him.
Kill him.
She needed to kill him before it began.
She needed to kill him before he could hurt so many others first.
And still, she couldn’t move. It was a Hell unlike any torture she’d ever experienced in her entire life. It put every agony she’d ever suffered through to shame.
SIAR was beautiful.
It always had been. Had he not been involved, Octavia may very well have respected it as the cultural landmark he’d wished it to be. In its early stages, there was no garden. It wasn’t quite barren, still an architectural marvel in its own right. It was ornate limestone, splashing ivory, sparkling glass, and love beyond what a single heart could carry. It was his soul given form, and that much was visible with one look alone.
The interior spoke to much of the same, just as she’d remembered from moments steeped in far more misery. Seeing the floor unmarred by blood was jarring. When she seized the briefest of moments in which he’d brushed past the lobby, she could’ve sworn she’d found the specific spot where a Maestra’s body had slumped to the floor. She could’ve sworn she’d found the exact two resting places of innocent hands, long discarded.
There was no joy to be found in this place. It was inescapable. He returned with Samuel in his wake so many times that she grew to memorize those spots. In a way, the shimmering marble was almost an injustice. It was a farce, the pristine splendor of a prior SIAR equally so. Blood had been spilt. She couldn’t see it through his stolen eyes, and still, it was surely there forever.
It wasn’t even the worst place he went.
I’ve only been here twice. They’re strict. It’s a historian’s dream--or, at least, one of my own. It takes a lot of effort to get around. Even then, the locals are quite hostile. No one’s entirely sure why.
Perhaps it is the preservation of culture for which they show concern?
Possibly. Don’t lose that passport, now. You’ll be in quite a bit of trouble if you do.
For what reason would you classify this place as a…historian’s dream, you say?
It’s so mysterious. They call it the Blessed City. The bell tower of the church is unfathomably beautiful. No one knows for how long this city has been here, and the historical research on it is quite sparse. There’s a lack of cooperation on the part of the citizens. We have suspicions that the heart of the city may be religious in nature, if the geographical centering of the bell tower is any indication, but that’s all we have to go off of. It’s an archaeological conundrum of the modern times, Alessandro. The mystery of the city is fascinating in its own way.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
I, too, am fascinated by such a tale. For how long has this city been of scholarly concern?
Years. Even during my studies, it was practically a living legend. Still, it’s a case that has largely run cold in recent times. Even with access to passports growing easier, the difficulty of solving the mystery--or finding any leads at all--has begun to deter those who would seek to investigate further.
Forgive my bluntness, but is there perhaps business to be done in such a city? For the sake of preservation exclusively, mind you. I do not wish to tread upon an existing culture.
Yes, that’s certainly blunt, alright. You’re a lucky man, such that I know the purity of your intentions. Otherwise, I might even think you to be too opportunistic for your own good.
He was correct. He was correct in every way. Were it possible, Octavia would’ve reached out, shaken Samuel’s shoulders, and told him so. She would’ve taken hold of his hands and dragged him as far from Drey’s poisonous influence as she could. She would’ve untangled whatever noose she could slowly see a conservator tying around his neck.
More than that, she wanted them out of the blossom. She wanted it out of her sight. She wanted Drey out of her eyes. She wanted Drey in nothing but suffering and torment, effective immediately. Every happy word that rolled off his tongue was a luxury he didn’t deserve. Every blissful memory she found was meant to be crumpled and discarded like the garbage it was.
Octavia couldn’t rescind the die of fate once it had been cast. So, too, was she powerless to rescind Drey’s charismatic net.
It’s not real.
What do you mean?
You’re a fool if you’re thinking of trading for something you can’t even verify the authenticity of.
I…I beg your pardon, miss, but you speak with certainty of its authenticity, then?
Give it to me, then. I’ll show you.
She was bold. She was abrasive. She was crude in ways he wasn’t. It wasn’t an auction, if Octavia's one experience in Coda was anything to go by. She hazarded a guess at an exhibition. Handshakes, false smiles, and Gold traveling in excess between foreign palms confirmed as much. She didn’t recognize the place, and she didn’t recognize the time. It didn’t matter, for how she recognized the gaze regardless. Samuel’s soft eyes had been fleeting, and yet the hard and judgmental glare before her was even less memorable. At the very least, there was an association with Drey. For that alone, they were guilty once more.
You certainly came prepared, miss!
If you’re going to be buying and selling at such a high price, this is the least you can do. Look here, then. There should be inclusions--at bare minimum, a small few. You’ll find none on this one. In the hand, the weight is off. The color is too vibrant for true sapphire, the sparkle too radiant.
But to tell such even from afar, even without tools or the aid of touch, that is utterly remarkable! With the naked eye, you are able to see the difference in an instant?
It’s not hard. Anyone can learn how if they gave an honest effort.
If you don’t mind my asking, is this gift of yours limited solely to the world of precious gemstones?
Not wholly. I can do much the same with fabrics and linens. I’ve only recently begun to get a feel for identifying false silk. Once again, it’s not so difficult if you bother to learn the skill.
I know I could not perform such a feat, as much as I wish I could try. I envy your talent, miss! Your keen eye is a diamond in the rough. Tell me, then, are you an appraiser?
Not at all. I’ve just got my own collection. Finery for finery’s sake. Is that not enough?
That is more than enough. A respectable appreciation for the craftsmanship of yesterday.
Craftsmanship of…yesterday?
Ah, but it is a cruel world in which we live that there are those who would seek only profit in lieu of a true appreciation for culture.
You’re a businessman, are you not? Despite your…oddities. Who are you to scold those seeking to make a profit? It’s simply the way of the world.
It is simply a philosophy with which I cannot sympathize. It is there that my path divulges with those who would disagree. Such is the nature of virtue.
You’re a strange man.
I try and try again to ignore your skills, miss, but they come to mind repeatedly. You would be an asset to my greatest creation, my life’s work.
If you’re trying to seduce me, you’re going to have to work a lot harder than that.
O-Of course not! That is n-not what I meant. My apologies if that is…how it seemed. I speak from the heart when I attest to my utmost respect for your abilities. Would you consider becoming my partner? I-In business alone, I clarify.
Business partner?
Alessandro Drey. Restorer and conservator at the Solenford Institute of Architecture and Restoration. Miss, I am much in need of the sharp, astute eyes of one such as yourself.
Is there profit in it for me?
If that is what it would take to enlist your priceless aid, then no cost is too great. I will see that it is so.
Somehow, that was enough. She wasn’t plainer than him, much like Samuel had been--rather, she outdid him somewhat. It was restrained, to some degree, outside of elegant events. Even so, her adornments were more notable than his own attire, sharp femininity not caged behind lock and key. Equally sharp, Octavia agreed, were the eyes Drey had acknowledged of his own accord.
Call me Portia.
The threesome weren’t necessarily inseparable. Still, they were balanced, and it did them well in the business world. Philanthropy was to follow business. It was true, ultimately, that SIAR offered charity to society, absorbing what had been broken and returning it with love. It was almost respectable. Drey wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty--ironically. The chemicals of restoration after restoration stained gloved hands day after day. He polished, he lifted, he scrubbed, he preached, he traded, he purchased, he mingled, he smiled, and smiled, and smiled.
In every facet of SIAR’s existence, he was involved. He was the nucleus of the institute, the sun around which the solar system of his life’s work revolved. He was blessed with the fruits of his labor.
This toll would end eventually. Octavia eagerly looked forward to the way it would finish.
How long will you swing that stupid thing around?
What better way to test its durability than this? Surely I must…be certain that the chemicals…have not eroded any…fundamental components of the…blade itself.
Alessandro, take a rest for a bit. You’re going to tire yourself out.
Nonsense! Besides, exercise is good for the heart, wouldn’t you agree?
He’s not half bad, actually.
Have you been taking swordplay lessons?
Would it amuse you, were I to say yes?
It would.
To conserve even the movements of the past, to emulate them at the hilt of a blade once again, is that not the most perfect of preservations? It is a truly beautiful thing.
You’ve become your own work of art.
You’ve become ever more abnormal, is what you’ve become.
Be nice.
He should trip. He should fall and land nicely upon the tip of the blade in question, run through much the same as he would dare to curse another so much later. That would be nice. Some days, Octavia wondered if her light was too severe a retribution. Some days, she wondered if it wasn’t enough. If she could smite him twice over, she would. Thrice. Four times. Five times. More. More.
Drey was, unsurprisingly, an aficionado of the arts. SIAR was his passion, and he worked until his palms were raw. Still, Octavia's stolen hands were never free, even beyond the institute's walls. They leafed through page after page of books by candlelight, or applauded joyfully for passing musicians who saw fit to grace Solenford with their song. He embraced everything from theater to sculpture, delving deep into creativity and appreciating the pleasures of life. It flashed, and flashed, and flashed.
It flashed too far. Where Drey relished the world, Octavia’s screeched to a halt.
He was distant, lost in a sea of faces. He fought for the same auditory glimpse of a skilled performer, blessing a gentle wind with a melody equally gentle. Octavia had never thought she’d hear the song again, and it was through borrowed ears alone that she was granted the chance. Were her eyes hers and hers alone, they would surely have flooded with tears. Whether in her hands or not, Stradivaria’s song was unmistakable. Octavia didn’t need to see her. She knew she was there. That was enough.
For what would follow, that was misery. That was torture. That was Hell. It was a reminder, something relentlessly divine made bitter in an instant. Her heart threatened to shatter long before the time came.
Your performance was incredible, miss! Your skill is second to none. Truly a treat for the ears.
Don’t speak to her.
Thank you!
Two words, bubbly and bursting with sunshine robbed five long years prior, broke Octavia’s world into a thousand pieces. It was a voice every bit as sweet as she remembered, no less blessed and lovely and wonderful in every way. Octavia didn’t exist right now. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t here. This wasn’t happening.
I believe I may have missed your introduction. Would you again indulge me with your name, miss?
Priscilla Ellis, sir. It’s nice to meet you.
Don’t take her name.
What brings you into Solenford, Miss Priscilla, if you don’t mind my asking?
Don’t say her name.
I guess you could say I’m…on tour? Dunno how else to put it. Just looking to share some music with the world. Is that weird?
Every chipper word out of her mouth left Octavia disintegrating. She was enraptured. She couldn’t function. The universe was spinning. She was right there, right before her stolen eyes. She was moving, smiling, speaking, and very much alive. If she screamed with a voice she couldn’t use, could Priscilla hear her? If she called a name so beautiful, would Priscilla answer? If she warned her to run, if she begged her to flee a conservator's lethal radius, would she oblige?
Not at all, miss, not at all! What is the blessing of music if not to bless the hearts of others in turn? Your philosophy is admirable.
I wouldn’t look that much into it. Are you a musician, too, then?
How I wish I had the talent. Nothing of the sort, unfortunately. Alessandro Drey, conservator and restorer.
What’s that?
I am what you could call…one who preserves. I seek to restore artifacts and cultural mementos of civilizations that otherwise would crumble to dust. It is my hope that the past may be saved for the sake of the future.
That’s…actually really neat. So, do you work in a museum, then?
If you could believe it, I speak with pride when I say I am the owner and founder of the Solenford Institute of Architecture and Restoration.
Sounds fancy!
Indeed! It is my life’s work. It is a multi-faceted facility that serves as a destination for all aspects of restoration and conservation alike.
Is it near here? Can I see it?
Don’t.
But of course! Have you the time?
Stop!
I’ve got a lot of it, actually.
In the worst moment imaginable, Octavia now knew how Stradivaria had felt.
For better or worse, she wasn't free of Priscilla. Priscilla haunted her. She haunted Drey, rather. Every flash bore the vivid reds of autumn. Octavia earned gorgeous dimples and a crystalline laugh. She earned a contagious smile that made Drey's shoulders shake and his head tilt with amusement.
Every moment she spent with him was one that should’ve been spent with Octavia instead--no matter how joyous or satisfactory Priscilla found it to be. They did business together. They ate together. He gushed to her of his passions and dreams, and she in turn blessed him with her song in excess. He opened up his life to her, welcoming her with open arms. Octavia knew his touch to be deceptive at best and deadly at worst. Priscilla was blissfully ignorant to the same.
She caught her own name more than once, spoken in honest exchanges with confidentiality. Her name on Priscilla’s lips once more was equally as warming as it was damning.
In an instant, they grew close. They grew much too close.
If ever there is something that crosses your mind, be it simple or difficult to solve, then we shall put our heads together and resolve to find a solution. I will not leave you in your anguish, my friend.
There’s some things out there that I think might be too tricky to ever solve, though.
Nonsense. There is always a solution to any problem, no matter how tough.
I…disagree. Kinda.
Is there something that troubles you, dear girl? I am here.
You…you’ll laugh, I think. It’s silly.
If it worries you so, rest assured I will not.
It’s not even silly so much as it is ridiculous. ‘Unbelievable’ is probably a better word.
I will endeavor to keep an open mind, just for you.
Well…Mr. Drey, do you believe in magic? I-I mean, I know that sounds stupid.
She couldn’t have.
Metaphorically speaking?
Literally speaking.
There was no way.
I…have not ever stopped to consider, in truth. I know I’ve spoken to an open mind, but I cannot stem the skeptic in my heart. I do not believe I would be one to put my faith in the supernatural, no. If this is your belief, however, of course I would respect it.
C-Can I…show you something?
Octavia was utterly helpless to watch the way Priscilla’s hands trembled as she spoke. She was utterly helpless to watch the way her own borrowed nod granted permission for Stradivaria’s company. She was utterly helpless to stop the song, utterly unable to cry out. She was utterly useless to beg Priscilla not to surrender her secret to the man who would be her downfall. For what purpose, Octavia couldn’t even begin to process. Drey didn’t simply learn--she’d outright told him.
The sweet, silky display of light that followed was the most striking memory Octavia could steal from the man. The ribbons of radiance that blessed the air before Drey’s borrowed eyes were salvation in a dark place, and Octavia clung to them for as long as she could. It was a light that would be brutally snuffed out soon enough, and the eyes that sparkled now would serve to witness her demise. She envied the way he’d earned the right to her precious melody. Her one comfort was the knowledge that the same light would someday be his undoing.
Are my eyes to be believed? This is…phenomenal, Priscilla.
This is…who I am. This is what I can do.
A…breathtaking trick. How do you do it, then?
It’s no trick, Mr. Drey. It’s…me. You promised you’d help me with anything, right?
I-I have spoken to my word. My girl, how did you--
Promise?
Don’t believe him. Don’t believe him. Don’t believe him. Whatever you do, don’t believe him.
I will do what I can to ease your troubles, no matter what they are.
Liar.
I’m…a Maestra. With these powers, I’m trying to…fix something that got messed up. There’s something ruining the world. It’s hurting people, and no one can see it but me. It’s awful. I need help, and I need to find others like me. I’m the Amba--
There are others, you say?
Y-Yeah. I…don’t think we’re all exactly the same.
How many?
A lot.
What is it you see, dear girl? What is it that startles you so?
I don’t know how to describe it. It’s a…force, of sorts. If you could reach out and touch pain, if you could see it with your own eyes, that’s what it is. It’s cruel, and it’s unforgiving. It leaves destruction and suffering wherever it goes. It ruins whoever it touches.
And no one can see it, you say?
Just me. Just me and anyone like me, I think.
Were you born with such a gift?
No. It’s the…violin. When we’re together, that’s how I can…do all of this.
‘We’?
I-I…I know this all sounds crazy. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me.
How am I to explain what I have seen with my own eyes, if I do not at least try? This…force of which you speak, for how long has it plagued this earth?
I don’t know. A long time.
You seek to erase…pain, then? A noble goal, but how lofty indeed.
You’ve always been an advocate for chasing lofty goals, though, right? It’s not…literally pain. You’re the most ambitious person I know. If anyone could understand this dream, it’s you.
Perhaps it is I who is in a dream, with what I am to believe.
Seeing is believing, Mr. Drey.
There is a…difference between a dream and a burden, my girl.
I know. That’s what makes this a problem. That’s why I’m asking for your help.
You would seek to change this world with your magic?
I’m just looking to get rid of what’s hurting people, and then I won’t need to anymore. Only that. It’s not supposed to be here.
But could one not argue that all things happen for a reason, Priscilla?
What do you mean?
If such a force is to be believed--if such pain is to be acknowledged--then is that not perhaps the will of the universe itself? Is that not the natural course of things after all?
But it’s not natural. Like I said, it’s not supposed to be here.
To toy with such forces of nature could be of consequences unfathomable, both to society and to you and I alone. How could one vanquish the unseen, regardless?
I…I can see it. I can fight back.
Must you?
I have to, or it’ll hurt people.
For how long?
Forever. Or, at least, until I…get rid of it all.
My girl, that is an incredible burden. Are you not afraid to fight for your entire life?
I don’t have a choice. That’s why I’m asking for your help.
You are so young.
When it’s all gone, I won’t have to fight anymore, though!
From where does this ‘force’ stem?
It comes from bad memories. Really bad ones.
Will there not always be bad memories in this world?
T-There will, but it won’t make this happen anymore!
Are you afraid?
Of course I’m afraid, but it has to be done. I need to do this, for everyone’s sake.
Why must it be you, my girl? Why not another?
That’s just how it is.
Could you not simply lay down that violin now and return to a simpler life?
What? People will get hurt!
Priscilla, my friend, your tale is as sorrowful as it is spectacular, and I fear for your safety. I cannot attest to the legitimacy of your ambitions. I cannot, still, fully conceive of this malevolent ‘force’ to which you refer. Know, though, that you speak of changing aspects of the world at large that should remain beyond human interference. If a man is to change the world, it is to be done through realistic means that reshape the order of society. It cannot be done by changing the laws of nature itself.
Mr. Drey, I don’t think I’m explaining this correctly. This isn’t even supposed to be part of nature. None of this is supposed to be here at all! I’m trying to get rid of all of it!
But should it not be left in place, if your words are true? Think, for a moment, if a seed were to sprout between the rifts of a road built upon its land. Unnatural as it may be, should one destroy the stones, would not, too, the blossom suffer? Is what was born unnatural not now ingrained into this world?
Please, listen to me!
What you speak of doing is dangerous, perhaps more so than even the nature of this force overall. This magic, then, is equally as unnatural. There is a balance that must be kept, Priscilla!
Mr. Drey!
I cannot see you be hurt!
Octavia’s shared body trembled. Her stolen voice shook with emotion. His heated words were met with the agonizing sight of the pain he claimed to detest, splashed across Priscilla’s face. For raising his voice to her, Octavia found yet another reason to despise this man.
Please, Priscilla, lead a normal life befitting of a young lady such as yourself. You have been gifted the world and blessed with wondrous opportunities. Do not throw everything away chasing magic and forces that will hurt you to change. Do not drown yourself in fear and agony. Please, please do not continue down this path. If what you say is true, it will be your undoing. You will suffer. Of this, my friend, I beg you.
It was a threat. It was a plea. It was a warning. It was agony.
You said you wouldn’t leave me like this. I trusted you, Priscilla murmured quietly.
Everything I speak, I speak with love and concern. I am not angry. I…I do not want this for you.
It’s not your choice. It’s mine.
It is, too, for the good of society as we know it that your ambition cannot be realized. In all other things, I would support you without hesitation. Know, though, that our ideals conflict. It is with yours that I cannot agree. For this, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.
You’re not the man I thought you were.
Her parting words as she fled, Stradivaria in hand, couldn’t resonate more with Octavia if she tried. In spite of whatever sick hand of fate had led her to speak of her secret, the disgusting truth she’d found had mirrored the Ambassador’s own. It was the worst reward. It was necessary.
Drey spoke of his frustrations. A lot.
I do not understand her!
I’ve never understood what you see in her at all.
Calm yourself, Alessandro. Do you not agree that her heart was at least in the right place?
But I had told her, time and again, that what she pursues is unnatural and hazardous! She is a young lady just having grasped the threshold of adulthood. She holds the rest of her life in the palm of her hands, and yet she would throw such away in the name of…toying with the forces of nature itself?
She has her ideals, just as you have yours. Is that so difficult to believe?
Hers are flawed and dangerous. They will be the bane of others--of possibly this world.
How do you even know she’s telling the truth?
I have witnessed her incredible gifts with my own eyes. I cannot forget what I saw. What world is it within which she lives? What Hell has she seen? What decisions has she had to make in the face of power beyond what should grace human hands?
You expect me to believe in magic?
Should you have seen what I have, you would not question the same.
But she’s a smart girl, Alessandro. I know you know that. Don’t you think she knows what she’s doing?
To speak with honesty, I do not. How could I?
It doesn’t even matter. You and your loud mouth scared her off. You won’t be seeing her back here any time soon.
There are others, or so she said.
Other…what?
Others like her, with a similar ambition. Others with the same unnatural magic as she, who would seek to shape the world into something it is not.
Where are they?
I know not, nor do I know how many. Per her words, she is guilty of the same ignorance.
Does it matter?
Of course it does! From any direction comes a threat to a fragile peace.
What…would you do, then?
Octavia’s fists, borrowed as they were, shook. The voice she loathed followed suit.
To both of you, I owe my deepest gratitude for lending not only an ear, but a guiding light to my deepest ambitions and dreams. By your hands, goals I once thought impossible became reality, and fragile hopes found the strength to stand tall for the betterment of tomorrow. I am indebted with my life. I…ask again that you respect and understand this man’s humble ideals.
Alessandro?
It cannot come to pass.
What are you talking about?
I say such with the utmost grace and peace in my heart. I offer this as a signal of my dedication to a world I have always hoped to better. I hope, too, that you both will understand.
I don’t understand.
I will stop them.
Who?
Those of her kind.
You just said that you don’t even know where they are!
Then I will find them.
How will you stop them?
I will reason.
And if that isn’t enough?
Drey paused. Then I shall take what makes them special. Should that not suffice, I will…do what must be done.
Ale…ssandro?
You’re losing your mind!
I know with certainty, Drey breathed, that you two know of the degree to which I speak to my word. I do not ask that you understand me. If you wish, I do not even ask that you assist me. I simply ask that you…know my rationale. I ask that you know the depth of my will.
I…In the time I’ve known you, I’ve never taken you for a killer.
I assure you, more than anything, I do not wish to be.
But Alessandro, the hands that hold such power, you know nothing about them! If a child--a child--were to be guilty of the same crime as Priscilla, would you still hold the same ideals?
When he didn’t answer, the look of terror on Samuel’s face spoke more than words ever could.
Alessandro! Portia snapped.
I do not wish to hurt children! I do not wish to hurt anyone! I do not wish to stain my hands with the blood of the innocent, who long in misguided ways for a better world! What must be done is not easy, nor is it admirable, but it must be done!
They were silent. When next Drey spoke, his words were low and rough.
I do not ask that you stand at my side. I do not ask that you stand before me. I ask only that you stand at my back. I ask that you watch. I ask that you witness and that you are there. I ask that…there is something that reminds me of my purpose. Stand at my back. I beg of you.
At the very least, they stood before him. They stared, the fear and confusion in their eyes offered to his face instead.
Drey’s memories had left Octavia floating, aimlessly suspended in every rich fragment carried close to his heart. It was Cadence all over again, and she couldn’t tell if he was an exception. Either she was simply enraptured in his sickening life, or the clock truly ticked slower for a man who had it all. Each flash was hardly a snippet, closer to films of their own. It was equal parts dizzying and captivating, and she struggled to absorb every loathsome aspect of his existence to which she bore witness.
It became exceedingly difficult, if nigh impossible, the moment Priscilla came back.
Octavia had never once doubted the feelings in her stomach that told her of crisis after crisis. She already knew how this toll ended. She knew of a story mired in horrific tragedy, page after page turning far too fast before her eyes. It was unavoidable. The moonlight streaming from on high illuminated the glass she pounded on, banging wordlessly thousands of miles away against walls she’d never shattered. It was a scene she couldn’t pierce. It was a scream she would never manage to unleash, and control she would never salvage. Prayer was useless. It was all Octavia had.
Run.
Run.
Run.
I can’t let you hurt anyone.
Who is it I would hurt, Priscilla?
I can’t let you stand in the way. I…came to tell you. You always want to talk about resolve, right? This is mine. Please, just…don’t interfere.
I have never once doubted the strength of your resolve, nor will I ever. It wounds me that you would think so. No matter our differences, know that you will always have my utmost respect. I will always call you my friend.
How can you say that when you won’t even stand by me?
I have warned you of the way by which our ideals clash. You are…without that violin. Have you given up the fight?
I haven’t. I won’t.
I ask again, why?
There are people I need to protect.
You are so young.
You were young once, too.
You play with forces beyond human understanding. You will hurt others by virtue of your noble intent to heal.
That’s what you think. I disagree. We’re different. This is my…last warning. Don’t interfere.
I ask as well, interfere with what?
With…anything. With me. Please don’t stand in my way.
Will you fight for this ambition to your last breath?
I will.
Should this world beat you to the ground and steal your senses, should you lose your every limb and your very voice, would you still struggle?
I would.
Priscilla, please.
Octavia’s vision blurred. It swam. Were it her own, it would’ve done so long ago.
Is there truly nothing, nothing at all I can do to set you on another path? Is there nothing I can do to bring you happiness in another way?
Priscilla shook her head. There is nothing. This is what has to be done, no matter what.
Time never slowed in a toll, no matter how badly she could ever wish for the opposite. For once, against her will or otherwise, it practically stilled altogether. The moment her borrowed hand delved into the inner linings of her suit jacket, Octavia knew. So many times had she watched Drey train through his own eyes. Of smaller armaments in self-defense and not, she’d long since memorized their homes. His fingers twitched, and she was well aware of what was to come.
Octavia struggled through nothing. She flailed in the dark. She cried out again, and again, and again without success. She reached with hands not her own for a blade too distant. She gasped for a breath she couldn’t find. Her soul fled her body in full, and she’d never get it back.
He hadn’t yet mastered the speed with which he’d cursed Renato with pain far later. He hadn’t yet perfected the skillful force with which he’d slaughtered Cadence. A sloppy thrust sufficed, and the heart that Octavia had adored in every conceivable way for so long came to claim Drey’s blade. In place of bursting love, only crimson bloomed. The blouse of Priscilla’s dress challenged the splendor of hair caught in the crossfire. Every tremble of his rugged hands around the hilt drove the weapon further beyond clothed skin, and a remorseless knife bit ever further into a girl so beautiful.
This was Hell.
Drey didn’t dare look away. Neither did Priscilla, their eyes locked to the very end as he stole her life. Octavia shed tears that weren't her own. She doubted their validity. Priscilla’s dilating pupils, still cursed with confusion and surprise above all else, haunted her. There was no fear. There was none to be found in betrayal.
This was Hell.
Priscilla fell. Her angelic visage was still remarkable even in her last breaths, her back colliding hard with the unforgiving ground. She stole the blade in turn, still lodged deep in her sternum. So violently did she crash into moonlit grass that her limp body practically bounced, and one ajar dress pocket sloppily surrendered its contents to the night. She was robbed of her song, locks aflame and arms languishing on either side. Octavia could’ve envisioned her to be an angel at rest.
This was Hell. This was a nightmare. She would wake up shortly, and Priscilla would be cherishing Stradivaria’s melodies in the front yard. She would be in the shop, tormenting their father with shrill notes in the midst of his work. She would be in the kitchen, still searching for the correct ratio of flour to butter for pancakes despite the eggs she’d already dropped on the countertop. She would be in Octavia’s room, helping her little hands curve around Stradivaria’s neck until she complained of the strings being too rough for her skin. She would show her the way with the finesse of someone who loved music more than life itself.
Here was her truth, the one Octavia had begged and pleaded the universe for. It killed her from the inside out. Try as she might, she could never unsee it. Wish as she might, she could never do unto Drey again what she’d already done once.
Priscilla’s killer loomed above her body, his work a catalyst for trembling and tears. He wept bitterly, droplets of sorrow tinting Drey's bloodied fingers and the soft fabrics of Priscilla's dress skirt. His eyes flickered between the instruments of his brutality and the victim of his sin again and again, in disbelief and despair alike. Only once did they capture the little pink book that had fled Priscilla’s pocket in the fall. The rose emblazoned upon more of the same shade was the single flower offered to her corpse, accompanying her in the plush grass.
I’m sorry.
His words meant nothing.
I’m sorry.
Octavia didn’t believe him.
I’m sorry.
She would never, as long as she lived, believe him.
Everything that followed was familiar, a lie she lived from the other side.
That’s not mahogany.
Internship?
It was my pleasure, Miss Ellis.
She looks…so much like her.
You’re sure?
I could not be mistaken.
The surprise in Portia’s eyes, close as he was to her that evening, was surely nothing compared to whatever look Drey had fixed her with in turn.
What a pleasure to see you once more!
It’s great to see you again, too, Drey.
May we meet again!
The backdrop of the Blessed City that had cursed her so wasn't stinging quite as severely immediately after Cadence’s toll. It didn’t completely erase the pain altogether.
She really did come.
They are alike, in that way. Her heart, too, is upon her sleeve. It is a wonderful thing.
Will you still…
The cards will fall where they may. Until then, I will pray for her happiness.
You’re no guardian angel.
How I would wish to be one of mercy, instead. She is every bit as beautiful.
You don’t have to do this.
You know that I must. Perhaps, even now, fate may steer her in another direction. For this, I, too, will pray. I will guide.
This was different.
Beneath our feet? How can that be?
Such is the legend of the blossom and the flame. It isn’t a tale meant for traveling ears, that’s for one. It’s a cage of sin and debauchery. Even the acolyte is useless.
There’s a second one?
You know, for having a Maestra with you, you two don’t seem to know a damn thing. She doesn’t talk?
She’s…shy.
Fine, then. That’s the truth of the matter. You wanna talk about culture, there’s not a whole lot of it to find down there. You’ll find plenty of other messes, though.
And how would we gain entry?
You’re really askin’ a lot out of me. You better have the coin to compensate.
Money is no object, my friend.
Thick fragments were thinning, fluid and flowing free. Flashes were flashing. It was all too fast. It didn’t matter that Octavia knew what was to come. If she could reach out and rein in Drey's runaway memories, she would grab hold for dear life. Her eyes, stolen as they were, could barely keep up their desperate theft. In attempting to break open a wasp nest, she’d accidentally triggered a volcano.
If the acolyte escapes, the whole city is at risk.
Indeed, there is a role to be played. The culture of this place must be preserved, and its customs maintained. Is it not our responsibility to, at the very least, contribute to such?
I-I…yes, I agree. We’ll…alert the clergy, I suppose. Do you think they’ll trust two outsiders?
Should they be affiliated with a…what did you say they were called?
A Maestra.
Yes, that. Should they be affiliated with a Maestra, then I am certain they will listen.
He lied.
He lied viciously.
He’d told her so to her face, well aware of the consequences of his actions. Drey had the nerve to deny the truth, effortless falsehoods passing through the lips she wore. He had the nerve to claim, unspoken or not, that Selena’s agony was a mystery. She wished so, so desperately to fill his throat with the sun in place of bitter words once more.
She did all she could to block out the sight of yet more agony that followed. A polearm speared at ruthless violet would return to sin soon after. She struggled to ignore the way he spoke so kindly, her own trusting fingers surrendering to his grasp. She flashed, and flashed, and flashed, the reel of Drey's life rapidly stuttering to an end with each passing second. It was equally cathartic and unbearable. Octavia’s heart had already died. The Ambassador was a corpse, an empty shell bearing witness for a greater cause. Never had she melded so perfectly with the dark. As to where it ended and she began, she’d never be able to tell.
Octavia saw their faces.
Will you truly put your life on the line to change this world?
I will. I always will.
Then you are no better than your sister.
The one that she wore herself. Wide eyes, flooded with shock and betrayal.
I’m sorry.
She didn’t believe him.
What will you do, then?
This.
The one who had been loved and betrayed much the same. A blank gaze, surprised and confused.
I’m sorry.
She didn’t believe him.
And you mean what you say?
You know it, old man.
So be it, then. You have my apologies.
The one whose carefree life he’d ruined. A broken grin, disbelieving.
I’m sorry.
She didn’t believe him. She could never believe him.
And at the end, in the worst throes of suffering, Octavia found catharsis. She swallowed it whole. For the first and only time since she’d become the Ambassador, she didn’t fear death. She welcomed it with open arms. She cheered for it. She cursed and loathed and hated the way she couldn’t kill him over and over of her own accord. She relished every last bit of light that scorched him from the inside out, her own screams echoing miles away from her own lips. Her dying eyes, too, were just as bright, her vision giving way to radiance far brighter than any flash. She hoped it hurt. She hoped it was agonizing.
To the very end, she could hear him lie. The same falsehoods came crawling between rays of brilliant plasma, and Drey fought to speak as he burned alive. Octavia had never noticed, consumed by rage as she’d been. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
I’m sorry.
Until the day she died, she would never, ever believe him.
◆ ◆ ◆
She came up screaming and couldn’t stop. Octavia hadn’t done so in quite some time, let alone lost her footing in the aftermath of the dark. The latter was an understatement. She was outright on the floor.
Octavia’s blurred vision was either a byproduct of disorientation and lightheadedness or the excessive tears she didn’t realize were erupting. Her throat was raw from how hard she wailed, her cries fragmented at best. Her fingernails dug brutally into her own arms, and she nearly punctured the skin along the way. Her stomach hurt. Her nausea was so overwhelming that she was all but confident she’d vomit this time. Her breath was gone, and she hardly cared. If this is how she died, that was fine. Now, she knew. For better or worse, she knew.
Stradivaria rested at her side, haphazardly discarded against her will. If she had even a sliver of energy for empathy, perhaps she would’ve pitied him. As it was, Octavia was overwhelmed and enraged. She was beside herself with grief anew. She wanted to kill someone. She wanted to break something. Her glass heart had crashed to the floor with her, shattering into millions of pieces that sliced her skin every time she moved.
Viola met her in that glass. Octavia didn’t notice, initially. The pressure draped over her body wasn’t uncomfortable. The delicate fabric of a bow brushing against her reddened cheek was a distraction in and of itself. The Maestra held her tightly, and she didn’t resist. She didn’t search for more eyes that surely watched as she lost everything. Instead, she sobbed until her soul evaporated. She cried enough tears to last the rest of her life. Her blood burned, melted, turned to lead and soaked through her veins. Hatred and iron followed it out.
She knew the answer to the crisis of those she loved, alive and before her as they were. What had come along with it was a truth she could never seal again. It was what she’d asked for, once. For now, all Octavia could do was die inside, over and over forever.