A dark-skinned woman with tightly braided hair answered the door. Her welcoming smile sent Chantria’s mind in to a spiral of what possible torture this lady could have planned. The editor had to remind herself that this home was not inhabited by her personal devil, but her body still reacted to the ingrained warning with tightening muscles.
Taking a breath the editor looked past the older woman at the table set with a main dish of cous cous with sides of egg, spiced cold cuts and fruit. It was a fine feast, but Chantria couldn’t help a pang of disappointment at the lack of Madombi.
Under less unusual circumstances, the thought of Madombi would make the editors mouth water. The fluffy dumplings slow cooked in savoury stew was one of Chantria’s favourite meals. Never mind, she could make that in her little household for lunch when her nerves were settled and her bags unpacked. She still remembered her mother's recipe.
Kijani laid a hand on her should and stepped inside with the editor. “I thought you wanted to wait for my wife to get here so she could have a say in what we were having, Mhathair?” he said raising an eyebrow at the display of dishes on the dark oak table.
“This is brunch darling I can’t imagine your wife has had much to eat.”
Chantria looked in to her mother in law’s sparkling brown eyes. The editor hadn’t had a bite since breakfast the previous day and the food Kijani’s mother beckoned her towards looked enticing though she was disinclined to eat. Her stomach clenched with heightened anxiety when she entered the room and saw a man with greying brown hair dressed in full military uniform. He stared at her with even green eyes and gestured for her to sit at the dark timber table meant for extravagant dinners. A smaller table bedecked with fine wines and spirits stood in the corner by the head of the table. She couldn’t see any doors leading further in to the home, but she suspected they were hidden behind the arched mirrors on either side of the room. Minute the front door closed behind Kijani the editor felt the click of a trap sprung, but she joined the family at the table.
Unease, once at an even thrum buzzed beneath the editors skin. The room, though bright, smelled sterile beneath the surface despite the invading smell of fresh flowers coming from the open window. A black marble kitchen was built along the far wall and so immaculately clean Chantria was sure even Ayele couldn’t find anything out of place.
The ink haired editor looked up in to Kijani’s perplex face. “I thought you weren’t back till dinner, athair?”
“It was decided we are to urgently investigate the sudden appearance of your wife. That means questioning her.” Kijani’s father said resting his head in his hand. Chantria couldn’t help but notice the red band on the man’s arm.
Rank, especially this close to the soul tree, was an understated affair. Expensive jewellery were for the middle class trying to break in to the upper echelons with displays of wealth. In the central circle, class was displayed with cloth and colour. For a woman, silks and bright colours were in fashion. The men wore black linen with specific-coloured bands, the placement of which told you with certainty where they stood on the hierarchy. Kijani’s father held a red band with three silver veins embroidered vertically across the fabric. If Chantria remembered rightly, this marked him as a Majour general 3rd class. Her uncle told her the Abara’s were strategists and Chantria assumed they would have a vested interest in the population of magic users in the ranks.
“Jambulani, can’t that wait until after brunch? She just got in the door!”
Chantria swore she saw the man flinch, but the smile he gave his wife was genuine. He reached out for her and she tolerated his kiss on her cheek. “It can’t darling, Issay expects a report when I get back.”
Her mother-in-law frowned. “We haven’t even been introduced yet!” she said, shooting Kijani a disapproving look.
Etiquette demanded that she be introduced to the family before she could speak. This would usually be done at the ceremony where she was handed in to their family. Kijani, however, was taking his time removing his shoes and black cloak.
Kijani stepped forward, smiling in the face of his mother's playful glair. “Mhathair, athair, this is Chantria Keita. She comes to our house as my wife.” He said playing on the formality with his tone.
Chantria nearly laughed, but managed to keep a straight face. “Good morning.”
Kijani’s mother offered her a seat at the table with a gesture of her dark hand. “Good morning, Chantria. It is a joy to welcome you in to our home. By the roots, I thought my sons would never marry and I hear you have two sisters?”
His mother's calm, glowing smile confused the editor, but she pressed on with the conversation and sat in the offered seat as curtesy demanded. “Yes. I expect they’ll be at the next gathering. That’s next month, isn’t it? How are Adjo and Iniko? Kijani said they were poisoned?”
Kijani’s father smiled. “Yes, but they’ll be fine in two days or so.”
Kijani’s mother set a square green plate in front of her. “Help yourself to whatever you like.”
“Thank you, madam.” Chantria said, helping herself to a small slice of thick vegetable omelette and the clay pitcher of orange juice.
Kijani’s mother smoothed her loose orange silk dress as she sat. “Call me Nobuhle, there’s no need to be so formal.”
“And you can call me Jambulani... After I question you. For now; I’m Majour Abara.”
Nobuhle sighed, but said nothing as she poured everyone tea.
Chantria gladly accepted. I need to be awake for this. “Am I under caution, Majour?”
Majour Jambulani hid his hesitation behind a swig of coffee.
“Athair?” Kijani said his tone taking on an edge of surprise.
“You may act as if you are. The only reason I’d consider arresting you is if I thought you were involved in the reduce number of women at the gatherings, but I find that unlikely.”
Chantria nodded and watched the Majour pick a notebook out of his pocket.
“We’ll start with the basics, you’re Chantria Keita-Abara and your profession?”
“I’m an editor.”
“For what department and company?”
Departments, were what the governing council called their organisations of membership and were overseen by the relevant guilds. Editors were classified into different departments dependant on their specialism. The literary guild found her hard to classify given her triple majour. So, they put her name down in three departments as she intended to function as a consultant, editor and authour under one business name. This made her taxes complicated. She had to file them three times and was taxed separately for money earned on consulting, editing and published works, but payments went in to one account. The editor would have preferred to have payments for each prong of her business to go in to separate accounts, but she didn’t dare try and steal her documents again. As her accounting got more complicated the editor outsourced her accounting to a third party that handled her taxes and guaranteed her anonymity for a hefty fee.
Currently, that particular frustration was beside the point. Chantria valued her anonymity and keeping the conversation bouncing was a good way to avoid the question. “I get kicked around the editors, consultant and authours department— Mistress Nobuhle, the coconut puff puffs look lovely. Is that vanilla I smell?”
“Nobuhle is fine, my darling, we’re not so formal here, and yes, it was my grandfathers recipe, he was addicted to coconut. The vanilla is my own little addition.”
“It’s grandpa Badru’s recipe? I thought he took that to the grave?” the majour said, eyes furrowing.
Nobuhle pushed the red clay plate closer to the editor. “Yes, I sweet-talked it out of him, but he insisted it be left to the women in the family. His mother only gave him the recipe because he was from a brood of son’s and had son’s himself.”
Jambulani looked irritated. “Chantria, you better forge us a couple of daughters.”
Chantria couldn’t stop a note of laughter escaping. “I make no guarantees.”
“Kijani has my old out-house, but he converted his nursery in to a workout room. You’ll have to give that up my boy.”
Kijani shrugged. “There’s a gym round the corner from us, I can leave Chan with the brats for a couple of hours.”
“I do hope you don’t intend to call our children that in my hearing?” Chantria said, her tone matter of fact.
Her husband was about to reply, but the Majour held up a hand. “You two can discuss what you’re calling your kids later. So, Chantria, where do you work?”
“I work in the Timber.”
Jambulani raised an eyebrow. “You work as an editor, in the Timber?”
“Yes, I’d usually be there at this time.”
“The Timber Cafe, does not employ editors. Obstructing an investigation is a crime.”
Chantria sipped at her orange juice. “I would never, you asked me where I worked, I find a table at the Timber and do my work there. I employ myself like most editors.”
The majour twirled his pen in his left hand and eyed her thoughtfully. “You knew very well what I meant.”
Chantria gave the man a long look. “I don’t assume people’s meaning, Majour Jambulani, I wouldn’t be a very good editor if I did.”
The Majour paused and made a note. “What is your company name?”
Her plan thwarted, Chantria sighed. “I trade under a pen name, if I am not under arrest, I would prefer not to disclose.”
The Majour looked like he was about to argue, looked at his son and stopped himself. ”It’s not relevant to the investigation at the moment, but it may be relevant should you become a suspect. Why were you and your sisters not at the gatherings?”
“We were never signed up and presented to the gathering.” Chantria said, forcing herself to eat her eggs before they got too cold. They were nicely spiced, but she couldn’t enjoy them the way she would have liked.
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“This is like pulling a stubborn tooth. Who is your guardian?” Majour Jambulani asked
“Ayele Keita.”
“I know that name, he was dismissed from the guard for being drunk and violent on watch duty we found drugs in his pack as well. He your father?”
“No, he’s our uncle, our parents died in the breech.”
“what’s your family’s address?”
She gave it.
Majour Jambulani made another note. “I’ll investigate that. It’s a little far away from the skirmish. There are three of you so your uncle will have gotten a lot of money from the state to keep you fed and clothed until you turned 25, but you went to University I presume, so he would have received funding for you until you graduated. When did you graduate?”
That explains why he didn’t bother to read the fine print on my funding application when I went for my placement in my last year of spirit studies. “Two years ago.”
Nobule shook her head, her long braids rippled like a river and their decorative beads shimmered in the morning light. “There’s just no excuse, is there?”
“No.” The Majour replied, lips thinning, but Chantria couldn’t escape his attention. “And your other two sisters?”
“They didn’t go to the University; one took an apprenticeship as a seamstress and the other works in the theatre.”
“And how long have they been working?”
“Since they left school six years ago.”
“You don’t know why you and your sisters were never registered for the gathering’s do you?”
There are many reasons. Ayele, thought of them as property and an income. Chantria was the only one who wasn’t earning in his eyes and therefore of the least value. Meaning she had to satisfy him in other ways. Her skin reminded her of every touch despite the fact he wasn’t there. The body kept score of every one of his punches despite the fact she only remembered flashes of her past and present abuse. Shivering, she gripped her tea cup in an effort to steal its warmth. Something told the editor she was lucky he didn’t kill her yesterday, maybe that was why the knife was left out in the kitchen...
To Chantria the question of why Ayele never registered them for the gathering was beside the point, but that was the question posed. “No, and I wouldn’t like to speculate.”
Majour Jambulani tapped his pen against his notebook. “You know non-attendance at the gatherings without cause is a crime, correct?”
Chantria’s heart lurched in fear. “I’m aware.”
“So, why didn’t you report it?”
“I wasn’t sure where my sister’s and I would end up.” Chantria said. While studying, the University placed the editor in a shelter for orphaned children as part of her course. Children, were defined broadly as unmelded individuals under the age of 25 in the city of divinity. It was incredibly uncommon for children to be abandoned or become orphaned and with the such weight placed on the building of family there was usually a relative to place any orphaned children with. If not, they were housed in large buildings with a few staff to help support the children. Staff done their best for the children, but they needed more attention than her colleagues could provide and much more consistency than the institution allowed. It as demoralising work and people soon left to join other professions within the field of spirit studies. This lack of consistency and the inherent trauma of losing parents caused behavioural issues that made it less likely for necessary staff to stay.
The Majour stared at her a moment, scribbled a final note in military shorthand and stood. “Thank you, Chantria. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, for this initial impression... and my lack of tact, I will investigate. I’ll see you all at dinner.” He said giving his wife a lingering kiss and marching out the oak door.
Chantria breathed a sigh of relief and finished her breakfast.
~*~
Dinner was an extravagant and work intensive affair in the Abara household. Especially on special occasions such as a long-anticipated wife and daughter entering the family. Nobule invited half the neighbourhood.
Chantria absentmindedly peeled a carrot. “When are all these people coming?”
“Tomorrow! We can get the soup and dessert ready tonight, have all the vegetables chopped up and spend the morning cooking.”
Chantria stared at all the potatoes, beetroot, carrots, radishes, nuts, parsnips and egg plant that needed to be chopped up.
“It’s not as big a job as it seems, once the veg is prepared everything just needs to go in to the oven!”
The editor turned to face her soldier who sat quite comfortably in a corner with his nose in one of her novels and his feet propped up on the windowsill. “Kijani? We’ll need some help through here. I can’t help all of tomorrow morning. I have clients to see.”
Kijani sighed and moved slower than his broken rib could account for in protest.
Nobuhle raised one delicate hand. “We’ll have some people come and help with the rest of the preparations tomorrow as an exception. You are right, Chantria, it’s too much work for us three, even with the men helping. More to the point, do you have a dress for tomorrow's occasion?”
Chantria paused. “I don’t have a lot of clothing and I’ve never had cause to attend an event.”
Nobuhle held up a hand against the excuses tumbling out of the editor. “I understand. We don’t have time to get you a dress, but I’m sure we can find one in the attic and have it tailored today. Kijani, I know your rib is broken, but do you think you could help Chantria ruffle through some boxes?”
~*~
It took 45 minutes to find a dress for the editor and another 15 minutes to walk down the spiralling street to the seamstress lined with lampposts guarding the road like soldiers in perfect symmetry. The editor found a beautiful thick silk midnight blue dress marbled with gold thread and cinched at the waist with a delicate gold chain belt. Kijani made a fuss about how beautiful she would look in the dress.
Compliments were a difficult thing for the editor, her anonymous work was held in high esteem, but Chantria saw that as entirely natural. She should be good at what she does, she offers much more value than the average editor. Therefore, the compliments given for her work were mere statements of fact, but Kijani was giving praise and the editor didn’t know what to say or do in the face of it. So, she walked beside him in utter disbelief telling herself he didn’t really mean it. He was probably just embarrassed to be giving her a second-hand dress and a slightly out of fashion one at that. Chantria, however, liked the colour and the fabric and couldn’t care less if the dark shade of midnight blue was out of fashion.
The bell above the seamstress’s door chimed as they entered the airy store. The walls were white washed to display the fine fabrics that hung on the wall in order of lightest to darkest. All the fabrics in this shop were exquisitely thick leaving Chantria in no doubt that this was a store that focused on quality.
“Good morning, Master Abara, is this your lovely wife?” A lightly tanned woman with brown curls and a finely tailored white dress said from behind an extravagant oak table.
“I’m always impressed by how fast news carries.” Kijani said.
The seamstress neatly tidied away her sewing. “But is it true? The forever bachelor has wife?”
“Yes, madam Kanyu.”
“My, the other ladies of the crown will be disappointed.”
The crown was slang for the upper-class, referring to the highest branches of the tree. Melds, were equal opportunity. The ladies of the crown always liked to speculate who would meld with whom during the three-month melding period, to the point entire gossip columns were devoted to the subject. Chantria never dared to pick one up and mourn what she could have had.
Kijani stiffened. “Madam Orvue, I’m sorry for the short notice, but do you have time to alter a dress?”
“Oh, anything for the Abara’s, but do tell where you two met.”
Yes, I’m sure it will be half way around the crown within an hour. “We met at The Timber.” Chantria said avoiding eye contact by riffling through her bag.
“The Timber?” Madam Orvue said, aghast.
The Timber Café, while it wasn’t some back water café, it was an old establishment and the only thing that mattered to such an establishment was reputation. Money, was a matter for the trivial masses. In line with this archaic school of thought The Timber had a few quirks. Namely, as an ancient meeting place for negotiation and political conquest, catered to the male taste, though women were not unwelcome.
Kijani’s entry to The Timber that day said more about his standing than his military record or familial wealth. Something Chantria hadn’t considered at the time of meeting him, which was likely a good thing, because she was petrified enough in the moment. The only reason Chantria’s entry to the Timber wasn’t questioned was because she was the eldest daughter with good lineage. A point she established in discussion with the manager of the business with her ‘stolen’ documents when she began working out of the institution.
However, she would likely no longer be able to continue working out of the Timber given her new status as a wife and likely soon-to-be mother. Not that she wouldn’t be allowed, it just wasn’t practical for her to work out of The Timber part time while managing the family. It would be utterly irresponsible to damage her family's reputation in that way. The Chalet, the counterpart to the Timber would be a far more suitable option, she would likely meet some of her old school friends, maybe re-kindle some relationships? In short, she would get nothing done. “Yes, I worked in the Timber.” Chantria clarified, but thought it best not to elaborate.
Madam Orvue’s professional smile returned. “Ah I see, what luck then! What can I do for you both?”
Kijani reached in to the brown paper bag he carried. “We need this dress altered. By tonight.”
“That is a tall order, but I’m sure I can squeeze it in.”
In other words, the Abara’s are good customers, and good customers have certain privileges, Chantria thought, but felt her face pale when Madam Orvue unravelled the dress in the bright light of the modiste. It. Was. Sleeveless.
Chantria tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves that hid that scars from years of being burned by the rope that held her while Ayele used her body as a tool to satisfy himself. Unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze she stared at the neat herringbone wood floor, yet another sign of the wealth of the modiste. I really shouldn’t be here. “And could sleeves be added?”
Madam Orvue raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for? It’s not exactly fashionable.” she was correct and it wouldn’t do to have something against the trends leave a store like this.
Chantria thought a minute. “Perhaps sheer sleeves with cuffs? It could bring out the gold in the marbled fabric?”
“If it were off the shoulder sleeves, and I had the same fabric, it would be lovely, but I don’t have this weave. A pair of gold bracelets would be a very nice addition to the dress however.”
The editor gulped. She didn’t want to have to explain the scaring that marked her as Ayele’s slave in her mind. Failing to think of an excuse, Chantria was about to open her mouth to argue, then she remembered the make-up in her satchel. The foundation would lessen the appearance, but it wouldn’t stand the test of close scrutiny. “I understand, it was just a thought. I normally like more modest clothing. Do you have a bathroom I could use, madam?”
“Yes, there’s a door behind the purple curtain on the left-hand side.”
The sapphire eyed editor nodded her thanks and soon found herself in a small bright white bathroom lit by orange lamplight. She closed her eyes and sighed. The light wasn’t ideal for applying make-up so she would have to risk checking her work in the dim light left behind the curtain.
With shaking hands, she found and opened her cream foundation. Another calming breath and she unbuttoned the cuffs of her red dress. She had maybe 5 minutes before they would start getting suspicious.
For the first time in years Chantria had a good look at the damage. It was thick red and covered in small, scabby cuts from Ayele’s recent attack. The scabs would make the scars harder to hide with foundation, but she couldn’t risk picking them off encase she started bleeding again. Heart pounding, the editor reached for the sponge that came with her foundation and her body reminded her of the years of invasion.
Chantria could never stop herself from fighting against the rope once he found his way inside her. He enjoyed her terror. It hardened him when he looked in to her wide eyes and saw she could barely stop herself from screaming.
I don’t have time for this. The editor washed and dried her hands quickly and covered the scar as best she could. She was careful with her blending, but the lighting made it difficult to see how successful her shaking hands were at covering the scars.
The editor opened the door of the bathroom so a slit of natural light flitted through. Satisfied, she done her best with what the equipment she had Chantria packed away the foundation and stepped out, nearly walking in to Kijani in the processed. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting!”
“It’s fine, Madam Orvue has other clients coming in. So, the fitting will be quick.”
Thank the seed. The less time she has to measure up, the less time she’ll have to scrutinise. “I’ll hurry and get this dress on then.”
Hurriedly walking back in to the cloth gilded shop Chantria took the dress from Madam Orvue who gestured toward a row of cubicles with thick white curtains which functioned as changing rooms. They were well hidden on the left of the entrance so the fabrics lining the wall drew the eye and the oaken table where Madam Orvue likely conducted her work took centre stage. “Let me know when you are done changing and I’ll take some measurements.
She walked into the cubicle furthest away from the door and adjusted the curtain. Chantria avoided gazing in to the mirror. The editor hated how malnourished her figure was beneath the red dress. Chantria hoped a better diet might give her the curves she craved, but for the moment the editor felt lost in the dress. “Madam?” Chantria said quietly through the curtain and Madam Orvue entered briskly.
“It’s rather big on you.”
“Yes, I was thinking we could save the fabric in the seams? The dress is lovely and I was hoping I would gain some weight.”
Madam Orvue’s smile was warm. “I can certainly hand sew it, the fabric is beautiful, you’re right it would be a shame to waste. Please hold still while I take the measurements and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chantria stiffened while she took the measurements and pinned the fabric in to place. She watched Madam Orvue’s pleasant smile turn to dismay as she confirmed the measurements in her notebook, but she didn’t say anything. A lingering look at her wrists told the editor she saw the scars. The Seamstress’s empathetic glance clenched her stomach in shame and the editor stared once more at the ground.
“I’ll have it ready for you by tomorrow morning. You’ll look wonderful!” Madam Orvue said with false cheer and left her to change.
Changing absentmindedly, Chantria vaguely heard Madam Orvue suggest Kijani get her some gold cuffs to match her dress. There was a jeweller not far away.