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Each piano was like a new stage partner. They may have experience and know the song, but they all moved differently. The spacing, weight and sound of the keys — so different every time under Mahala’s fingers. Yet, she always played perfectly.
To play well did not make one a musical genius. If she had a piece she needed for a performance, she would practise rigorously every day for five hours, until she could do it blindfolded. She’d even let children blindfold her in less formal performances.
Mahala barely breathed whenever her fingers jumped the octave. Slipping was dangerously easy. One wrong note could sour the whole ambience.
Faster and faster. At this point, muscle memory gave way to her fingers. The right hand blurred in a trill. Left hand — staccato. Pedal kissed on the end of every quaver set. She landed on the final chord and finally let out a breath.
A second breath and she heard the applause.
At that, she slowly got up from her seat. Her bow was as well rehearsed as the piece.
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The banquet hall was decorated with giant crystal chandeliers and large green silk banners; the colours of their Lord Protector. The sea of faces was familiar; wealthy philanthropists, successful businessmen and former lords of power. It didn’t matter what noble blood anyone had anymore. All had been rendered equal in Pomolin.
“I want to be just like you, Lady Pomolin,” a sweet-faced girl said from the edge of the stage, a bouquet overwhelming her arms.
Mahala accepted the bouquet, trading it with several wrapped sweets from her pocket. “Aren’t you precious?”
The girl cupped her hands, cradling the sweets like they were gold. Mahala pinched the girl’s cheek — and nearly dropped the bouquet, seeing sharp teeth and a forked tongue.
No, no, no. Not now—
A new voice boomed on stage. “Our Lady of Pomolin, everyone!”
The event organiser Mr Hugonin had joined them, one hand on the girl’s head, the other gesturing to Mahala. A second round of applause followed along with a cascade of flashing lights from the photographers.
“Thank you, milady,” the girl said, candy trapped between a normal tongue and milk teeth.
Mahala remembered her smile, but she could no longer look at the girl. She let Hugonin help her back to her feet but quickly excused her hands to hold the flowers up to her face, feeling her sweat-drenched palms and burning cheeks. It was getting hard to breathe. She could swear the room was heating up by the second.
This isn’t how I remembered it.
A large gloved hand touched the crook of her arm.
“My lady, this way,” Luck said.
She met with the crowd and shook hands. She had spent all of the previous night memorising names, which sapped more energy from her than she expected. But she kept going with the knowledge Luck wouldn’t let her stumble. He moved faster than she could blink — he would always save her.
The evening stretched on — six o’clock and seven o’clock trawled by at a snail’s pace. She clapped politely through the other performances by distinguished dignitaries.
Despite the winter frost coming, Mahala felt hot, sweating profusely. The banquet hall shrank around her. Damp patches threatened to come through her dress. There was no reason for it to be so warm. Everyone smiled with cool skin in their finest fashion. The clothes fused together in her blurring vision. Was that a fur jacket? A satin shirt, or skirt?
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Can’t leave now. That’d be rude… Smile, applaud the other performances, and remember to speak to…
“It is always a great honour to see you play, my lady!” Hugonin said between mouthfuls of finger food. There was a brooch where his pocket square should have been — the decorative handkerchief found its way on a woman’s collar instead.
“Thank you for putting together such a beautiful venue,” Mahala said, trying not to blink overmuch. “Are your men still counting the final figures for the funds we raised?”
“The children will have hot showers all winter, I can guarantee that! A special thanks to your generous donation of course.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“The Lord Protector claims all orphans as his children, and so they are my siblings. It’s only sensible I do what I can.” Mahala’s words came out more wooden than she intended. They were callused on her tongue from every charitable event. Her mind was fuzzy, full of cotton, the final trills, and nothing else.
Luck’s shadow casted over Mahala and Hugonin.
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“My lady. You have been called back to the office,” he said curtly. His words were muffled and deep behind his half-mask.
Hugonin took a step back, adjusting his collar as he averted his gaze from Luck. He always cut an imposing figure; impossibly tall, broad shouldered, in a severe black coat with the hood up, leaving his pallid face in shadow.
“Oh my, it must be urgent coming this late,” Hugonin coughed. “Alas, the Lady of Pomolin is needed everywhere.”
“Excuse us,” Luck said.
“G-Goodnight, Mr Hugonin,” Mahala said as Luck pulled her away.
The crowded banquet hall parted like the edge of a storm. No one dared approach Mahala too closely when her homunculus bodyguard was doggedly marching forward. She could feel the warmth from his body next to her yet he carried the scent of frozen air.
“Do I actually have a call?” she whispered.
“No, but I would advise you to have one with a doctor. You look feverish.” His words were a touch tender whenever it was just them.
“You shouldn’t lie, Luck. Besides, I’m fine.”
“Then we are both lying, my lady. Oh, the scandal.”
Mahala laughed a little. “Shush, people can hear us!”
They had stepped outside, and the night was cool on her face. She breathed in fresh crisp air. It was quiet in the parking lot, nowhere near time for the guests to leave. She waited by the sidewalk as her chauffeur roused the motorcar to life and dusted snow off the windscreen.
Her eyes caught a large poster by the entrance with her face on it. Greenstone Homes presents: The Children of Pomolin Charity Gala starring Lady Mahala Pesh. A printed perfect smile stared back at her, decorated with silky black hair, smooth brown skin, golden eyes, rosy lips. She saw her face more on posters and newspapers than in a mirror nowadays.
There was something underneath the poster with her face.
She frowned, and approached it to peel it off, her blood bellowing in her ears.
A giant scaled beast emerged from the poster, with its jaw hanging wide open, showing sharp teeth with a long forked tongue. Behind its singed clothes, she saw an angry red vein curled up on its chest.
New text was spilling out with the beast. SIGNS OF THE WYRM PLAGUE: large red veins on chest, scaled skin, elliptical pupils, a forked tongue, sharp claws.
She jumped back, the suffocating heat back in her throat.
“Luck…?”
The beast’s claws carved jagged lines along the stone. Sharp golden eyes followed her. It screeched — broken glass, fingernails on a chalkboard, an angry animal. “Ghhhh….” The hanging jaw made it hard for it to vocalise. It leered closer. “GHHH….”
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Her chest burned - really burned, like a shot of fire.
“LUCK!” She spun to face her bodyguard.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Mahala awoke to darkness, clutching her chest. The fire still burned yet nothing was there.
“Luck?” she called out weakly.
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Nothing. Not even an echo came back.
She pushed back her matted hair so she could press her ear to her wrist watch. She couldn’t see the dials but the ticking gave her assurance that time still moved in the dark. Perhaps it was six o’clock, maybe seven o’clock.
“Are you sure you want to go to the border?” Luck asked.
Mahala jerked her head round. Still dark. He wasn’t there. Nothing had stirred for a hundred ticks of her clock, but she was still not fully convinced she was alone.
“I understand you wish to support the Lord Protector, I understand you have your own role to play for our country, but you don’t have to do this, My lady. The plague is dangerous.”
Luck was wrong. She had to. That was what her father wanted, what her country expected. The Lady of Pomolin would go to the quarantine zones to talk to victims of the infected, would ask them what they needed that Pomolin hadn’t been able to provide yet. She’d play with the children. Smile for the camera. Then go home.
Home.
Mahala felt the warmth of the fireplace on her back, the silk rug nursing her feet.
Luck’s blank ink eyes melted around the darkness. “I will see you in the morning, My lady.”
Her Luck wasn’t there.
I’m losing it.
“My name is Mahala Pesh,” she said out loud. She barely heard herself but it sobered her a little.
Mahala sat up straight.
“My name is Mahala Pesh,” she said. “25 years old, born in Shoredon. Citizen of Pomolin. Child of— daughter to Lord Protector Chares Pesh. I’m stuck in a cave. Everything hurts. I’ve been fucking stabbed—“ Her hand clapped over her mouth.
Mahala Pesh was not the kind of lady that cursed. She was the Lady of Pomolin.
Her chest burned.
“I’m infected,” she whispered.
She could feel the ugly red wyrm curled on her breast, fused to the skin by long jagged tendrils. She winced as her finger brushed the gaping wound that should have definitely killed her, but the wyrm stitched her flesh back together.
That son of a bitch actually tried to kill me—
Mahala groaned. She was meant to be the Lady of Pomolin. She wanted to go back to the light, the clean air, silk sheets, beautiful dresses, a cup of fruit tea... her father.