3.21: Intermediary II
>>Humble and honest...as much as you can, at least.
You play the part of the humble and reticent daughter, accepting your parents' criticisms with grace. They mainly revolve around you upsetting the balance of the Wilhemine household. Anna might be grateful to you for frightening her governess into submission, but other noble scions are liable to take advantage of the Crown's mistakes, especially when you enter adolescence and beyond. Your curtsy, you make apologies, and you allow your Father's stern words to roll over you.
Mother is quieter. She's the softer of the Crown's heads, but no less observant. She must have spoken to Felix, Louise and Alis about what happened; you hope they haven't suffered any lasting consequences. Mother will be keeping a closer eye on you from now on.
It's almost amusing to listen them prattle on. Your parents are hypocrites. The history of Irluvia's nobility is littered with as much sin as it shines with virtue; frightening a governess to near-death is the lightest of its blackened marks. What your parents did to succeed the throne from your late grandfather, it cannot have been peaceful. That period was termed a succession 'war' for a reason.
You don't point this out. After all, you're the biggest hypocrite of them all, lying to their faces as they gaze their daughter, trying to keep their innate fondness hidden behind royal stringency.
They're both alive and healthy.
It's acceptable.
(+5 EXP. Modifier gained: +1 to the next SKULDUGGERY check.)
>>A basic typewriter.
You decide to feed Louis Trent the schematics for a typewriter. A basic model, something he can pluck an idea from within to improve on. It's a good idea. Typewriters are fast, they're convenient and they can produce text that is legible and uniform. Uniformity leads to efficiency. Literary rates will skyrocket across Irluvia as more books are printed and distributed. More jobs will be made available, as anyone with a pair of hands and eyes can wield a typewriter—including women. Written documents can be made quicker, streamlining communications between official channels within governance.
The Crown of Irluvia shall save valuable time. They're lacking it the most.
Some of their servants have awful handwriting, too.
(+5 EXP. Modifier gained: +1 to the next LOGIC check.)
Cassius whispers something in your ear as you enter the carriage with him. Mother's prying fingers are searching for Titania. Whether she wants to wield Titania for herself or put them under lock and chain, it'll mean a drastic change to your inventing activities.
The two of you agree to put a pause on things, for now.
SOVEREIGNTY — One.
"This…what in the gods' many names is—"
Count George Wilhemine lowers the letter down onto his desk in the study. It's oak, Countess Sarah Wilhemine remembers numbly, varnished to a near mirror sheen. The desk was one of the first things she bought for him after they moved into this manor together, and he was staring at the furniture as if he wanted to split it, along with the letter resting on the top, in half. She couldn't blame him.
She hears a tick, a tock. It's emitting from the ornate, human-length clock behind her chaise. Its noise pop in the heavy silence, like needles in tiny balloons. A gasoline heater hums, and flurries of snow descend onto a pair of tree branches. Low light pours from outside, framing the back of her husband's head in shadow. She's not afraid of him. If anything, she's afraid for him.
He's muttering under his breath. Reciting the words, as he did for many contracts in his career. She recalls that she used to tease him about it over dinner in their old apartment.
"Sarah. Was there anything else?" The count says.
Sarah shakes her head, wordless.
George drops the paper, and watches it flutter down. He slumps into his chair. He leans forward in the next moment, resting his hands on his elbows, jaw clenched. A red tinge is flowing into the sides of the chest. A survey of his desk: pen and paper, inkwell, dust. The letter. His fist clenches and he slams it down on the table, the same way he used to do with a mug in the pub.
"An insider. They must have an insider, just like the ones the Clementines sent snooping around our mines! Did even you bother to ask?"
Sarah looks at him, wordless.
"What?"
The countess shakes her head. Her diamond necklace rolls against the skin of her neck. "That's Titania's point, Georgie. There's too many of them in on it. Our house is full of poison."
It's an adequate response, in that it sends the count slumping back down again. She can imagine the sweat seeping from the back of his neck, where his scar is. His moustache bristles; it's always looked stupid, and today strands are arcing out of it like top of a mangy mutt's hide. The countess can't even laugh, only shake her head.
She knows her George. His masculine ire: top-heavy and strong, a bull wrapped in a human skin, powering ahead like his mining equipment into the dark tunnels. Like the bull, shock could change his mind. She can see it in his face. He wants to deny his failings. Scream with rage, tear the letter to shreds, march down to the nearest headquarters and show this Titania the business with his right hook.
He can't, she knows, because he's still holding onto his better judgement, and it's telling him the contents of the letter are worth more than their weight in gold. If she wasn't so frightened, she'd be fascinated. All their failings, from their idle servants to the numerous fatal accidents George apparently missed by a hair's margin, are detailed in clear cursive script. Its existence is baffling. Industrial sabotage doesn't usually involve warning the victim of what they're doing wrong.
Sarah and George have been exposed. Their home invaded, their privacy violated on a level deeper than clothes or flesh. She could be furious. There was a blistering speech she practiced in front of the mirror running through her head. The words balance on the tip of her tongue, then jump off; there's no real energy in this. The bluster that once kept her persistent in front of consultants and dressmakers has skipped town. It's cold, it's dreary, and she is tempted to abandon her husband's study to busy herself with her wardrobe in her room.
The idea reminds her, and she lowers her head in shame.
"Dear. Dear, listen to me," Sarah says. She lets out a soft whimper, "I…I checked. The kitchens."
"The kitchen? What about them?" George asks.
"Moonshine." Sarah replies. "Dozens upon dozens of bottles, enough for us to be fined by the Crown."
"How in the Maiden's scorching buttocks did that come to be?"
"It says in the letter: we've been hiring the wrong people!" Sarah gulps at the sight of her husband's glower, swallows the lumps in her throat. "I did a recheck of the ledgers, too. One of our staff—someone has been tampering with them, marking red lines green. I don't know who. You know I'm not the best with arithmetic, but I got a notice from my banking solicitor that if we keep this up, we'll run out of savings, even with the revenue from our new businesses!"
The clock ticks. One, two, one two—the countess stands up, marches over and grabs the side of it as if she could break it in half with her bare hands.
"Look at this thing, George. Look at it! I don't remember how much I spent on this. I thought it was a good present, but the etchings…" She lets out a strangled laugh, "They're horrible. Disgusting. The clock ticks so damn loud, too! When did we buy this? Why did we buy it? You already have a timepiece in your pocket!"
She expects her husband to reach for his coat—and he does, taking out the gold-trimmed miniature clock. It used to be silver, dinged up from his work.
She loved that silver, she remembers, and she cast it aside when they became nobles.
"Georgie, please." Sarah turns to her husband, her lip trembling. "What on earth have we been doing?"
George scrunches up his face. He lets out a growl, the covers his face with his gloved hands.
"I don't…" He whispers. "Damn the Maiden, I don't know."
It's her fault. His fault.
Their fault.
Their.
A terrible sensation crawls over Sarah's skin. Somehow, it reminds her of the time a motor carriage swerved around a corner and almost smashed her into a wall.
"Anna." She breathes. "Anna!"
"Oh gods, Anna!" George cries, leaping up in a flash. "Where is she?"
SOVEREIGNTY — Two.
"You can't do this to us!"
"I can and I will. Everyone who is named on this list: you have two hours to pack your bags and leave. Jeffery will hand you your severance packages. Once you step outside those gates, you are to never return. Understand?"
"This isn't what you promised!"
"It is what I, the lady of this household, decree! Now get moving, or I'll call the police!"
Anna scampers out from the front door, her maid trailing behind her. Dressed in wool and a silk scarf, she stands on the stone steps, staring out into the commotion in the front yard. Her flabbergasted expression feels like a mask attached to her face. "What's happening?" Anna asks.
"They're leaving, milady." Mabel says, her tone level. "The count and countess found them incompetent, and thus fired them."
Anna stares back at the line, which is leaving the mansion via the servant's quarters. It's full of servants and maids from the house. Some of the fired personnel are weeping; others are muttering curses beneath their breath, shooting her or the mansion hateful looks out of the corner of their eyes. One shove from the hired security escorting them out, and they keep to themselves.
She recognises a few of them. The cook who kept serving her greens she disliked, the maid who 'accidentally' dropped something sharp in her clothes, the servant boy who made a game of tripping her up in the halls until she learned to avoid him. Disrespectful commoners who added to the rot sinking into what should have been her sanctuary. Anna thinks she should feel elated, the way Princess Gloria surely would, but in this moment she can only ask, "Why?"
"I don't know." Mabel replies. She thinks for a moment. "Maybe you should ask. I think the count and countess would tell you."
"Would they, Mabel?"
Something flashes in Mabel's eye, so quick that Anna almost thinks she imagines it.
"Yes." Mabel says, placing a hand on Anna's head. It's not as heavy as Anna expects. "They will now."
"You fucking bastard! You pieces of pigshit Wilhemines! I'll show you!"
A roar from behind causes Anna to whip around. She shrieks as Elmer throws off two of the security to the ground, pulls out a knife from his coat and charges forward across the lawn straight towards her. Anna's future self could have grabbed the man with a half-lidded smile and twisted him into a hundred bloody pieces. Right now, she is innocent and unbroken and can only stand there, frozen, as a chunk of memories—nightmares, her governess, a trap sprung by Eleanor involving a set of paints—flow and entangle themselves within her head.
Two things happen. Firstly, Mabel pulls Anna behind her, shielding the young girl with her body. She is weaponless and defenseless.
The blow never comes. A harsh crack rings through the air, the sound of bone on flesh.
When Anna dares to open her eyes, she sees her father standing above Elmer's prone form, his fist outstretched. His expression is thunder.
"Filthy scoundrel." Anna recognises his stance from a boxer she once read in the comics. He kicks the knife away into the grass and pulls up Elmer by the throat. "Don't you dare touch my daughter!"
SOVEREIGNTY — Three.
"I only wanted to shine like the stars."
"Interesting turn of phrase you've got there, Lady Sarah. I understand, I really do...when I was fourteen, that is." Countess Wilhemine droops, and Alis tries not to sigh. "Look, you weren't raised the way we were."
"I'm getting that a lot these days."
"It's a reason, not an excuse, but you're learning, judging from all that fabric your manservant hauled out towards that salon."
"That's not even half of it. Cameos and jewelry too. An entire storage room full of rubbish and knicknacks. I'll be lucky if I break even tonight."
Sarah stares into her tea, glum as a dried prune. She pushes the cup away and begins fidgeting with her napkin. A waiter comes over, seeing the tea untouched, Alis waves at him to go away.
"On second thoughts, another lemon slice for my friend here." Alis says. The waiter bows once, then hurries off across the cafe floor towards the cook's area. The action causes commotion. Alis can feel eyes piercing their corner of the tea shop. Most of them are from Irluvia's upper-crust. She doesn't need to cock an ear to hear the whispers. Come tomorrow morning, there will be headlines about her in the gossip corner of the daily paper, and she'll endure a round of pestering from Catherine or Jessica or even Felix. Euphemia will understand, and so will her Majesty. Her Majesty's will is why Alis is here talking to this catastrophe of a countess in the first place.
Patience, she reminds herself. Alis herself wasn't exactly a shining example of grace in her younger days. She clears her throat and straightens her posture.
"Look, Lady Sarah, you know Princess Gloria is pretty taken with your daughter, right?"
"Anna drew of a picture of her having tea with the princess in the Duchess Malvorn's garden party." Sarah mumbles, "She came up to me one night, so proud of what she did, and I told her to put those silly toys away and get back to violin practice. Anna, my poor baby girl…"
Alis snaps her fingers. "Focus."
"M-my apologies."
"Her Majesty loves her children." Alis says, firmly. Sarah lifts her head, looking wounded. It's not enough to move Alis, and the woman before her needs something firmer than sympathy. "The things she's done and will do to protect her own—I won't elaborate. Listen, Sarah. If you had been ignorant enough to keep neglecting your daughter, we'd be speaking in a completely different tone. However, Her Majesty wasn't about to let that happen."
"What do you mean?"
Alis thought for a moment. This was technically an embellishment of the facts, yet close enough to reality and she had been loyal to the queen for long enough to pick up on her thought patterns, so…
Eh, whatever.
"Think about it. Anna Wilhemine the pneumagical prodigy, friend to second princess. An adorable pair of darlings, one gold and the other chocolate brown, scampering around the Crown's gardens, Her Highness's favourite dolls nestled in their hands. Frankly, just describing the two of them is putting me at risk from being dragged to the dentist for tooth rot. It's even better for politics, Collegium-Crown relationships, and the Crown's image in the press. The Crown gives and takes, and Her Majesty chose to give one of her own for a spell. We cleaned out your wardrobe, no?"
The countess averts her eyes. Those silks and furs she's wearing—they no longer look like the product of a paint explosion in a cotton mill. She must have examined herself in the mirror, shame prickling around her wrists and neck.
"Her Majesty isn't like the old queen. She won't crush a prospect beneath her heels when they've still got the chance to fix themselves. Mind you, we were on alert for another one of your mishaps, and then you spoiled our devious plans by figuring out the problem on your own. Congrats! That's not easy to do."
"It wasn't on my own." Sarah mumbles.
"Hey, don't be modest. A victory is a victory. You're starving for them." Alis says. She leans across the table, beckoning Sarah over, winking. "Tell you what, Lady Sarah. I'll invite you to Arlan for a spot of tea with Euphemia—my partner and Her Majesty's right hand. Sounds delectable, eh? Once we've guided you through the motions, we'll tour the Crown's library and lend you our old notes back from when we prepared for the Queen's exam. If Her Majesty's own ladies can't give you pointers, then you might as well sell your house and tie yourself to a shrine."
Alis flashes a grin that the countess meets shakily. The lemon cake arrives. A bite and the sugar cheers her up. "Lady Alis, I…I don't know how I can repay you."
"Bring your little Anna to the palace for another playdate." Alis teases. "She's a good girl. No jesting."
She sticks a spoon into her ice-cream, lifting up a slice of strawberry. "You know, Her Majesty has a saying she likes teaching her children."
"What is it?"
"We're nobles, purveyors of the Crown's values. Our conduct must be conformed to the privileges and position at which we enjoy and so on and so forth. However, beneath that…" Alis shoves the ice-cream into her mouth, then looks Sarah in the eye. "We're still human beings."
SOVEREIGNTY — Four.
"What do you mean, you're staying out here?"
"We might overwhelm her if we go in there at once."
"You're her father!"
"Can we not argue about this right now? We've both done wrong. We're both responsible. You know I've never been the best with words."
"What do you propose, then? Flitter in the background, giving our daughter the odd treat or pat on the head like you've done the past week? George, we've put this off for long enough. We can't keep acting like this!"
"I know, I know. Please, let me patient for once in my life."
"…Don't you dare run."
"I'd never. I promise."
Anna jumps when the door to her bedroom creaks open. She turns around, and the book on knightesses falls from her hands. Sarah stands in the door-frame. Before Anna can react, she crosses the carpet in length strides, crouching down to meet her daughter eye-to-eye, and Anna thinks with a hollow pit in her little stomach: oh, this is it.
She's been a bad girl again. The mercy from Mama and Papa is about to end, and she's about to be smacked the way her old governess said she deserved to. They've spent enough time at home and they've come to say their goodbyes before Papa leaves the mansion for work again, and Mama returns to shopping and frolicking and leaves Anna behind in her room with only her toys and books for company. At least most of the bad servants are gone.
Her mother opens her mouth, reaches out with her hand. Anna flinches, her tiny body recoiling back. There's a small noise, and the air shifts.
"I'm sorry, Anna."
Anna blinks. She twitches her ears. "Mama?"
Her mother isn't angry, she notices. She looks sad. Her clothes are plain.
"Mama is sorry, Anna. Mama has been foolish. Papa too. Mama…" Her mother pauses. "Mama broke her promise."
"Promise?" Anna says. She tries to remember, and feels dread when she fails. "I don't remember."
"It was from a long time ago. You were very young. Mama and Papa only wanted to give you a warm bed and sturdy clothes, so Papa went out and struck his fortune from his coal mines. We bought our title that way." Her mother says. She kneels down until she and Anna are eye-to-eye. "Mama and Papa promised that once we became nobles, you wouldn't go hungry again; everyone would respect and like you; all the treasures and nice presents in the world would be yours to enjoy. But Mama and Papa were wrong. We were so swept up in working and buying these things that we forgot about the real treasure that was with us from the beginning!"
Anna looks around her room, thinks back to the numerous junk her mother insisted on buying, comes up blank, and glances down at herself. Her mother nods, and Anna gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth. She pinches herself hard on the cheek. She flares her leylines, the way that teacher at the Collegium had taught her to. The sting fades, and her mother is still kneeling there, a hand now rested gently on her cheek.
"You don't hate me?" Anna asks.
Anna's mother sobs, tears streaking muddy lines across her makeup. Behind her, Anna's father clenches his fists so tight he finds his fingernails digging into his skin. He snarls, hoarse and ashamed, and raises his fist, contemplating if it should go into himself or the wall.
"Never! We could never—I'm the one whom you should hate!" Her mother wails, "We left you all alone in this house with those useless servants and that horrid excuse of a governess! Your poor legs, Anna! Your precious little soul! It was in so much pain, day and night, and we brushed past it like monsters!"
Her mother hangs her head, crying and hiccupping, so divorced from the idea of the proud noble she aspired to be. Slowly, Anna inches forward, her arms spread out instinctively. She gasps again as her mother pulls her into a hug and places a desperate kiss on her forehead. It's wet. It's warm. It smells like home. The old home, from before the manor.
"Anna." Countess Sarah Wilhemine whispers, and Anna senses something thick and heavy welling up in her throat. "My sweet Anna, my precious little chestnut. I realise this isn't enough to make up for what we did, but you must know. I love you. Mama and Papa will always, always, always love you, and we're sorry. We're so, so sorry…"
SOVEREIGNTY — Queen Marianne's hourglass flips over. The grains of sand tick down, one by one. A repetition is made. A collection of timepieces rolls off the end of a production line. Their cogs and their glass frames are melted down into pieces that fall across a grand, infinitely expanding boardscape.
SOVEREIGNTY — The end of Loriana—grand temples and divine implements—lies at the beginning. Utter destruction looms at the end. Gunfire, rust and crumbling gold. The boardscape is fed into the void's maw, which chews it up and sends splinters and fabrics and chunks of organs raining down across the ground. Desperate, persistent and straining against her binds, the second princess reaches out from her square and snatches a single piece by the hands. She twirls the piece around her body like a waltz. She grabs it by the chest, flips in a half revolution and drops it on the board.
SOVEREIGNTY — The board shudders. It twists and rolls like waves on the shore. The princess collapses, almost falling on her knees, exhausted beyond measure, as shadowed figures near the end of the maw scream in rage. It's too late. The traitorous witch has been reversed. Like the Martyr, whose gentle saplings may be flipped into strangling thorns, this piece has been irrecoverably, utterly altered.
SOVEREIGNTY — That once cruel sneer is now a bewildered, awed smile. She's wearing it now, as she gazes up at the rafters of the mansion attic—her sanctuary.
SOVEREIGNTY — Five.
SOVEREIGNTY — Anna Wilhemine giggles to herself, a mewling sound like a contented kitten. Her feet wriggle beneath the musty blanket. She clutches a sketchbook of dreams, its contents drawn in watercolor with agonizing care—only the latest page is now a reality. Herself and the princess, standing side by side, holding each other's hands amongst a field of dolls and flowers, and they're smiling. They're about to go on an adventure in the Collegium, and once it's done, Gloria will take her to Arlan and let her become her lady-in-waiting.
SOVEREIGNTY — Gloria, the girl mouths. Her smile widens. Gloria. What a name. What a beautiful, magificent name, fit for a princess. Gloria Ecclesia Malvorn, Her Royal Highness, second princess of Irluvia, and, most of all, Anna Wilhemine's friend!
SOVEREIGNTY — No, that's not enough. Best friend is more like it. What else could describe a girl who went so far out of her way to help Anna? The mean old governess, gone. Her ugly dresses, sold off. The bad Mama and Papa whose heads were filled with gold—replaced by the kind Mama and Papa from before. They promised to take her to the amusement park, just the three of them. They'll ride the pneumagical water slide, eat sausage bread at the parlor and watch the fireworks show at night.
SOVEREIGNTY — All of these wonderful things that fill her up until she thinks she might burst, all stemming from that day Gloria extended a hand to her in the Duchess's garden. She cries out again, a pearl of childish laughter, and buries her head in the pillow, writhing with joy.
SOVEREIGNTY — She can't wait for tomorrow. She also can't wait to see Gloria at the palace. As she gently closes her eyes for her nap—no longer will she cry herself to sleep in this space—she hopes Mama will let her keep having lessons at Arlan after she receives her new governess.
SOVEREIGNTY — Her fate has been overturned. With her family secure, she will never be thrown out into the streets.
"She won't witness her entire life crumbling down around her."
SOVEREIGNTY — She will never wander the streets begging for help until she is beaten and robbed and taken in as a ward of the Collegium.
"She won't get her hopes up for a better life, only to become disappointed and disillusioned with the Collegium, the Crown and Irluvia, over and over again. She won't meet him. Or is it them?"
SOVEREIGNTY — She will never embark on that trip to Valoria.
"She won't be broken. Remade. Find splendour in atrocities. The bonfire of revolution is dry of her kindling."
SOVEREIGNTY — As long as she treasures Princess Gloria, Anna Wilhemine's hatred for her homeland will never exist.
"Therefore, she will never become me."
You hear a single clap.
"You did it, Your Highness. You really, truly did it."
Mina Luxemburg stands before you, clad in that Valorian royal guard uniform of tacky gold and onyx-purple. Her face is serrated, blood seep from filthy wounds beneath holes in the cotton, and a slick wetness punctuates each of her claps. A hole is blown in her chest, the product of a gunshot wound. Despite the fatal injury, she grants you the standing ovation, a mocking staccato that rings and dissipates through the infinite darkness.
"All that effort, paranoia and struggle over your own prejudices, and you have saved a single child. Praise be, second princess of Irluvia. Praise be, Gloria Ecclesia Malvorn, hallowed be her name. Congratulations, congratulations, our greatest and most hearty congratulations!"
You stand there, arms folded. Waiting.
The clapping fades. Mina Luxemburg pouts. "How droll, Your Highness."
"I'm hoping Damien might hear your incessant warbling, charge out of the shadows and stab you through the chest." You reply.
"A tad too late, Your Highness." Mina says, running a finger across the edge of the hole in her chest, "That voidman could have been your lover, Gloria, but, alas! He chose to penetrate me instead."
"I'm sure he's crying himself to sleep in the afterlife."
"Rude. So rude. Violent too." Mina moans. She sounds like a disappointed schoolteacher. "But that's the Gloria I knew and admired."
She reaches down into her wound and drags out a chunk of spine. She inspects it like a jewel, then flicks it into the darkness. "The fight on the skyship, our reunion in Arlan palace, that debate where I utterly demolished you about grain supplies. We had some good times, you and I. Alas, you've crushed these opportunities before they can pry open their eggshells. All our confrontations in the last war ended in draws. We'll never find out who's the better magician. How terrible, how loathsome, how sorrowful!"
Mina fakes a sob. You turn around, removing her from your sight.
"Come on…" Mina whines, "I'm not that horrible. I'm the older version of your beloved Anna."
"I have nothing to say to a bad memory." You reply. "You said it yourself, Mina. Anna will not become you."
"What happened to breaking her little chestnut neck?"
"Those were the foolish whims of an embittered old hag, who has since learned her lesson." You brush the taunt off. "Valoria has been deprived of its greatest magician. A terrible wound has been inflicted upon them without their knowledge. The real Mina was a once in a century talent; Valoria might find another agent, but they will not be as charismatic, nor proficient, nor do I intend to let that happen in the first place. You are but a mere memory of that madwoman, and serve no purpose anymore."
"Is that so?"
Anticipation creeps back into her voice. You press down on the foreboding and keep your muscles still. Even so, you imagine her smirk. Lopsided, toothy, almost peaceful; a prelude to the devastation she often so wrought. The countless hours poring over her dossier paints a picture as you hear her footsteps. She limps up to you, her body twisting and curling like a serpent. The flesh undulates with the weight of her pneumagica. Grime and blood slide off her frazzled hair onto the uniform's pauldrons.
"No purpose, you say? Gloria, sweetheart, did you honestly think making that little chestnut adore you was the end of it?"
Tiny things struggle to squirm from beneath her skin and infest the surrounding atmosphere.
"All those feelings you had for Anna—the darkness, the terror, the nightmares of blood and steel and me snapping your comrades into broken tinderboxes—they're no longer associated with her. I dare say they've even been extinguished, somewhat. It's obvious why. You like Anna. You'll always keep an eye on her, never letting her stray off the Crown's path. You might even come to adore her, enough to trick yourself into believing that she'd reciprocate and appreciate your true self, not the act you keep showing to her."
Her grin turns feral. Her bloodied, musty whisper traces the contours up the back of your neck. Something inside of you crackles with a biological electricity. Tips of blue light emit from your fingertips.
"If those feelings aren't directed towards Anna, then where are they now?"
The trigger is pulled. You spin around, teeth gritted, strings flying out to connect to a puppet. Mina cackles and leaps back, her conjuration spells guiding her body into a steady descent. The ground comes to being to catch her, and it rumbles. Your body is lurched around, up and down, side by side. A flash of red light—pain floods the center of your head, and you drop to your knees, snarling.
PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Glass cracks, fleshy and liquid objects splatter and spill, and a gargantuan, grinding metallic roar tears through your eardrums.
SPITE [Medium: Success] — Get your ass up, princess. This is nothing.
You…where were you all?
TEMPERANCE — I'm sorry it took this long. This space has only just become available to us. It's not an excuse.
RHETORIC — Some of us are still asleep, the lazy gits.
TEMPERANCE — Please get up and gather your bearings. Don't listen to Mina, either. You know what she's like.
Available…
RECOLLECTION [Trivial: Success] — There was another dream that felt so real. A memory of the despondent queen Henrietta became., where you broke from the script and enacted your own will upon the dreamscape. Luxemburg was there too, waiting for you at the bottom of a void that transformed into a prison.
You stagger to your feet and look around. It's different. That place was stony. This place is made out of steel.
PUPPETCRAFT [Medium: Success] — Cold greys, burned blacks, rusted browns and sharp angles—this is a tapestry fit for charcoal.
LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Prisons are made out of steel too.
INSTINCT [Incredible: Failure] — Doesn't matter. This a metal box. A flesh box. It's bad, very, very bad! Where's the exit?
ETIQUETTE [Easy: Success] — It's certainly no place for a princess! Goodness, the filth on your heels…
Steel plating, rust on the walls, a metallic grate beneath your feet. Gears spin, and pistons in unstable machines thrust up and down. One of them spews a burst of heat upwards, forcing you to dodge, lest your lower body catches fire.
MECHANIZATION [Easy: Success] — You recognise these sounds. The hissing is obviously a steam engine. That whirring and whooshing is a conveyor belt. Hammers are striking metal to make them bend. You're in a production line.
WRATH [Very Hard: Failure] — The clanking, the grinding—make it stop! How are you even hearing all this from behind metal walls?
"I was going to invite you to the birthday party, Your Highness."
Mina stands in the darkness, the outline of a heavy steel door looming behind her. She outstretches her arms, elated. "We're having cake, then we're playing ball with the queen's head. She told me to pass on a message while they're sawing through her neck. Here, I'll read it for you."
She reaches into her uniform and pulls out a scrap of paper, then clears her throat.
"Stupid, stupid Gloria! You're being reckless again. Marching ahead so proudly and arrogantly, not giving a thought to what's being trampled beneath your feet! You forgave the girl too quickly, and now she won't be slathered in poison! I told you. I warned you, damn the gods, and you're still not listening!"
RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — That damnable falsetto. It sounds exactly like your sister, right down to the pitch and age.
HEART [Very Hard: Success] — If the plan means putting Anna in harm's way, then it's better not to go through with it at all.
GRACE [Medium: Success] — It's shaking something inside your core. The voice is bait. Don't rise to it. Your will is steel.
"Classic Henrietta. I'll make sure to give her a good wipe before we start up the game again." Mina says, letting out a fond sigh. "You, sadly, don't have an invitation. You can't even spectate. It simply isn't time yet?"
"What in the gods' are you talking about?" You hiss.
TEMPERANCE [Very Hard: Failure] — Stop that. Don't engage with this apparition. This is a nightmare, and those don't matter. You will wake up in time.
ARCANE [Extreme: Failure] — You try to flare your pneuma to skip the process, and fail. Wait, that doesn't make sense! You're in your mercenary form. Last time, you couldn't do it because your princess self wasn't a magician. That's not the case here!
WRATH — You can take Mina. With her attachment to Anna gone, there's nothing stopping you. For gods's sake Gloria, your puppets are on their knees begging you to summon their strings and tear this insolent woman to shreds!
TEMPERANCE — Be quiet!
"Exactly what I said, Your Highness. You're getting close, I think, since we're meeting here, but…" Mina says. "It needs a sprinkle more. Another passing day, another turn of the wheel. Gently, softly, sweetly, the gilded carriage rocks…"
An alarm warbles. A bloody red light flashes, revealing Mina's body, and you are transfixed for reasons you cannot explain, as it basks her in its piercing, screaming radiance.
PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — There's a crack down her face, like a fracture in a porcelain plate. Patches of skin are sloughing off.
VITALITY — Wha—there's no muscle beneath them? How is that possible? Is she human?
INSTINCT [Massive: Failure] — Blackness leaks from the cracks. Something shifts beneath. It's peering out. DON'T LOOK AT IT.
"Once that day arrives, we'll meet again."
MECHANIZATION — The klaxon warbles again. It belongs to a Valorian skyship. You once rigged one with a bomb, sacrificing hundreds to kill a Valorian duchess.
ARCANE — Draw something. Anything to break yourself out of this nightmare! Move, Gloria! Why aren't you moving?
"Try not to think too hard about it, aye? It'll come in time." The woman chuckles and bows, "Be seeing you, Your Highness."
The light flashes red, purple, red. The door slams shut behind her. A heavy lock clicks. Dozens of chains spring out from the walls and criss-cross the doorframe like spiderwebs.
TEMPERANCE [Medium: Success] — They are impenetrable.
SOVEREIGNTY [Trivial: Success] — FOR NOW.
The door stands before you. It's locked and covered in chains. You can't open it.
(Choose only one.)
[] Break it.
[] Spit at it.
[] Pick at it.
[] Flatter it.
[] Ignore it.
Are you proud of how you handled Anna?
(Choose only one.)
[] Yes. You have removed a major threat to Irluvia.
[] Yes. You are happy to have made a new friend.
[] No. Your duty doesn't need pride.
[] No. You should have finished this sooner.
[] Write-in.
31st Midwinter, 1562, Morning
"Preparations for the Winter ball are underway, Your Majesty. All the major figures from our noble houses are confirmed to be in attendance, along with envoys from Sylvchira, Renecklo, Fraje and…"
"Toss out the velvets and keep the furs, my good sir. They'll sell well this solstice. I wonder if Papa is open to importing some Mimolian rubies for the upcoming season soon…"
"Didn't you hear? The Wilhemine family plucked two of ours to serve as their heiress's guard and governess. An ex-Arbiter and an ex-Professor. That's two lines of pneumagical study straight at their residence. Rumor is she's attending Arlan for lessons with Her Highness, too! Seriously, where is that windfall coming from?"
"I ain't using that damn type-writer. The thing looks like a child's toy with all those keys. I swear, too many young men trying to take shortcuts with their work these days. Nothing wrong with holding a proper pencil in your hands."
"Y-t-yeah, me too. M-mah teeth and my hands. We're gonna have to just put up with it. Maybe we can scrounge more lumenite from the scrapyards. A-at least the machines are a little warm…"
SOVEREIGNTY [Medium: Success] — Adampolis. All around, banners of prosperity and excitement, hanging from lampposts and stretching on wires between roofs. The Winter Solstice cheer is on full display. The bright lights in shop windows, cream cakes sold from bakeries, children tugging at their mother's sleeves to watch the traveling magicians.
SOVEREIGNTY — There. A worn brick road merging into a bridge. It's the path out of the rookeries, where the destitute and abandoned squash together in little wooden boxes. One such boy is trapising across the path, alone. His blood is foreign, a tanned brown from the West, and a package is strapped to his back—his wooden sword, disguised as a musical instrument.
SOVEREIGNTY — He cranes his neck to the east, where the towers of Arlan Palace are visible from behind the snow and ground, and shivers.
SOVEREIGNTY — His shirt has holes in them. His shoes are worse. He only ate a single chunk of bread and some thin soup last night, then huddled in an abandoned kitchen with his mates as a snowstorm raged outside. He raises a pair of fingers to his neck, which tingles with the phantom of a straight line cut there with his own knife. The hideaway. The night theft. The girl with the golden hair.
SOVEREIGNTY — Princess Gloria, daughter of the Crown.
SOVEREIGNTY — He snarls, kicking up a patch of snow. Arlan Palace represents everything he hates about his betters. Yet, he marches on towards you anyway, hoping you remember the deal you made, because the atmosphere in the rookeries has changed and he has become so, so desperate…
(You are in Arlan Palace, but which part of it, and with who? Choose only one.)
[] Performing pneumagical experiments with Elizabeth in a courtyard.
[] Having tea with Mother in her lounge.
[] Watching Father hold court with nobles and foreign dignitaries in the throne room.
[] Practicing etiquette and dancing with Tilly and Eleanor in the ballroom.
[] Visiting the soldiers training with Cassius in the barracks.
[] Throwing snowballs in the garden with Henrietta and her friends.
You play the part of the humble and reticent daughter, accepting your parents' criticisms with grace. They mainly revolve around you upsetting the balance of the Wilhemine household. Anna might be grateful to you for frightening her governess into submission, but other noble scions are liable to take advantage of the Crown's mistakes, especially when you enter adolescence and beyond. Your curtsy, you make apologies, and you allow your Father's stern words to roll over you.
Mother is quieter. She's the softer of the Crown's heads, but no less observant. She must have spoken to Felix, Louise and Alis about what happened; you hope they haven't suffered any lasting consequences. Mother will be keeping a closer eye on you from now on.
It's almost amusing to listen them prattle on. Your parents are hypocrites. The history of Irluvia's nobility is littered with as much sin as it shines with virtue; frightening a governess to near-death is the lightest of its blackened marks. What your parents did to succeed the throne from your late grandfather, it cannot have been peaceful. That period was termed a succession 'war' for a reason.
You don't point this out. After all, you're the biggest hypocrite of them all, lying to their faces as they gaze their daughter, trying to keep their innate fondness hidden behind royal stringency.
They're both alive and healthy.
It's acceptable.
(+5 EXP. Modifier gained: +1 to the next SKULDUGGERY check.)
>>A basic typewriter.
You decide to feed Louis Trent the schematics for a typewriter. A basic model, something he can pluck an idea from within to improve on. It's a good idea. Typewriters are fast, they're convenient and they can produce text that is legible and uniform. Uniformity leads to efficiency. Literary rates will skyrocket across Irluvia as more books are printed and distributed. More jobs will be made available, as anyone with a pair of hands and eyes can wield a typewriter—including women. Written documents can be made quicker, streamlining communications between official channels within governance.
The Crown of Irluvia shall save valuable time. They're lacking it the most.
Some of their servants have awful handwriting, too.
(+5 EXP. Modifier gained: +1 to the next LOGIC check.)
Cassius whispers something in your ear as you enter the carriage with him. Mother's prying fingers are searching for Titania. Whether she wants to wield Titania for herself or put them under lock and chain, it'll mean a drastic change to your inventing activities.
The two of you agree to put a pause on things, for now.
SOVEREIGNTY — One.
"This…what in the gods' many names is—"
Count George Wilhemine lowers the letter down onto his desk in the study. It's oak, Countess Sarah Wilhemine remembers numbly, varnished to a near mirror sheen. The desk was one of the first things she bought for him after they moved into this manor together, and he was staring at the furniture as if he wanted to split it, along with the letter resting on the top, in half. She couldn't blame him.
She hears a tick, a tock. It's emitting from the ornate, human-length clock behind her chaise. Its noise pop in the heavy silence, like needles in tiny balloons. A gasoline heater hums, and flurries of snow descend onto a pair of tree branches. Low light pours from outside, framing the back of her husband's head in shadow. She's not afraid of him. If anything, she's afraid for him.
He's muttering under his breath. Reciting the words, as he did for many contracts in his career. She recalls that she used to tease him about it over dinner in their old apartment.
"Sarah. Was there anything else?" The count says.
Sarah shakes her head, wordless.
George drops the paper, and watches it flutter down. He slumps into his chair. He leans forward in the next moment, resting his hands on his elbows, jaw clenched. A red tinge is flowing into the sides of the chest. A survey of his desk: pen and paper, inkwell, dust. The letter. His fist clenches and he slams it down on the table, the same way he used to do with a mug in the pub.
"An insider. They must have an insider, just like the ones the Clementines sent snooping around our mines! Did even you bother to ask?"
Sarah looks at him, wordless.
"What?"
The countess shakes her head. Her diamond necklace rolls against the skin of her neck. "That's Titania's point, Georgie. There's too many of them in on it. Our house is full of poison."
It's an adequate response, in that it sends the count slumping back down again. She can imagine the sweat seeping from the back of his neck, where his scar is. His moustache bristles; it's always looked stupid, and today strands are arcing out of it like top of a mangy mutt's hide. The countess can't even laugh, only shake her head.
She knows her George. His masculine ire: top-heavy and strong, a bull wrapped in a human skin, powering ahead like his mining equipment into the dark tunnels. Like the bull, shock could change his mind. She can see it in his face. He wants to deny his failings. Scream with rage, tear the letter to shreds, march down to the nearest headquarters and show this Titania the business with his right hook.
He can't, she knows, because he's still holding onto his better judgement, and it's telling him the contents of the letter are worth more than their weight in gold. If she wasn't so frightened, she'd be fascinated. All their failings, from their idle servants to the numerous fatal accidents George apparently missed by a hair's margin, are detailed in clear cursive script. Its existence is baffling. Industrial sabotage doesn't usually involve warning the victim of what they're doing wrong.
Sarah and George have been exposed. Their home invaded, their privacy violated on a level deeper than clothes or flesh. She could be furious. There was a blistering speech she practiced in front of the mirror running through her head. The words balance on the tip of her tongue, then jump off; there's no real energy in this. The bluster that once kept her persistent in front of consultants and dressmakers has skipped town. It's cold, it's dreary, and she is tempted to abandon her husband's study to busy herself with her wardrobe in her room.
The idea reminds her, and she lowers her head in shame.
"Dear. Dear, listen to me," Sarah says. She lets out a soft whimper, "I…I checked. The kitchens."
"The kitchen? What about them?" George asks.
"Moonshine." Sarah replies. "Dozens upon dozens of bottles, enough for us to be fined by the Crown."
"How in the Maiden's scorching buttocks did that come to be?"
"It says in the letter: we've been hiring the wrong people!" Sarah gulps at the sight of her husband's glower, swallows the lumps in her throat. "I did a recheck of the ledgers, too. One of our staff—someone has been tampering with them, marking red lines green. I don't know who. You know I'm not the best with arithmetic, but I got a notice from my banking solicitor that if we keep this up, we'll run out of savings, even with the revenue from our new businesses!"
The clock ticks. One, two, one two—the countess stands up, marches over and grabs the side of it as if she could break it in half with her bare hands.
"Look at this thing, George. Look at it! I don't remember how much I spent on this. I thought it was a good present, but the etchings…" She lets out a strangled laugh, "They're horrible. Disgusting. The clock ticks so damn loud, too! When did we buy this? Why did we buy it? You already have a timepiece in your pocket!"
She expects her husband to reach for his coat—and he does, taking out the gold-trimmed miniature clock. It used to be silver, dinged up from his work.
She loved that silver, she remembers, and she cast it aside when they became nobles.
"Georgie, please." Sarah turns to her husband, her lip trembling. "What on earth have we been doing?"
George scrunches up his face. He lets out a growl, the covers his face with his gloved hands.
"I don't…" He whispers. "Damn the Maiden, I don't know."
It's her fault. His fault.
Their fault.
Their.
A terrible sensation crawls over Sarah's skin. Somehow, it reminds her of the time a motor carriage swerved around a corner and almost smashed her into a wall.
"Anna." She breathes. "Anna!"
"Oh gods, Anna!" George cries, leaping up in a flash. "Where is she?"
SOVEREIGNTY — Two.
"You can't do this to us!"
"I can and I will. Everyone who is named on this list: you have two hours to pack your bags and leave. Jeffery will hand you your severance packages. Once you step outside those gates, you are to never return. Understand?"
"This isn't what you promised!"
"It is what I, the lady of this household, decree! Now get moving, or I'll call the police!"
Anna scampers out from the front door, her maid trailing behind her. Dressed in wool and a silk scarf, she stands on the stone steps, staring out into the commotion in the front yard. Her flabbergasted expression feels like a mask attached to her face. "What's happening?" Anna asks.
"They're leaving, milady." Mabel says, her tone level. "The count and countess found them incompetent, and thus fired them."
Anna stares back at the line, which is leaving the mansion via the servant's quarters. It's full of servants and maids from the house. Some of the fired personnel are weeping; others are muttering curses beneath their breath, shooting her or the mansion hateful looks out of the corner of their eyes. One shove from the hired security escorting them out, and they keep to themselves.
She recognises a few of them. The cook who kept serving her greens she disliked, the maid who 'accidentally' dropped something sharp in her clothes, the servant boy who made a game of tripping her up in the halls until she learned to avoid him. Disrespectful commoners who added to the rot sinking into what should have been her sanctuary. Anna thinks she should feel elated, the way Princess Gloria surely would, but in this moment she can only ask, "Why?"
"I don't know." Mabel replies. She thinks for a moment. "Maybe you should ask. I think the count and countess would tell you."
"Would they, Mabel?"
Something flashes in Mabel's eye, so quick that Anna almost thinks she imagines it.
"Yes." Mabel says, placing a hand on Anna's head. It's not as heavy as Anna expects. "They will now."
"You fucking bastard! You pieces of pigshit Wilhemines! I'll show you!"
A roar from behind causes Anna to whip around. She shrieks as Elmer throws off two of the security to the ground, pulls out a knife from his coat and charges forward across the lawn straight towards her. Anna's future self could have grabbed the man with a half-lidded smile and twisted him into a hundred bloody pieces. Right now, she is innocent and unbroken and can only stand there, frozen, as a chunk of memories—nightmares, her governess, a trap sprung by Eleanor involving a set of paints—flow and entangle themselves within her head.
Two things happen. Firstly, Mabel pulls Anna behind her, shielding the young girl with her body. She is weaponless and defenseless.
The blow never comes. A harsh crack rings through the air, the sound of bone on flesh.
When Anna dares to open her eyes, she sees her father standing above Elmer's prone form, his fist outstretched. His expression is thunder.
"Filthy scoundrel." Anna recognises his stance from a boxer she once read in the comics. He kicks the knife away into the grass and pulls up Elmer by the throat. "Don't you dare touch my daughter!"
SOVEREIGNTY — Three.
"I only wanted to shine like the stars."
"Interesting turn of phrase you've got there, Lady Sarah. I understand, I really do...when I was fourteen, that is." Countess Wilhemine droops, and Alis tries not to sigh. "Look, you weren't raised the way we were."
"I'm getting that a lot these days."
"It's a reason, not an excuse, but you're learning, judging from all that fabric your manservant hauled out towards that salon."
"That's not even half of it. Cameos and jewelry too. An entire storage room full of rubbish and knicknacks. I'll be lucky if I break even tonight."
Sarah stares into her tea, glum as a dried prune. She pushes the cup away and begins fidgeting with her napkin. A waiter comes over, seeing the tea untouched, Alis waves at him to go away.
"On second thoughts, another lemon slice for my friend here." Alis says. The waiter bows once, then hurries off across the cafe floor towards the cook's area. The action causes commotion. Alis can feel eyes piercing their corner of the tea shop. Most of them are from Irluvia's upper-crust. She doesn't need to cock an ear to hear the whispers. Come tomorrow morning, there will be headlines about her in the gossip corner of the daily paper, and she'll endure a round of pestering from Catherine or Jessica or even Felix. Euphemia will understand, and so will her Majesty. Her Majesty's will is why Alis is here talking to this catastrophe of a countess in the first place.
Patience, she reminds herself. Alis herself wasn't exactly a shining example of grace in her younger days. She clears her throat and straightens her posture.
"Look, Lady Sarah, you know Princess Gloria is pretty taken with your daughter, right?"
"Anna drew of a picture of her having tea with the princess in the Duchess Malvorn's garden party." Sarah mumbles, "She came up to me one night, so proud of what she did, and I told her to put those silly toys away and get back to violin practice. Anna, my poor baby girl…"
Alis snaps her fingers. "Focus."
"M-my apologies."
"Her Majesty loves her children." Alis says, firmly. Sarah lifts her head, looking wounded. It's not enough to move Alis, and the woman before her needs something firmer than sympathy. "The things she's done and will do to protect her own—I won't elaborate. Listen, Sarah. If you had been ignorant enough to keep neglecting your daughter, we'd be speaking in a completely different tone. However, Her Majesty wasn't about to let that happen."
"What do you mean?"
Alis thought for a moment. This was technically an embellishment of the facts, yet close enough to reality and she had been loyal to the queen for long enough to pick up on her thought patterns, so…
Eh, whatever.
"Think about it. Anna Wilhemine the pneumagical prodigy, friend to second princess. An adorable pair of darlings, one gold and the other chocolate brown, scampering around the Crown's gardens, Her Highness's favourite dolls nestled in their hands. Frankly, just describing the two of them is putting me at risk from being dragged to the dentist for tooth rot. It's even better for politics, Collegium-Crown relationships, and the Crown's image in the press. The Crown gives and takes, and Her Majesty chose to give one of her own for a spell. We cleaned out your wardrobe, no?"
The countess averts her eyes. Those silks and furs she's wearing—they no longer look like the product of a paint explosion in a cotton mill. She must have examined herself in the mirror, shame prickling around her wrists and neck.
"Her Majesty isn't like the old queen. She won't crush a prospect beneath her heels when they've still got the chance to fix themselves. Mind you, we were on alert for another one of your mishaps, and then you spoiled our devious plans by figuring out the problem on your own. Congrats! That's not easy to do."
"It wasn't on my own." Sarah mumbles.
"Hey, don't be modest. A victory is a victory. You're starving for them." Alis says. She leans across the table, beckoning Sarah over, winking. "Tell you what, Lady Sarah. I'll invite you to Arlan for a spot of tea with Euphemia—my partner and Her Majesty's right hand. Sounds delectable, eh? Once we've guided you through the motions, we'll tour the Crown's library and lend you our old notes back from when we prepared for the Queen's exam. If Her Majesty's own ladies can't give you pointers, then you might as well sell your house and tie yourself to a shrine."
Alis flashes a grin that the countess meets shakily. The lemon cake arrives. A bite and the sugar cheers her up. "Lady Alis, I…I don't know how I can repay you."
"Bring your little Anna to the palace for another playdate." Alis teases. "She's a good girl. No jesting."
She sticks a spoon into her ice-cream, lifting up a slice of strawberry. "You know, Her Majesty has a saying she likes teaching her children."
"What is it?"
"We're nobles, purveyors of the Crown's values. Our conduct must be conformed to the privileges and position at which we enjoy and so on and so forth. However, beneath that…" Alis shoves the ice-cream into her mouth, then looks Sarah in the eye. "We're still human beings."
SOVEREIGNTY — Four.
"What do you mean, you're staying out here?"
"We might overwhelm her if we go in there at once."
"You're her father!"
"Can we not argue about this right now? We've both done wrong. We're both responsible. You know I've never been the best with words."
"What do you propose, then? Flitter in the background, giving our daughter the odd treat or pat on the head like you've done the past week? George, we've put this off for long enough. We can't keep acting like this!"
"I know, I know. Please, let me patient for once in my life."
"…Don't you dare run."
"I'd never. I promise."
Anna jumps when the door to her bedroom creaks open. She turns around, and the book on knightesses falls from her hands. Sarah stands in the door-frame. Before Anna can react, she crosses the carpet in length strides, crouching down to meet her daughter eye-to-eye, and Anna thinks with a hollow pit in her little stomach: oh, this is it.
She's been a bad girl again. The mercy from Mama and Papa is about to end, and she's about to be smacked the way her old governess said she deserved to. They've spent enough time at home and they've come to say their goodbyes before Papa leaves the mansion for work again, and Mama returns to shopping and frolicking and leaves Anna behind in her room with only her toys and books for company. At least most of the bad servants are gone.
Her mother opens her mouth, reaches out with her hand. Anna flinches, her tiny body recoiling back. There's a small noise, and the air shifts.
"I'm sorry, Anna."
Anna blinks. She twitches her ears. "Mama?"
Her mother isn't angry, she notices. She looks sad. Her clothes are plain.
"Mama is sorry, Anna. Mama has been foolish. Papa too. Mama…" Her mother pauses. "Mama broke her promise."
"Promise?" Anna says. She tries to remember, and feels dread when she fails. "I don't remember."
"It was from a long time ago. You were very young. Mama and Papa only wanted to give you a warm bed and sturdy clothes, so Papa went out and struck his fortune from his coal mines. We bought our title that way." Her mother says. She kneels down until she and Anna are eye-to-eye. "Mama and Papa promised that once we became nobles, you wouldn't go hungry again; everyone would respect and like you; all the treasures and nice presents in the world would be yours to enjoy. But Mama and Papa were wrong. We were so swept up in working and buying these things that we forgot about the real treasure that was with us from the beginning!"
Anna looks around her room, thinks back to the numerous junk her mother insisted on buying, comes up blank, and glances down at herself. Her mother nods, and Anna gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth. She pinches herself hard on the cheek. She flares her leylines, the way that teacher at the Collegium had taught her to. The sting fades, and her mother is still kneeling there, a hand now rested gently on her cheek.
"You don't hate me?" Anna asks.
Anna's mother sobs, tears streaking muddy lines across her makeup. Behind her, Anna's father clenches his fists so tight he finds his fingernails digging into his skin. He snarls, hoarse and ashamed, and raises his fist, contemplating if it should go into himself or the wall.
"Never! We could never—I'm the one whom you should hate!" Her mother wails, "We left you all alone in this house with those useless servants and that horrid excuse of a governess! Your poor legs, Anna! Your precious little soul! It was in so much pain, day and night, and we brushed past it like monsters!"
Her mother hangs her head, crying and hiccupping, so divorced from the idea of the proud noble she aspired to be. Slowly, Anna inches forward, her arms spread out instinctively. She gasps again as her mother pulls her into a hug and places a desperate kiss on her forehead. It's wet. It's warm. It smells like home. The old home, from before the manor.
"Anna." Countess Sarah Wilhemine whispers, and Anna senses something thick and heavy welling up in her throat. "My sweet Anna, my precious little chestnut. I realise this isn't enough to make up for what we did, but you must know. I love you. Mama and Papa will always, always, always love you, and we're sorry. We're so, so sorry…"
SOVEREIGNTY — Queen Marianne's hourglass flips over. The grains of sand tick down, one by one. A repetition is made. A collection of timepieces rolls off the end of a production line. Their cogs and their glass frames are melted down into pieces that fall across a grand, infinitely expanding boardscape.
SOVEREIGNTY — The end of Loriana—grand temples and divine implements—lies at the beginning. Utter destruction looms at the end. Gunfire, rust and crumbling gold. The boardscape is fed into the void's maw, which chews it up and sends splinters and fabrics and chunks of organs raining down across the ground. Desperate, persistent and straining against her binds, the second princess reaches out from her square and snatches a single piece by the hands. She twirls the piece around her body like a waltz. She grabs it by the chest, flips in a half revolution and drops it on the board.
SOVEREIGNTY — The board shudders. It twists and rolls like waves on the shore. The princess collapses, almost falling on her knees, exhausted beyond measure, as shadowed figures near the end of the maw scream in rage. It's too late. The traitorous witch has been reversed. Like the Martyr, whose gentle saplings may be flipped into strangling thorns, this piece has been irrecoverably, utterly altered.
SOVEREIGNTY — That once cruel sneer is now a bewildered, awed smile. She's wearing it now, as she gazes up at the rafters of the mansion attic—her sanctuary.
SOVEREIGNTY — Five.
SOVEREIGNTY — Anna Wilhemine giggles to herself, a mewling sound like a contented kitten. Her feet wriggle beneath the musty blanket. She clutches a sketchbook of dreams, its contents drawn in watercolor with agonizing care—only the latest page is now a reality. Herself and the princess, standing side by side, holding each other's hands amongst a field of dolls and flowers, and they're smiling. They're about to go on an adventure in the Collegium, and once it's done, Gloria will take her to Arlan and let her become her lady-in-waiting.
SOVEREIGNTY — Gloria, the girl mouths. Her smile widens. Gloria. What a name. What a beautiful, magificent name, fit for a princess. Gloria Ecclesia Malvorn, Her Royal Highness, second princess of Irluvia, and, most of all, Anna Wilhemine's friend!
SOVEREIGNTY — No, that's not enough. Best friend is more like it. What else could describe a girl who went so far out of her way to help Anna? The mean old governess, gone. Her ugly dresses, sold off. The bad Mama and Papa whose heads were filled with gold—replaced by the kind Mama and Papa from before. They promised to take her to the amusement park, just the three of them. They'll ride the pneumagical water slide, eat sausage bread at the parlor and watch the fireworks show at night.
SOVEREIGNTY — All of these wonderful things that fill her up until she thinks she might burst, all stemming from that day Gloria extended a hand to her in the Duchess's garden. She cries out again, a pearl of childish laughter, and buries her head in the pillow, writhing with joy.
SOVEREIGNTY — She can't wait for tomorrow. She also can't wait to see Gloria at the palace. As she gently closes her eyes for her nap—no longer will she cry herself to sleep in this space—she hopes Mama will let her keep having lessons at Arlan after she receives her new governess.
SOVEREIGNTY — Her fate has been overturned. With her family secure, she will never be thrown out into the streets.
"She won't witness her entire life crumbling down around her."
SOVEREIGNTY — She will never wander the streets begging for help until she is beaten and robbed and taken in as a ward of the Collegium.
"She won't get her hopes up for a better life, only to become disappointed and disillusioned with the Collegium, the Crown and Irluvia, over and over again. She won't meet him. Or is it them?"
SOVEREIGNTY — She will never embark on that trip to Valoria.
"She won't be broken. Remade. Find splendour in atrocities. The bonfire of revolution is dry of her kindling."
SOVEREIGNTY — As long as she treasures Princess Gloria, Anna Wilhemine's hatred for her homeland will never exist.
"Therefore, she will never become me."
You hear a single clap.
"You did it, Your Highness. You really, truly did it."
Mina Luxemburg stands before you, clad in that Valorian royal guard uniform of tacky gold and onyx-purple. Her face is serrated, blood seep from filthy wounds beneath holes in the cotton, and a slick wetness punctuates each of her claps. A hole is blown in her chest, the product of a gunshot wound. Despite the fatal injury, she grants you the standing ovation, a mocking staccato that rings and dissipates through the infinite darkness.
"All that effort, paranoia and struggle over your own prejudices, and you have saved a single child. Praise be, second princess of Irluvia. Praise be, Gloria Ecclesia Malvorn, hallowed be her name. Congratulations, congratulations, our greatest and most hearty congratulations!"
You stand there, arms folded. Waiting.
The clapping fades. Mina Luxemburg pouts. "How droll, Your Highness."
"I'm hoping Damien might hear your incessant warbling, charge out of the shadows and stab you through the chest." You reply.
"A tad too late, Your Highness." Mina says, running a finger across the edge of the hole in her chest, "That voidman could have been your lover, Gloria, but, alas! He chose to penetrate me instead."
"I'm sure he's crying himself to sleep in the afterlife."
"Rude. So rude. Violent too." Mina moans. She sounds like a disappointed schoolteacher. "But that's the Gloria I knew and admired."
She reaches down into her wound and drags out a chunk of spine. She inspects it like a jewel, then flicks it into the darkness. "The fight on the skyship, our reunion in Arlan palace, that debate where I utterly demolished you about grain supplies. We had some good times, you and I. Alas, you've crushed these opportunities before they can pry open their eggshells. All our confrontations in the last war ended in draws. We'll never find out who's the better magician. How terrible, how loathsome, how sorrowful!"
Mina fakes a sob. You turn around, removing her from your sight.
"Come on…" Mina whines, "I'm not that horrible. I'm the older version of your beloved Anna."
"I have nothing to say to a bad memory." You reply. "You said it yourself, Mina. Anna will not become you."
"What happened to breaking her little chestnut neck?"
"Those were the foolish whims of an embittered old hag, who has since learned her lesson." You brush the taunt off. "Valoria has been deprived of its greatest magician. A terrible wound has been inflicted upon them without their knowledge. The real Mina was a once in a century talent; Valoria might find another agent, but they will not be as charismatic, nor proficient, nor do I intend to let that happen in the first place. You are but a mere memory of that madwoman, and serve no purpose anymore."
"Is that so?"
Anticipation creeps back into her voice. You press down on the foreboding and keep your muscles still. Even so, you imagine her smirk. Lopsided, toothy, almost peaceful; a prelude to the devastation she often so wrought. The countless hours poring over her dossier paints a picture as you hear her footsteps. She limps up to you, her body twisting and curling like a serpent. The flesh undulates with the weight of her pneumagica. Grime and blood slide off her frazzled hair onto the uniform's pauldrons.
"No purpose, you say? Gloria, sweetheart, did you honestly think making that little chestnut adore you was the end of it?"
Tiny things struggle to squirm from beneath her skin and infest the surrounding atmosphere.
"All those feelings you had for Anna—the darkness, the terror, the nightmares of blood and steel and me snapping your comrades into broken tinderboxes—they're no longer associated with her. I dare say they've even been extinguished, somewhat. It's obvious why. You like Anna. You'll always keep an eye on her, never letting her stray off the Crown's path. You might even come to adore her, enough to trick yourself into believing that she'd reciprocate and appreciate your true self, not the act you keep showing to her."
Her grin turns feral. Her bloodied, musty whisper traces the contours up the back of your neck. Something inside of you crackles with a biological electricity. Tips of blue light emit from your fingertips.
"If those feelings aren't directed towards Anna, then where are they now?"
The trigger is pulled. You spin around, teeth gritted, strings flying out to connect to a puppet. Mina cackles and leaps back, her conjuration spells guiding her body into a steady descent. The ground comes to being to catch her, and it rumbles. Your body is lurched around, up and down, side by side. A flash of red light—pain floods the center of your head, and you drop to your knees, snarling.
PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Glass cracks, fleshy and liquid objects splatter and spill, and a gargantuan, grinding metallic roar tears through your eardrums.
SPITE [Medium: Success] — Get your ass up, princess. This is nothing.
You…where were you all?
TEMPERANCE — I'm sorry it took this long. This space has only just become available to us. It's not an excuse.
RHETORIC — Some of us are still asleep, the lazy gits.
TEMPERANCE — Please get up and gather your bearings. Don't listen to Mina, either. You know what she's like.
Available…
RECOLLECTION [Trivial: Success] — There was another dream that felt so real. A memory of the despondent queen Henrietta became., where you broke from the script and enacted your own will upon the dreamscape. Luxemburg was there too, waiting for you at the bottom of a void that transformed into a prison.
You stagger to your feet and look around. It's different. That place was stony. This place is made out of steel.
PUPPETCRAFT [Medium: Success] — Cold greys, burned blacks, rusted browns and sharp angles—this is a tapestry fit for charcoal.
LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Prisons are made out of steel too.
INSTINCT [Incredible: Failure] — Doesn't matter. This a metal box. A flesh box. It's bad, very, very bad! Where's the exit?
ETIQUETTE [Easy: Success] — It's certainly no place for a princess! Goodness, the filth on your heels…
Steel plating, rust on the walls, a metallic grate beneath your feet. Gears spin, and pistons in unstable machines thrust up and down. One of them spews a burst of heat upwards, forcing you to dodge, lest your lower body catches fire.
MECHANIZATION [Easy: Success] — You recognise these sounds. The hissing is obviously a steam engine. That whirring and whooshing is a conveyor belt. Hammers are striking metal to make them bend. You're in a production line.
WRATH [Very Hard: Failure] — The clanking, the grinding—make it stop! How are you even hearing all this from behind metal walls?
"I was going to invite you to the birthday party, Your Highness."
Mina stands in the darkness, the outline of a heavy steel door looming behind her. She outstretches her arms, elated. "We're having cake, then we're playing ball with the queen's head. She told me to pass on a message while they're sawing through her neck. Here, I'll read it for you."
She reaches into her uniform and pulls out a scrap of paper, then clears her throat.
"Stupid, stupid Gloria! You're being reckless again. Marching ahead so proudly and arrogantly, not giving a thought to what's being trampled beneath your feet! You forgave the girl too quickly, and now she won't be slathered in poison! I told you. I warned you, damn the gods, and you're still not listening!"
RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — That damnable falsetto. It sounds exactly like your sister, right down to the pitch and age.
HEART [Very Hard: Success] — If the plan means putting Anna in harm's way, then it's better not to go through with it at all.
GRACE [Medium: Success] — It's shaking something inside your core. The voice is bait. Don't rise to it. Your will is steel.
"Classic Henrietta. I'll make sure to give her a good wipe before we start up the game again." Mina says, letting out a fond sigh. "You, sadly, don't have an invitation. You can't even spectate. It simply isn't time yet?"
"What in the gods' are you talking about?" You hiss.
TEMPERANCE [Very Hard: Failure] — Stop that. Don't engage with this apparition. This is a nightmare, and those don't matter. You will wake up in time.
ARCANE [Extreme: Failure] — You try to flare your pneuma to skip the process, and fail. Wait, that doesn't make sense! You're in your mercenary form. Last time, you couldn't do it because your princess self wasn't a magician. That's not the case here!
WRATH — You can take Mina. With her attachment to Anna gone, there's nothing stopping you. For gods's sake Gloria, your puppets are on their knees begging you to summon their strings and tear this insolent woman to shreds!
TEMPERANCE — Be quiet!
"Exactly what I said, Your Highness. You're getting close, I think, since we're meeting here, but…" Mina says. "It needs a sprinkle more. Another passing day, another turn of the wheel. Gently, softly, sweetly, the gilded carriage rocks…"
An alarm warbles. A bloody red light flashes, revealing Mina's body, and you are transfixed for reasons you cannot explain, as it basks her in its piercing, screaming radiance.
PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — There's a crack down her face, like a fracture in a porcelain plate. Patches of skin are sloughing off.
VITALITY — Wha—there's no muscle beneath them? How is that possible? Is she human?
INSTINCT [Massive: Failure] — Blackness leaks from the cracks. Something shifts beneath. It's peering out. DON'T LOOK AT IT.
"Once that day arrives, we'll meet again."
MECHANIZATION — The klaxon warbles again. It belongs to a Valorian skyship. You once rigged one with a bomb, sacrificing hundreds to kill a Valorian duchess.
ARCANE — Draw something. Anything to break yourself out of this nightmare! Move, Gloria! Why aren't you moving?
"Try not to think too hard about it, aye? It'll come in time." The woman chuckles and bows, "Be seeing you, Your Highness."
The light flashes red, purple, red. The door slams shut behind her. A heavy lock clicks. Dozens of chains spring out from the walls and criss-cross the doorframe like spiderwebs.
TEMPERANCE [Medium: Success] — They are impenetrable.
SOVEREIGNTY [Trivial: Success] — FOR NOW.
The door stands before you. It's locked and covered in chains. You can't open it.
(Choose only one.)
[] Break it.
[] Spit at it.
[] Pick at it.
[] Flatter it.
[] Ignore it.
Are you proud of how you handled Anna?
(Choose only one.)
[] Yes. You have removed a major threat to Irluvia.
[] Yes. You are happy to have made a new friend.
[] No. Your duty doesn't need pride.
[] No. You should have finished this sooner.
[] Write-in.
31st Midwinter, 1562, Morning
"Preparations for the Winter ball are underway, Your Majesty. All the major figures from our noble houses are confirmed to be in attendance, along with envoys from Sylvchira, Renecklo, Fraje and…"
"Toss out the velvets and keep the furs, my good sir. They'll sell well this solstice. I wonder if Papa is open to importing some Mimolian rubies for the upcoming season soon…"
"Didn't you hear? The Wilhemine family plucked two of ours to serve as their heiress's guard and governess. An ex-Arbiter and an ex-Professor. That's two lines of pneumagical study straight at their residence. Rumor is she's attending Arlan for lessons with Her Highness, too! Seriously, where is that windfall coming from?"
"I ain't using that damn type-writer. The thing looks like a child's toy with all those keys. I swear, too many young men trying to take shortcuts with their work these days. Nothing wrong with holding a proper pencil in your hands."
"Y-t-yeah, me too. M-mah teeth and my hands. We're gonna have to just put up with it. Maybe we can scrounge more lumenite from the scrapyards. A-at least the machines are a little warm…"
SOVEREIGNTY [Medium: Success] — Adampolis. All around, banners of prosperity and excitement, hanging from lampposts and stretching on wires between roofs. The Winter Solstice cheer is on full display. The bright lights in shop windows, cream cakes sold from bakeries, children tugging at their mother's sleeves to watch the traveling magicians.
SOVEREIGNTY — There. A worn brick road merging into a bridge. It's the path out of the rookeries, where the destitute and abandoned squash together in little wooden boxes. One such boy is trapising across the path, alone. His blood is foreign, a tanned brown from the West, and a package is strapped to his back—his wooden sword, disguised as a musical instrument.
SOVEREIGNTY — He cranes his neck to the east, where the towers of Arlan Palace are visible from behind the snow and ground, and shivers.
SOVEREIGNTY — His shirt has holes in them. His shoes are worse. He only ate a single chunk of bread and some thin soup last night, then huddled in an abandoned kitchen with his mates as a snowstorm raged outside. He raises a pair of fingers to his neck, which tingles with the phantom of a straight line cut there with his own knife. The hideaway. The night theft. The girl with the golden hair.
SOVEREIGNTY — Princess Gloria, daughter of the Crown.
SOVEREIGNTY — He snarls, kicking up a patch of snow. Arlan Palace represents everything he hates about his betters. Yet, he marches on towards you anyway, hoping you remember the deal you made, because the atmosphere in the rookeries has changed and he has become so, so desperate…
(You are in Arlan Palace, but which part of it, and with who? Choose only one.)
[] Performing pneumagical experiments with Elizabeth in a courtyard.
[] Having tea with Mother in her lounge.
[] Watching Father hold court with nobles and foreign dignitaries in the throne room.
[] Practicing etiquette and dancing with Tilly and Eleanor in the ballroom.
[] Visiting the soldiers training with Cassius in the barracks.
[] Throwing snowballs in the garden with Henrietta and her friends.
