Mia likes

Mia’s hand never trembled on a sword before. She’s nervous, but it’s nothing to do with the performance, that much she’s sure of. As the curtain rises, languidly following the violin’s mellow advances, her heartbeat doesn’t change. She takes a deep breath, waltzing slowly towards the centre of the stage. Beyond the darkness lie a thousand gazes; she can’t see them, but the flame of their admiration burns with a familiar heat. Most people fear the spotlight, but Mia was born in it. When it falls on her, it’s a welcome embrace; the attention that both nurtured and poisoned her.

She searches the crowd, faces morphing together in one gawking behemoth, save for her father. His joy is immense, but cautious, expecting the worst that’s yet to happen. But really, she couldn’t care less about his ploy or the show – another display of her family’s grandeur. Amy isn’t in the audience and, when Mia subtly peeks behind, she’s not watching from backstage either. At least there aren’t any cameras trained on her. They would’ve caught the sadness hiding behind her smile.

She’s avoiding me, isn’t she? It’s not that she doesn’t understand it, she just can’t forgive herself for allowing it to get to this point. Frustrated, she flourishes her rapier, guiding the sparkling blade along a sinuous ballet. But it does nothing to distract her. Her mind is miles from the Hall of Titans, flying back to the past.

“I – think I like you.”

Mia remembers these words well. The stuttering intonation, the shy, honest conviction. They blindsided her. For a long – too long – while she stayed there, mask drawn on, unsure what to say or do. And Amy was – impossible. The nervous curve of her brow, the childlike wish in her stare, the shiver on her lips, afraid to lose the taste of her skin. Colour had fled and flushed her cheeks in waves, thoughts burning ruin behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry…” she mumbled without warning. Don’t be…“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just – urgh! I don’t know anymore! The show is all sorts of ‘Oh, this thing? It works? Nyehehe, not anymore! Poof!, then my father’s a massive pile of beef jerky, then your father is this big villain that probably sits in an office petting a giant albino capybara and then it’s – you… Coming into my room, being all cute and understanding and huggable and – and – and…”

Amy blanked out. Stuck like a broken record, she gave Mia the opportunity to say something, anything, but her tongue remained swollen and defective. It was such a silly thing. A week wouldn’t go by without receiving a confession, from the most wilful nobodies to the most pretentious socialites. She was taught a million ways to turn them down, polite and apologetic, scathing and bridge-breaking, monotone and formulaic. None of them helped her then.

She reached her arms out, two rifles pointing straight at Amy. She wanted to seize her, hold onto her until a lifetime of supressing emotions would wash out of her system. But she hesitated and missed the embrace. Amy leapt to her feet and darted towards the window.

“Why did I say that?” she muttered to herself, as if Mia wasn’t in the room anymore. “Why now? Couldn’t I have waited until after the show? It would’ve been so much better, but nooo! Stupid, stupid, stupid, that’s what you are, Amy.”

“A-Amy?” Mia called out. She’s managed to get up, but that’s as far as she went. Her feet were rooted to the warm spot they’ve sat in, afraid to venture further into the unknown.

“Like, what did you expect?” Amy continued unperturbed. It’s like she didn’t even hear her. She tapped her finger against her forehead, trying to crack her skull, “It’s not like you’ve got anything she’d want. You’re not rich, or pretty or smart, you’re just a sad little clump of nothings.”

“Amy,” she called again and again, she received no answer. Amy droned on unfazed, lost in her own world.

“Now you’ve done it. The cat’s out of the bag. She doesn’t like you back and now you’ve destroyed your friendship. She’s probably thinking, “You like me? How cute, just like – everyone else. I’m sorry, but you’re not my type. I don’t go for broken messes, I’m more into the well-adjusted, gallant types and you’re just not it. I don’t think this will work out anymore, I’m –“

Going to leave now… As quietly as she could, she slinked out of the bedroom. But once she was alone, everything slammed into her, all at once. She jumped downstairs and rushed outside, not even caring about her shoes or the puddles she slid through, almost breaking her neck.

It was too much to take in. The self-deprecating assumptions, she’s heard them thousands of times, but they never stung until they came from Amy’s mouth. Once in her limo, she started hyperventilating. She never meant to do any of that to her. Liking her was always a curse. It shattered people, turned them into ‘broken messes’, even now, when the feelings were mutual. If only she’d been more outspoken, less cowardly. But it was too late. The damage was done.

“Mia?” Radu asked. His tone was so rich and soothing. If he weren’t there for her, she probably wouldn’t have made it home with a sound mind. She sighed her anxiety out and smoothed the wet hair out of her eyes.

“Drive away please,” she replied, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror. The engine roared to life and a second later they were in motion.

“You’re wet.”

“I know.”

“Your boots...”

“I lost them.”

“I’ve a spare pair in the trunk.”

“Thank you, Radu.”

“You are unwell.”

“I’m aware.”

“Destination: The Gilded Castle. Estimated time for arrival: 43 minutes,” the navigation chimed.

“Will that be enough?”

“It will have to be.”

It took them more than an hour to reach her home. Ellie greeted her grimly, the excuses she had come up with unsuccessful in placating her father. He wanted to talk to her, but she was hardly in an appropriate disposition to battle him. She went to her room right away and, to her surprise, no one came to disturb her. Whether he miraculously understood or Ellie had managed to convince him, she passed a lonely evening and night stuck in the same position, collapsed on her bed.

She awoke early in the morning to her phone’s incessant buzzing. Groggily, she checked her messages only for her half-asleep mind to be jerked into overdrive. She had received ten texts from Amy, of which nine were deleted. The only one left read simply, “Can we pretend yesterday didn’t happen?”

“I would love that,” she typed right away. A grand, but ultimately vacant hope. When they met again on Sunday, the last day before the fete, neither of them had forgotten. When they met, they couldn’t speak to one another and, by silent agreement, they decided it would be best to split up. Mia would oversee the choreography and orchestral arrangement and Amy the costumes and set designs. By the time the sun had set and the doors to the Hall of Titans were sealed behind them, they hadn’t spent a minute together. Truly, it felt like an invisible wall had been erected and neither her nor Amy would be able to scale or demolish it.

But Amy still tried.

“Salaud!” Mia stabs the grunt before her. Sparks fly off her blade and into the audience, accompanied by the sharp clink of metal sounding from the speakers. With a dramatic moan and hand clutching an imaginary wound, her latest victim staggers for two steps before tumbling to the floor on the third.

“Ow!” he whispers.

“Corpses don’t talk, you muppet!” comes the retort from another fallen comrade.

“But it hurt!”

Mia tries holding in her chuckles, but she can’t help it. A decade of fencing and she’s never had so much fun. Her character was meant to be a stalwart warrior princess but, in the heat of combat, she’s become an impish musketeer, a perpetual smirk crossing her face. She counts to three in her head then turns on her heels. Another grunt, the last one standing, is charging her. Should she try improvising? Absolutely. They’re all skilful stuntmen.

She’s meant to dodge at the last second, then elbow him off stage, but instead she raises her rapier. Confusion muddles the grunt’s eyes. He slows down, unsure; just what she wanted. When he’s a sword’s length away, she lowers her weapon and shoulders him dead on. He yelps when Mia pivots on one leg, then slams him down to the ground. She was quite gentle, however. Instead of groaning, he whimpers in fear.

The crowd applauds demurely – rapturous respect coming from aristocrats. Mia twirls her blade, approaching the edge, taking great care not to –

“Please, please, let her step on me…” mumbles one of the corpses.

“Down bad tosspot!”

“Mate, you’ve only lain face up to peek at her knickers.”

“More normal than your blasted BDSM?”

“I like feet,” interjects a third.

“Who – the hell – asked?”

Maybe it’s best to stay put. After all, she couldn’t possibly enjoy this moment more. Being lied to never felt better. Amy told her she’d be playing the damsel in distress, forced to watch from the side-lines as her saviour carved his way through a horde of masked goons. But now here she is, sword in hand, the heroine of her own story. If only Amy could see how happy she’s made her.

Her smile withers away as the lights dim. The dead grunts rise and sneak away under the cover of darkness, played off by a lilting diminuendo. There’s only one sequence left, the final duel. After that, the show will be over and she will seek Amy out, wherever she might be and if she’ll lack words again, she’ll find them. After all she’s put her through, it’s the least she can do. All she can hope is that the harm she’s inflicted didn’t leave any scars. But that’s a worry for another time.

The music picks up, the cello sounding louder and louder, signalling the approach of the antagonist. With a soft, emboldening sigh, Mia turns around and waits. The moon descends from the sky, cast in a pure, immaculate glow. Mist has billowed around the back, thick enough to hide any skulking interloper. Mia’s heart skips a beat. She can’t hold steady, her toes are fidgeting in her sandals and she can’t help mouthing her lines in anticipation.

“A-ha!” comes a taunt, followed by maleficent laughter. The audience murmurs in excitement, much like Mia. A silhouette rips free off the fog, strutting ever closer. Mia’s eyes widen. She’s not astonished, she’s confused. More so when the spotlight flings open.

Marco’s been a common enough fixture of her fencing career and unless he’s lost a foot of height, half his bodyweight and all his confidence, he’s not on stage with her. A scrawny weakling has replaced him, sweat glistening beneath his eye mask. The way he’s holding the sabre is pathetic; a flimsy grip that could falter at any time.

What’s going on? She casts a quizzical look around her, spotting Ray emerging just off-stage. She shrugs her shoulders at him to which he waves his hand. It’s all right, go on! he seems to say, though Mia’s reluctant to believe that. Still, she brandishes her rapier, igniting the sequence. The show ends when she disarms the villain and strikes at him, stopping just short of his throat. It shouldn’t take too long with this new opponent.

“Much has passed since our last battle, Noir!” Mia says. It’s meant to be a short back and forth, but the reply not only delays, but doesn’t come. Noir opens, then closes his mouth and, at a loss, he rushes her.

Good, let’s not waste any time. Their blades collide, sparkle cannons firing all at once. Despite his slender arms, Noir is strong. The impact sends her back a pace, but only one. She crouches, then lunges forward, Noir spinning on his leg to avoid her attack. They face each other again, pausing for the orchestra.

Mia studies him again, this time from up close. There’s something – strange about Noir. His jawline is soft, his cheeks plump and his skin fair, hairless and unblemished. Mia squints, but just then, the violin strikes a shrill chord. Noir doesn’t waste a moment. In the blink of an eye, he’s upon her, sabre swinging wildly. It would be an effortless defence if he were a novice, but his technique is hardly amateurish. His speed and precision catch her off-guard. She falls back, parrying strike after strike, trying to weather his onslaught. It was meant to be an exhibition match, but she’s starting to get winded. This is – amazing! Was this also part of the surprise?

Mia senses kick into overdrive. Noir thrusts forward with all his might, but he’s a little too zealous. His flank exposed, Mia wastes no time on the riposte. Noir leaps back, losing his footing and falling on his knees. She could end it right there with a quick charge, but instead she passes a hand through her hair. On your feet! she orders and he shakes off the dizziness to obey.

A sudden crescendo announces the finale. A little quickly for Mia’s taste, but they’re both panting, thrilled or tired, she can’t tell. Commanded by the music, they both raise their weapons in the air, levelling them at each other with a theatrical flourish. They know what’s next, they’re just waiting for the cue. And when the violin explodes, their blades and spotlights become one.

Mia grunts. She didn’t expect Noir to put his whole weight behind the attack, but she doesn’t mind the added challenge. Their faces are barely a hand apart and she’s enthralled with him. There’s a familiar sweetness to his scent and their battle has loosened a couple long, silken strands of hair from under his beret. But his eyes are mesmerising. Round and bright, an iridescent brown, brimming with emotion. They’re shy and remorseful. Carrying a silent apology, even if they were instrumental to this entire night. But they know that, there’s a passionate flame burning inside them and she – she loves that.

“I’m sorry,” Mia whispers. Noir recoils, his grip on the hilt weakening. She smirks; it’s not in the script, but that’s been tossed out long ago. She coils her arm around his, drawing their blades to the side and their chests closer together. Pillowy. As expected. Noir squirms, bewildered, head twitching towards the audience, but her free hand grips his chin and pacifies him.

“W-what are you doing?” he says, his faux gruffness failing to conceal the scared girliness below.

“Kissing you. Thanks for everything, Amy.”

“W-wait, what, no –“

But all of Amy’s protests die in her throat. A gasping uproar suffuses the crowd, but she doesn’t care. They can watch and grumble all they want. Amy’s body goes limp; her sabre drops to the floor and if Mia weren’t holding her, she would’ve joined it right away. The orchestra repeats the same measure for three beats until they receive the message and swap to the triumphant aria that precedes the curtain’s fall.

It’s a strange feeling. Effervescent, scintillating, tantalising but, before all, good. Complete. Too good to be true, in a way. She can feel the trenchant spear of her father’s leer piercing through the sea of disgusted glares. What follows won’t be pretty, but that’s something she’ll deal with when the time comes. Her ears fill up with the sound of her own heartbeat, their breaths, the brush of skin against cotton. And boisterous concern.

“Look out!”

It takes Mia a good second to wake up from her haze. She blinks once, then once more when she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing. The moon is falling from the sky. Her exhausted muscles tense up. When Amy comes to, she’s pushed to the front of the stage. Mia’s got no time to run anymore, all she can do is brace and – take it.

“Run!” Ellie’s strained shout comes from atop the trusses. Mia can only see the vague outline of her silhouette, a body stretched to the extremes. She’s holding it all by herself… But she won’t be able to for long. Her legs thaw, but she can barely leap out of the way before Ellie’s arms finally give way.

For a long time, she hears, sees and feels nothing, afraid and shellshocked. Then, slowly, her senses unblur. The static her head is resting on takes the shape of a lap and the shadow above her grows two round horns on its head. The little air she takes in her lungs is singed with dust and the scent of granite. She would take more in were it not for Ellie’s chokehold. She taps her sister’s hands.

“I’m fine,” Mia says.

“I know.”

“But I’m slowly losing oxygen.”

Ellie loosens the cinch on Mia’s neck, but not completely. Her embrace moves to her waist, allowing Mia to stand up straight and take stock of the entire situation. The stage is a butchered carcass, draped in velure. The moon had hit one of the support columns, ending the show with a bang. Now it lies on the floor, a crumbled disc of chalk. She looks in the audience. They’re scared, not mortified and the lack of crying parents can only mean that everyone is unharmed. But not accounted for.

“Where is –“

“Mia!” her father approaches. Lackadaisical is an understatement. He stops at the stage’s lip, resting his elbow on the lone clean patch. “Are you injured?”

“Must I answer?”

“Would be nice,” he grins.

“What – happened?” she presses through gritted teeth.

“I –“ Ellie starts. She looks at her father, then at Mia, then calculates a lie. “– saw someone up there. They did something to the cables. I called to them, but then it – started falling and – and I thought that –“

“You did – your best, Ellie,” he says.

“You really did,” Mia repeats, brushing her sister’s cheek. The timing was pristine and her strength superhuman. He can grill her all he wants, she’ll have all the plausible deniability in the world. She runs a gentle hand through Ellie’s hair. You did amazing.

“Where’s Amy?” Mia asks.

“She left,” comes her father’s reply.

“Where to?”

“Home. Never to be seen again, one would hope.”

“You will not lay a finger on her.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You don’t have a reason. She was wearing a mask and a binder. No one could tell her gender from afar, let alone her identity.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do. It’s all optics with you.”

His brow twitches, almost like she struck a nerve, one she’s never struck before. A know forms in his throat and he clears it away with an awkward cough. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the glint in his eye was a tear.

“You’re my daughter, Mia. Believe it or not, I love you.”

“You love having an heiress and a bargaining chip.”

“I love you, Mia. In my own way, which you, in your endless naivete, deem twisted, cruel and appalling.” He issues a scoff, a resigned, decrepit laugh, “Why did you kiss her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it were.”

“Because I wanted to? Because I like her? Because she’s put together this beautiful thing for me in spite of you?”

He sighs, “And you had to do it in public, for everyone to see.”

“I don’t care.”

“The world does, Mia!”

“I still don’t care.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then turns around. His shoulders rise and fall. He’s reset. His voice is calm and level, “A spot by your side is coveted for a reason. It holds a certain value for as long as it stays empty. Fill it up and guess what happens?”

“You lose a chess piece.”

“Your ignorance wounds me, Mia. But it makes for a good teaching moment. Go to your lover,” he waves dismissively, before rearranging his bowtie. “Enjoy your moment. While it lasts.”

The threat is barely veiled enough to be called vague, but at least he deems it potent enough to leave it at that. She watches him heading towards the Murphys, all pep and jazz hands. It’s times like these that she realises why she’s good at pretending; she’s had the best tutor. But she’s given him enough headspace for the night.

“Ellie?” Mia asks.

“Y-yes?”

“Where’s Amy?”

“S-she went out the main door, I think.”

"Did she say anything?"

"No, but she looked, umm, not good..."

“Grand... Thanks,” Mia says, freeing herself from Ellie’s grasp. She hops off the stage, but only makes it two steps away.

“Are y-you mad at me?”

“I’m… not happy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was – scared he’d find out.”

“Ellie… I can –“

“You can’t, Mia. He loves you, but he only cares about the things I can do. If I stop, he’ll just dispose of me and find someone else.”

There it is; the ugly wart on their relationship that won’t disappear no matter how many times she tries dunking it in acid. But she’ll keep trying, only not now and not here.

“We’ll talk more at home. Please, come to my room. I won’t go to bed until you do,” she concludes, walking away before Ellie can reply. Much as she dislikes ultimatums, they’re the only thing her sister’s been brought up on. Maybe one day she’ll understand more. Until then, she slips out of the ballroom and prays that Amy hasn’t gotten too far. Not that she doesn’t know where to find her, but she’d rather not make her wait for too long.