Victoria

I had begun my week with a healthy amount of pestering—or begging, if you’d prefer—my parents to let me attend an annual charity gala with them. Back then, I had used the name of the gala and outlined its purpose, in the hopes of showing sincere interest, but I have long since forgotten either of those details. Alas, they saw through my ploy and continued to deny me attendance. Any form of remonstrance they once attempted now slackened to an elusive dismissal, like a verbal wave of the hand. After a considerable time I, too, forgot why I wanted to go. Perhaps it was less about going, and more about disliking that I couldn’t.

But on a morning mere days before the gala, over breakfast, Father spread peanut butter on his toast, halved the toast in a single bite, and informed me through the mouthful:

‘You’re coming with us.’

I inquired as to where, and he told me the gala, as if it were an obvious thing. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and excused myself. Fortunately, almost the whole family were at breakfast, so when I walked out of the room, ran upstairs, and sprinted into my bedroom, nobody caught my unrestrained delight. I let out little peals of laughter, which turned into frantic laughter and squeals of a pitch only dogs could hear. I hopped on my bed and stamped my feet, and when I tired, I adjusted my blouse’s collar and sleeves, pulled up my socks, and went back downstairs.

In my absence, my cereal had gone soggy. I asked Yvonne to discard the bowl’s contents, whereupon I poured a fresh one. I had a certain piece of glassware, barely more than a thimble, which I filled with milk and poured periodically throughout breakfast so as to only moisten a controlled portion of cereal.

After breakfast, I went to organise an outfit, and a few days later, I wore it on the evening of the gala.

I walked through the main entrance of Foster Hall with my parents, eldest sister, two cousins, and our family’s primary advisor.

Like my home, and most places I frequented, Foster Hall looked like it belonged in the world before the Dusk. If you lifted a museum photo, you could align the past and present.

In my mental fantasy, I’d enter the gala, camera flashes would go off, and then I’d amble to a table of hors d’oeuvres, along the way collecting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

In reality, my parents forced me to join them in a semi-organised path through the other guests. Greetings exchanged, introductions made, and compliments given. I met a variety of people, and all had a tangential link with our family – and our business. There was a man with a crystal monocle. A woman with huge boobs in a revealing dress. Another with a pointed nose and a mole on her cheek. A young man who spoke in a dull drone. We met a Sentinel, too, but I wasn’t impressed.

I had done a fair amount of research on Sentinels because, though I hadn’t told my parents, I intended to become one. Meaning: I intended to get a Sentinel licence. For a mage, that superseded everything. You could work in a grocery store but, on paper, you’d be a Sentinel. It appealed to me, such rigidity of identity.

My cousins and sister kept some distance. They didn’t need to follow my parents, having already attended events like this one. Their conversation centred on some kind of after party.

Within minutes, the sparkling glamour of the hall, the musicians playing in the corner, all lost its original allure. Lights too bright. Music too loud. Too many people, and each of them an individual with thoughts and actions. More importantly: Thoughts and actions I couldn’t hope to predict. One of them could smash their glass on a pillar and stab me in the throat, but it’d be impossible to predict. Worse, they might have tried to kill my parents but gotten me by coincidence, my death not a result of my own failings but instead a grotesque alignment of cosmic, fatalistic forces.

My dress suddenly felt too tight, as if the fabric criss-crossing my back were living, constricting snakes. The shoulder straps dug into my clavicle. A sharp, pervasive pain lingered in my gut from the constant tensing of my abdomen. My feet hurt.

I fidgeted with my dress, having a sudden, inexplicable clarity toward how much of my body was visible. My leg, shoulders, arms, décolletage—my face. Until then, a certain conditioned and shame-driven part of my mind had stayed quiet, but now it screamed: They’re looking at you and you disgust them. They’re looking at your chest and you’re a whore for letting them. I couldn’t quiet the thoughts.

I wore a diamond-studded gold pendant shaped like a furnace, the symbol of my family. At home, I wore it often. Now, I wanted to remove it, lest it draw attention to my chest, but I had no pockets to put it in.

My skin seemed to vacillate between being too sweaty and too dry, so I waited for my parents to be engrossed in conversation before tilting my head, as if bowing, and stepping away. I made it to the bathroom, where I braced against the countertop and took deep, steady breaths. With water on my fingertips, I dabbed my temples and forehead, but my eyes were the real issue. But, no, I’d spent too much effort to risk ruining the eyeliner, even if they felt like dry, glassy spheres.

A girl around my age entered the bathroom. I avoided grimacing. She wore jeans, white T-shirt, and a beige trench coat. She looked at me via the mirror, and I at her. ‘Here,’ she said, and took a small bottle from her coat. It was an eye spray, to treat dryness.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. The girl shrugged and went into a stall. I glanced back, opened my mouth, closed it, and left the bathroom.

On the way out, I almost bumped into someone. Father. He looked stern but not cross. In response, I scowled. ‘Do I need your permission to relieve myself?’

‘You were the one who wanted to attend,’ he replied, never abiding pretence.

‘And you were the one who let me.’ Such a childish, nonsensical counter.

Father sighed. He towered over me in stature and broad frame, monolithic, housed by a bespoke suit. ‘Three more guests, and then you’re free to do what you wish.’

‘Two.’

‘Three.’

‘Two-and-a-half.’

‘Three.’

‘Very well.’ We shook hands with mock gravity, as we did when I was a child. ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’

Father and I returned to the main hall, his hand on my back, gently steering us to a corner table. Three people stood around it, two men and a woman. Father introduced them as faculty at the Vandagriff Mage Academy: Principal Vandagriff, Dairmuid Callothier, and Naracilla Geisler. You’d think I’d show more interest, since almost my entire family had graduated from Vandagriff, but I felt too sickly.

The men spoke to me in a polite, albeit condescending tone, while the woman didn’t look at me once. Pink tinged her cheeks and she swayed, refilling a glass tumbler from a flask.

After a few minutes, Dairmuid Callothier tipped his bowler hat, said he needed to catch a train, and excused himself. I thought this strange, given the late hour, but in recent months the trains had been erratic to counter interference from both the Rail Snakes and Hunter-Yao gang.

Father and Principal Vandagriff continued to chat, so I loitered nearby, deciding whether it was safe to escape. Classical music played and crowds talked, but the onslaught of sensory information faded when my gaze flitted to Mrs Geisler. She wore a skirt and blouse, and her posture left an impression of unsteady agitation. Peeking from her sleeve was a faded black tattoo: Chains dotted with stars. The symbol of Detective Mages.

We stood by a tall window. Clouds moved and moonlight backlit her. The image seemed to freeze in my vision. Weariness tinged her frown and flowed to empty grey eyes. Something worse than apathy grew in her. Something caustic. I sensed it in her posture. I saw it in the grip she had on her glass, like she wanted it to shatter. The skin of her lips was cracked and peeling and tiny lines of blood like a river delta spoke sad and glad things to me: You are alive, and you are alive.

She reminded me of the Dusk.

The Dusk manifested close to a century ago. It was instantaneous. No noise or explosions or orders from the military. Inexplicable and deadly, it engulfed the world, except for places with a high enough population density. It took a while for the survivors to figure that out: When enough people gathered, the Dusk couldn’t form. Therefore, cities and large towns survived.

Outside of areas with a sufficient population density, there was nothing but nigh guaranteed death. You’d die viewing a suspended sunset. But, it wasn’t the Dusk that killed people. Not exactly.

That’s a topic for later.

Of Naracilla Geisler: Dark and unknowable. Kept away from crowds. That’s how she seemed to me.

My sister and cousins came over, but they whispered to Father, who glanced at me and cocked his head. Our little family group strode from the main hall at a brisk pace, my feet aching as I held up my gown and forced myself to keep up. We went up staircases and through doors, and finally down a long passage, which grew darker the further we went. Last, we crossed a breezeway that connected Foster Hall to an adjacent building. Crisp air left me with goose bumps, and I had the sharp, profound notion that I was about to enter a new phase of life. A sort of adolescent event horizon.

In the adjacent building, we reached a windowless room lit in cold white by a single bulb.

‘I love a good after party,’ my cousin, Lysander, said. His sister, Lillian, wore a savage smile. I did my best to look eager, but my stomach knotted.

In the middle of the room, three men sat on stools, limbs bound by thick rope. They wore ragged, motley clothes, likely stolen or scavenged at random. There wasn’t much blood or bruising, but some skin bulged and blistered.

‘Octavia,’ Father said, gesturing to my sister. She advanced and clapped. A thin jet of flame erupted from her forefingers. Fornax-class magic. Fire. Smelled like cinnamon. The sweet scent contrasted with the morbid scene before me. Octavia touched the jet of flame to the soles of the leftmost man’s feet. He grit his teeth, but his resolved failed. He screamed. Blisters popped and pus spilled, showing bright pink flesh beneath.

Nobody looked at me. Surely they wouldn’t notice if I averted my eyes? But I knew: Father would notice. He’d take it as a sign that I wasn’t ready to join the family business. He wouldn’t call it weakness—he’d use a metaphor about my state of youth being unformed clay—but it would still sting. So, I kept my eyes locked on the scene.

Octavia pulled away. The man’s screaming quieted. He panted, and between ragged breaths he revealed the location of explosives, along with other details. The Rail Snakes had stolen explosives from a secret Fornax convoy, and they planned to use them to derail a train operated by Fletcher Railways.

Father flung an arm back and gave orders to Lysander and Lillian respectively to alert Daylesford and warn Jeremiah Fletcher.

‘Why?’ Father asked the Snake.

The rightmost Snake spat. ‘Talk and die,’ he told his companion. Father threw a hook punch, knuckles aflame, scorching the Snake and braking his cheekbone. I flinched. It took every bit of my resolve to not look away.

‘Why?’

‘Phoenix salt.’

Father’s shoulder stiffened. Octavia twitched. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How?’

The man began to cry. ‘N-Not from a rat. From an informant. H-He tells us what to hit, doesn’t ask for nothing.’

Father turned to Octavia. I saw them in profile, strong light making their shadows distinct, as if cast from a mould. He was no longer my father; he was William F. Fornax, boss of the family business. She was no longer my sister; she was Octavia Fornax, lieutenant. I caught their words but couldn’t hear their voices.

‘There’s a Sentinel aboard,’ Octavia ventured.

Father shook his head. ‘Works for the Faceless Carriers.’

The Faceless Carriers hired powerful Sentinels to transport unique packages. The Faceless wouldn’t intervene unless their specific package was threatened.

‘How many guards?’

‘Not enough,’ Father replied. ‘The whole point was discretion.’

‘Fregin?’

Father returned a cruel, guttural laugh. ‘What about dear Fregin?’

‘I heard he was going to Daylesford today, for the’—Octavia tapped the crook of her elbow—‘spoon problem.’

Silence. Dull, laboured breathing from the captive Snakes. Faint music far away. Father swore and massaged his forehead. ‘Worst case scenario, he pisses the Snakes off and they kill him. Best case scenario, he’s asleep and doesn’t notice the train getting robbed.’

Based on the worst case scenario, you’d assume Father didn’t want Fregin to die, but it was more about inconvenience. Fregin Drakon was too closely tied to our family, and if he got killed, Father would have to spend a bunch of resources avenging him. And if you guessed the best case scenario ended with Fregin scaring away the Rail Snakes, well, it’d be clear you weren’t acquainted.

I jumped when a deep voice spoke behind me. A man glided from shadows in the corner of the room. ‘My people will do what they can.’ He wore a maroon, three-piece suit and had a tie and pocket square in matching paisley pattern. ‘But if the train is derailed…’

‘How much were you planning to take?’

‘The amount was to be within acceptable bounds.’

Father massaged his forehead again. ‘That aside, why, and how, did you nab these three?’

‘Had my suspicious. Acted on them.’

Father gave the man a knowing grin, less affectionate than respectful. Wordless acknowledgment passed between them. The man bowed, spun gracefully, and strolled to the door. Father turned back to the Snakes but called over his shoulder:

‘Oh, and Wei, let’s not make this a habit.’

The man called Wei nodded. The door closed, leaving Father, Octavia, and I with the three captives.

‘Octavia, could you…’ Father gestured at the Snakes. Octavia reached for the leftmost man’s throat.

‘I told you everything I know,’ he said. ‘I swear on—’

Intense light and heat filled the room. The man wailed as flames wrapped around his neck, only for the sound to cut off seconds later when his vocal cords burned. It was unclear what killed him: Suffocation, bleeding, trauma, severing nerves between brain and body, or something else entirely. He went limp, eyes rolling back. The bloodshot whites seemed to stare at me. I stood frozen through mingled horror and willpower. Smoke rose from the man’s burned neck, so Father turned on the exhaust fans.

The man in the middle cried and struggled and toppled his chair sidelong. It accomplished nothing.

The rightmost man stayed silent, though I couldn’t tell whether he was tough, resigned, or terrified. Octavia went to him next. Her fingers wrapped around his throat, and he, too, screamed. Eyes rolled back. Smoke curled and rose, as if his soul left – only to be sucked into an industrial vent and pumped out of the building.

I made the mistake of breathing. That smell—my resolve crumbled, and I turned away. In my periphery, I sensed Father’s gaze. Tightness knotted my stomach. I’d failed. Just like that, in a single moment of weakness.

My shoulders hunched when I saw Octavia reach for the third man. I looked closer. Not a man. A boy around fifteen-years-old.

‘Stop,’ I said, voice wavering.

Octavia glanced at me, and then at Father. He didn’t respond, so she continued moving.

‘He’s a kid,’ I said.

‘And a Snake,’ Father replied.

‘Has he even been part of a heist?’

‘I am familiar with his kind,’ Father said. ‘Nobody joins the Rail Snakes unless they lack prospects.’

I frowned. ‘Or opportunities.’

‘Victoria.’ Father turned fully to me. ‘Do you wish for us to spare this Snake?’

‘What do you think?’ I snapped.

‘Put it into words.’

I shouted:

‘Yes, I don’t want my sister to kill a kid.’

Father waited a few seconds. ‘Very well.’ He flicked his hand to Octavia, who straightened, flames on her palm extinguishing with a hiss. The Snake in the toppled chair sobbed anew.

The gruesome image of the three Snakes seared itself into my memories. The harsh contrast to the gala crystallised in my mind, unconsciously forming a partition between who I needed to be in bright, cheery halls, and who I needed to be in damp, windowless rooms. I tore myself asunder to see it, and yet I did so willingly. Still, I hadn’t achieved what I wanted. Too weak. Not even close.

I hurried out of the room. Father followed a few paces back. We returned to Foster Hall, and in a wide passage adjoining the main hall, I rested against a banister. Did I want to cry or punch something, or move past the incident entirely?

‘What about the two other Snakes?’ Father asked, arms crossed. ‘How did you feel about their deaths.’ I almost laughed. Father avoided preamble to a startling degree.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

‘Did you want us to spare them, too?’

‘No. Maybe. I don’t know what they did.’

‘Nor do I. Not fully. But Wei told me enough.’

My voice fell to a whisper. ‘And?’

‘And they deserved it.’

‘You trust that guy? He’s with Hunter-Yao, isn’t he?’

‘Wei Yao, thirty-eight, handles backend management of the Hunter-Yao gang. No, I don’t trust him, unless it concerns our mutual business.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘I’m glad you let the boy live.’ Of all things to hear, I hadn’t expected that. ‘It was a mistake, but it was yours to make; and you’re showing an active interest, so that’s good.’

Thanks? I thought. The pseudo-compliment left me unbalanced, but it didn’t matter. Father had other matters that needed his attention, so he returned to the main hall without delay.

Through the doorway I spotted my elder siblings, Dust and Samara, the proverbial prince and princess of the Fornax family. They’d arrived fashionably late, to make it clear they were there for pleasure not business. Dust danced with a girl, while Samara chatted with classmates from Vandagriff. I stared at them until it hurt. Felt like staring at the sun.

I startled, as Octavia placed her chin on my shoulder. ‘Whatchu thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’

She poked my cheek. ‘C’mon, you did better than you think.’ When I didn’t respond, she grew serious. ‘You don’t have to be perfect all the time.’

‘I’m not a perfectionist. I’m a realist.’

‘You’re seventeen is what you are.’ Moments passed. Octavia yawned. ‘I’m heading home. Want a lift?’

‘I’m gonna walk.’ I’d had enough of the gala before seeing the Snakes, but now I’d had enough of people entirely. Plus, that cry-or-punch feeling had come back. True to my word, I walked straight out of Foster Hall, into the frigid night.

#

I was alone on the sidewalk. It didn’t suit me, my gown, or my heels. Home wasn’t far, but I should’ve gone with Octavia. Yet, I felt walking was necessary, like I needed the time to reflect, or I wanted some self-inflicted pain. To atone. And I wasn’t a stranger to styles of self-flagellation.

But I wasn’t alone. Footfalls echoed on the stone behind me. I paused, glanced over my shoulder, and reached for my knife. There wasn’t time to remove my heels, so running wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t have done it, anyway. That wasn’t how a member of the Fornax family behaved.

The footfalls grew louder. A figure ambled with an odd gait, weaving to and from the streetlamps. I kept a grip on my knife but figured it wouldn’t be needed. The figure was that of Officer Renshaw. He wore a police officer’s uniform, but something about the fit, or man wearing it, made you think he was guilty of impersonation. To make things worse, he slicked his hair back with fistfuls of gel product, like a pomade tsunami. ‘Vicky,’ he said.

‘Victoria,’ I corrected.

‘But of course.’ He swept an arm to the side and bowed. ‘Lady Victoria F. Fornax.’ I sniffed discreetly. He didn’t smell of booze. I gripped my knife tighter. Have you ever stepped into a filthy bathroom but found it didn’t smell of anything? It confuses you, for a second, makes you wonder if you’re missing something. ‘You’re out late,’ Officer Renshaw remarked.

‘Yes, I am.’ I took a few steps, and Renshaw followed. ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘Can’t be too careful.’ His hand traced the small of my back and lightly slapped my butt. ‘Remember: Keep your eyes open and pussy tight.’

My muscles tensed. The sick feeling returned, now cold and pulsing. I stepped away and forced my expression to stay impassive. ‘To whom do you answer?’

‘C’mon, Vicky.’

‘Who is it?’

Renshaw, with a stupid, spike-the-camera grin, gave an exaggerated shrug, as if to ask an invisible audience: Can you believe this? ‘Captain McCoy.’

A fury buried inside told me not to relent. ‘To whom do you answer?’

‘Vic, you’re kinda young, but you should understand that some things are best left implied—’

My expression darkened. Implied? Fine. I’d let my look “imply” that I wasn’t messing around. Renshaw’s lip curled as he spat the name:

‘William F. Fornax.’

‘And how, pray tell, is he and I related?’

‘He’s your daddy.’ Renshaw sneered. ‘You’ve made your point, Vic. But, what, think your daddy expects me to singe my toes over a joke? And it’s good advice, by the way.’

‘I suggest you return to your duties.’

Renshaw looked me up and down, as if internally debating, before hopping off the curb and slinking back into the shadows. My muscles relaxed and I exhaled a cloud into the cold air. I later regretted not hitting Renshaw, but I feared ramifications in the moment and after. And, if I were being honest, I froze up.

I walked on.

Home wasn’t far, yet it felt like I’d walked for hours.

As I went up the driveway, the night’s events accumulated in my gut, like I’d overeaten. I climbed the front steps. The nearest bathroom was down the hall and to the left. Not far. But, I fumbled my keys. They hit the tiles with an insulting jingle. I reached down but knew it: There wasn’t time. I lurched sidelong and retched over the railing, straight into the hydrangea bushes.