On my eleventh attempt, my daughter’s conduit, Nyx, escaped his chains and stole her away from the garden on her wedding night. Though her heart belonged to another, she proved unfaithful, lying with her retainer, her affections twisted in service to forbidden desires. Alexander took his life beneath the willow. The ground never struck. The tower never built. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
There were no triangles: no bundled hollow tubes, cantilevers, or perpendicular trusses. The door frame buckled, and the bedroom creaked beneath Alexander’s gangly feet. He wasn’t a child anymore, his bulbous frame large and unwieldy. He had to duck, resting his hunched back against the ceiling, tattered rags dangling from his shoulders, and his trousers coming undone at his knees.
A young woman screamed, dropping a pan of hot water and backing against the wall, others staring in disbelief, their eyes wide and their jaws slack.
Alexander licked his lips, his teeth protruding through the tissue, his jaw crooked and his nose bent. He fingered the corner of the silver pan with his good hand and gently lifted it back into the woman’s arms. She bowed her head, her hands trembling, refusing to look at him as she pressed the dish against her chest.
Who was she to judge, a woman whose beauty was gray moss beneath the shade of a bountiful tree? She wasn’t special, no unblemished rose or diamond in the rough, and yet still she judged.
Did she think herself Decima’s match? Did she think her sickly pallor equal to a duchess’s radiance? She who made his skin crawl and his ears bleed? This woman was afraid of him. The feeling was mutual, but at least he had the common courtesy of hiding his disgust.
He covered his face, squinting from the gilded candlesticks and flashing ornate chandeliers.
Oh, how he longed to return to the cellar, those dusty shelves, mold-infested books, and the dark blue hue of a bottled summer ale. That place was his home. Not here where the sun shone. Not where the tables were set or where the sheets were turned down. Up here, the smell was too fresh, the blankets too soft, and the meals too spicy. This world was alien, but his father insisted, driving him into the light on the eve of every birth.
He wanted Alexander to watch. It was a cruel game, letting the noose dangle against his shoulders.
“You will stay for this,” Alabaster said, his lips curling into a sneer.
He walked in with a limp, his chin nearly as sharp as his nose with a neatly trimmed beard and an ivory broach. His uniform was spotless, a blue sash expertly folded across his shoulder hiding the griffin head pommel of the family sword tied to his waist. Strands of graying hair decorated his scalp and dark circles hung beneath his steely blue eyes.
Alexander shivered, the hair on the back of his neck standing up and his insides squirming as he shifted awkwardly, one foot over the other. He towered above the man, but his ankles shook and his teeth chattered.
Decima spoke fondly of her father, but her affections were a mystery to him. The word tasted like bile in his mouth. Love, kindness, safety, these words were so far removed from the man he knew as father. There was no fondness between them, but a depthless well of resentment, anger, and fear.
Alabaster drove his fist into Alexander’s belly. He choked, going down on his knees until he was at eye level with the hawkish man.
“You will watch,” he said, grabbing the folds of skin around his ear.
Alexander ground his teeth, reeling from the force of a practiced strike, his chin forced up towards a woman crying in agony on the bed.
She twisted and turned, her skin glistening, sweat dripping from her forehead. Blood and yellow discharge stained the sheets. An older woman sat nearby, whispering in the child’s ear, telling her to breathe with purpose and to push as hard as she could.
It was neither her blood nor her nakedness that caused him to wretch, but the smell. A yeast-laden sour scent like milk on the verge of spoiling. His insides twisted into knots, the world spinning, his head in a fog. The woman screamed and, suddenly; he saw Decima lying in her place; her face contorted in agony as she moaned, begging for it to stop.
Alexander vomited. It wasn’t her, but the thought shook him. He tried to look away, but his father struck him with an open palm. He spit blood onto the floor, his cheek swollen and throbbing, his chin forced back towards the bed.
“You’re weak,” he whispered in his ear. “That the gods would insult me with one such as you is a step too far.”
How could his father stand to see this woman in agony? She with whom he shared his love. No, that couldn’t be it. Alabaster didn’t love her. A milkmaid from an unnamed family. Her value depended on the child she carried. He took many women; she was but the first that was due.
Alexander’s eyes darted around the room, searching for something to draw his mind away before he passed out. He focused on an old chair near the bed. The legs were rickety and base poor. There were cracks near the joints, the glue flaking in absence of support. No tower could be built on such poor foundations. The anchoring was important, never too wide at the top or too narrow at the bottom. He could use flexible bearings, and careful engineering would shore up the cracked joints and loose glue. It needed a proper skeleton, buttresses, and vaulted ceilings…
The woman’s screams reached a crescendo, breaking his trance as she dropped against the bed, exhausted. Then came a gentle cry as they wrapped her baby in swaddling blankets and rested it in her arms. Relief flooded her face, and something in her eyes made his heart quiver. A mother’s love so potent she forgot the trials, the blood, and the smell. Alexander knew from the lines across her brow that she would go through twice the pain just to hold this child again.
“Well,” Alabaster said, tapping his cane against the wooden floor. “Do I have to check myself?”
The older woman shook her head, staring him in the eye. “It’s a girl,” she said.
Alabaster cursed, driving his fist into Alexander, who fell to the floor, sputtering and coughing. He covered his head with his arm as his father kicked him over and over, the tips of his steel-toed boots cutting into his chest. He bled, curling into a fetal position, the hump of his back resting against his shoulders. The cane felt like razor-sharp barbs against his skin, his tattered rags a poor defense against the whipping.
“You think yourself my heir?” Alabaster struck him so hard his cane split into two. “You are nothing but a murderer!”
Alexander whimpered like a child, his ears ringing and blood dripping from his tattered lips. He reached out with his hand, grabbing his father’s ankle. “Please,” he said. “Don’t kill her.”
The death of a promising young mother and her baby would surely upset Decima.
His father ripped his leg away. “I didn’t kill your mother, spawn of the daemon, you did.” He sneered, driving the broken end of his cane into Alexander’s arm until the splinters pierced his skin. “I’m not the monster you are.” He withdrew, wiping away the blood with his sash and turning towards the manor staff. “Take him back into the cellar and leave him until Sarah is ready.” Alabaster smiled, looking back over his shoulder. “Gods willing, my heir will soon be born.”
— ✦ —
“Hold still, please,” Decima said, drawing a sliver of a needle through the gash on Alexander’s forehead.
He winced, chewing on his lip as she wiped the blood from his brow with the corners of her dress. Decima smiled, her white hair like an early spring snowfall, the scarlet color of her cheeks, the rising sun. Her breast was soft, her skin like silk, and her lap warm and gentle.
Alexander rested his head against her thighs, her hair tickling his nose as she circled the needle and set the suture. There was an intensity in her eyes, a sinister red light that was a harsh contrast to her gentle demeanor.
Decima dropped the needle in a bronze pan filled with water, stroking his scalp and surveying her work. She licked her lips, red and inviting, leaning over and pressing her breasts against him. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” She kissed his forehead, lingering near his ear, her tongue caressing his cheek. “You can share it with me,” she said, her voice husky, laced with temptation. “Your pain, your suffering and love. I’ll accept it all for you.” Her breath was warm and moist and smelled sweet, like honey and cream. His lips quivered, desperate for a taste as she brushed her upper lip against his, closer and closer, until…
“Enough, you two!” Morta shouted, pulling them apart. “That’s my sister, you oaf.” She pushed Alexander off Decima’s lap. “And you.” Morta pinched Decima’s cheeks until her eyes lost their luster, turning reddish brown. “Stop messing with her head, Lachesis. She’s too young for that and you know it.”
“Morta!” Decima’s freckles swelled. “Stop treating me like a child!” She rubbed her elbows, looking down at her curled feet, thumping against the floor like a dog’s wagging tail. “You’ve ruined everything…”
“If you don’t want to be treated like a child, stop acting like one.” Morta crossed her arms, a knife dangling from her neck and resting against her back. “It’s no wonder Bastion always sends me to be your chaperon. The two of you can’t control yourselves.” She glared at Alexander. “I don’t know if she’s anatomically correct downstairs, but I’m not letting you two find out.”
“Sister!” Decima blushed, pressing her skirt against her crotch.
“Get laid on your own time, Decima, not mine.” Morta sat on a worn mattress, crossing her legs and playing with the knife between her fingers. After a moment, she looked up, scratching her chin. “Why do you let him hurt you, Alexander?” she asked.
He lifted himself, leaning against a wine rack and pushing a cool bottle of ivory liquor against his swollen cheek. “He’s my father,” he said.
“So? If my father ever did that to me, I’d have words.”
Alexander looked towards the ceiling, his hands shaking as he imagined himself lost in that alien world—a misunderstood rodent surrounded by sneers and sharp rocks, alone in the gutter. Independence frightened him. Despite everything, his father gave him a roof, food, and water. He knew nothing of caring for himself. It was so much easier just to let things lay as they were, hidden from the world in the company of a duchess who didn’t scream but smiled when she saw him.
“Do you know what it is called when a slave comes to love his chains?” Morta kneeled next to him, resting her knife on his shoulder. “You seem to have become comfortable around us, as if you’ve forgotten what we are. Boy, you’re playing with fire. Don’t forget, I broke garden law when I made you on that child’s name day.” She pointed at Decima, whose blush deepened, fidgeting with her nose, pretending not to listen. “You’re dragging your feet and it’s upsetting my sister. If something distracts you from her happiness, I expect you to remove it.”
Morta’s blade radiated a sinister black fog which snaked down his arm and ran across the cold cellar floor like a serpent seeking shadows. She leaned in close, pressing her lips against his ear. “I know you love her, so just ask the question before she drives me to drink.” She pulled away, the knife zipping back to her nape, her eyes glowing phosphorescent blue. “Your fate only has one seam, Alexander. Remember that.”
“You’re bothering him, Morta…” Decima crawled across the floor, laying her head against his chest. “Right now, you’re in the way of our happiness.”
“Oh, is that right? Why don’t you tell him whose wedding we’re gathering witnesses for this afternoon?”
Decima’s eyes narrowed, shooting Morta a warning look. “Sister…”
“You don’t want to show him your new jewelry?”
“Morta, shut up!” Decima flustered, pulling the colored bangles off her fingers and toes and hiding them in the folds of her gown.
“Whatever happened to ‘I want him to see. I want him to be jealous.’ huh?” Morta placed her hands on her hips, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
“What is she talking about?” he asked.
Decima squirmed, burying her cheek against his chest and digging her claw-like fingers into his shoulders. “We’re just putting on a play for Nona,” she said, glaring at Morta. “Right, sister?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Morta waved her off, lying against the mattress and pointing her knife at the ceiling. “I forgot how elaborate our plays can be.”
Alexander sighed, stroking Decima’s cheek. She hummed a cat’s purr, her calves rubbing against his knees.
Perhaps kindness was an inhuman trait. Morta so often reminded him they lived worlds apart. A duchess from the oxidized garden. To think the effigies of their golden currency were beings of flesh who craved another’s touch, and he could see them. Was his life a curse or a blessing?
“Why did my mother have to die?” he asked.
Morta’s back stiffened, her fingers stopping just above the hilt of her blade.
“Had she lived, my father may never have come to hate me. Had she lived, perhaps I wouldn’t have to be beaten and shunned.”
“And how do you know she would’ve loved you?” Morta asked, her voice shaking. “How do you know things would’ve been better? The sediment obscured her fate at the point of her death. Not even we can know the what-ifs beyond that point.” She trembled, turning away from him. “I just did as I was told. I refuse to be the villain in your story too!”
“Alexander.” Decima pressed on his shoulders, lifting herself onto his lap. She kissed him, their lips touching for a moment, sweet and gentle, an agonizing tease of what was to come. “Please don’t blame my sister,” she said, her fingers tracing his chin. “She doesn’t get to choose. Your mother did. Twelve seams, remember? Laura became your father’s consort instead of lying with her childhood friend. I wanted her to be happy, but she chased fame and status instead.” She pressed her lips against his ear and whispered. “Neither of you was supposed to survive that night, but death gave you a chance, weaving a fate that should never have been. She’s as much your mother as Laura is, so please don’t accuse her.”
Alexander rested his hand on the back of Decima’s neck and pushed her into him. Their lips touched, so soft and warm. He drank from her longer than intended. She pulled away from his embrace, giving a reproachful smile that scolded him for his eagerness but still shared her excitement, pining for release.
Gods above, he thought, stroking her hair, what he wouldn’t do to walk by this woman’s side.
Alexander scratched his chin, looking back towards the mattress where Morta lay. She was curled on the bed, hugging her knife against her chest. Though it was as dark as night, he could’ve sworn he saw her crying.
— ✦ —
“How about that one?” Morta asked, pointing towards a tall, portly man wearing a strange purple garment that exposed his chest.
“Mmhmm.” Decima shook her head. “He doesn’t have the gift.”
Morta sighed, swinging her feet over the wooden gutters. They sat together above the bustle of the marketplace, Decima copying Morta’s movements, swinging her legs back and forth, a chitinous pendulum with many fingers and toes.
This peninsula was so different from the Oxidized Garden. No endless sands, sunken vessels, or boiling sun. A civilization on the verge of an industrial revolution, carriages instead of vehicles, iron instead of folded steel, and a prevalence of salt preservatives.
Morta scowled, vigorously rubbing her elbows. The weapons here were primitive, old matchlock rifles with slow-burning serpentine chords, rusty flash pans, and untested priming powder. They had to load the propellent and strike the chord, packing bullets down the rifled barrel. A slow time-consuming process, but here the rules of war were different. Here they took turns, lined up in an orderly fashion, standing ground in the face of a dirty volley, screams, bloody bandages, gangrenous tissue, and hastily done amputations.
These people had balls.
“What are you thinking about, sister?” Decima asked, leaning against her shoulder.
Morta smiled. “About how much I like this place.” She placed her hand on Decima’s pale cheek. “Are you cold?” she asked.
“A little.” Decima’s stomach growled. “And I’m hungry.”
“Gawds, we just ate…”
“I can’t help it!”
Morta sighed, unbuttoning her layered blouse and wrapping the garment around Decima’s shoulders. “I’ll pick up something before we leave. Just keep your other half in check until then.”
She shook her head, looking over her shoulder towards Igor, who hovered a short distance away, three tightly bound cocoons wrapped beneath his abdomen, wriggling and moaning, trying to undo their restraints.
“How many more do we need?” Morta asked.
“One more would be nice. Two for my fiancée and two for me.”
Morta returned to the marketplace, surveying the crowd for gaping looks and slack jaws. She caught the flash of a camera lens, tiny metal hermit crabs hiding in empty boots, beneath exotic fruits, and within empty barrels. The Gnatu circled like buzzards above an ailing era waiting for the scraps.
Morta jumped at the sound of a distant steam whistle and brakes squealing against metal rails. She licked her lips, resting her chin on her palm.
A girl was sitting apart from the crowd near an empty stall. Her skirts were tattered and her blouse short, exposing her naval, a common southern fashion. She wore slippers without soles and thin white gloves, her hair a messy red color. The Gnatu gathered around her feet, and she seemed to be speaking with them.
“What about her?” Morta asked, pointing. “The Gnatu seem love-struck.”
“Well, would you look at that,” Decima said, giving the girl a wave. “I think she can see us.”
The girl buried her face in her knees, her hands trembling as the Gnatu scattered like frightened mice.
“Igor.” Morta snapped her fingers, and he came, towering above the sisters, the human-sized cocoons tied beneath his super-heated booking lung still squirming to no avail. “Fetch.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“Igor, you wouldn’t dare!” Decima wrapped her arms around his leg and squeezed. “Morta, she’s just a child! Don’t treat her like cattle, you’ll scare her!”
“She’ll be fine. Besides, they won’t remember a thing after your wedding, so who cares?”
“I’ve never seen the Gnatu so taken with someone other than Nona,” Decima said. “Doesn’t she remind you of our sister? Please, have a heart and just ask her. I’m sure she’ll come if you ask.”
Morta rubbed her forehead, her stilled heart stirring like a corpse’s muscle spasm. Gawds, she was getting a headache. “The things I do for you, Decima...” She touched Igor’s cheek. “Keep an eye on my sister.”
Morta pushed herself off the rooftop and dropped into the crowd. She moved through the bustling marketplace, a chilling wind from an alien plane. Children covered their ears, women gathered cloaks about their shoulders, and the hairs on the back of men’s necks stood on end.
They instinctively knew she was there, even if they couldn’t see her.
She approached the girl, whose lips were quivering, tears dripping down her cheeks, her arms tightening around her legs. Her eyes were green like the sea, but her lips were pale and her breath was visible in the summer air.
Gawds, she did remind her of Nona.
“What’s wrong?” Morta asked, sitting beside the child and drawing her knees against her chest. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t care, but my sister is worried.”
The girl wiped her eyes, sniffling loudly. “Who are you?” she asked.
“The tooth fairy. Now, why are you crying?”
“I’m alone,” she said, her complexion going pale. “Nobody wants me.”
Morta winced, a strange pulse throbbing in her brow. She rubbed her forehead, her ears ringing, and fingers twitching.
Atropos, keep it together. She thought. We’re not supposed to have a funeral before the wedding, remember?
“Who are you?” the girl repeated, backing away from Morta and hiding her hands behind her back. “Please, stay away from me. I-I’ll hurt you…”
“Oh, please.” Morta grabbed her arm but froze. Something sparked within her on contact—a stoking of the eternal coal beneath her breast. The heat of her father’s sun flowed into the child where they touched as if she were a leech. The girl’s cheeks filled with color, her lips scarlet red, the trembling in her hands going still. “Well, well,” Morta said. “Aren’t you a rare one?”
“How are you not hurt?” she asked, her mouth gaping and eyes wide. “You can touch me without freezing?”
“I didn’t think those with a talent for glass craft existed outside the Basilisk’s throne of ice.” Morta let go of her arm, licking the tips of her fingers. “Yes, child, I can touch you. Things only freeze when devoid of warmth and you’re a fool to think you can handle even a fraction of the heat that lies dormant in me. Still, I find it ironic that you’re satisfied stealing from a corpse.”
“I-I didn’t mean to!” Her lips quivered. “I told you not to touch me!”
People around the marketplace murmured, giving the girl sideways glances as if she were a leper.
“You don’t have to shout,” Morta said. “What’s your name, child?”
“Leah.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but no longer from the cold.
“Well, Leah.” Morta wrapped her arm around her shoulders, watching with amusement as she flinched, clearly not used to another’s touch. “You say nobody wants you? I want you.”
“What do you mean?”
Morta smiled. “I want you to be a witness at my sister’s wedding.” She poked Leah’s cheek. “Well, what do you say? Two birds one stone am I right?”
Leah chewed on her lips, looking down at her feet as the Gnatu crawled out of their hiding places, gathering in front of Morta, forming orderly battalions, and saluting her with razor-sharp claws and smooth, colorless flash pans. “I-I like weddings…” Leah blushed, rubbing her hands together, still staring at her toes.
“Good,” Morta said. “I’d have taken you, anyway.”