There are so very few here who understand what is really happening. There are many, I think, who would put a value on any record of these happenings, to piece it together after the fact. The Duchamp family works with the Court and the Court may well wonder what happened to its fine allies, to the highborn and noble faerie who were given as pets to the Duchamp families.
Information I can sell, if I am careful in how I position myself. If I let the Court corner me, they may use coercion as their currency.
Sandra tried to convince me to help, to turn my talents toward resolving this situation. She talked of the Dubh Sgaradh at the house on the hill, and when I shrugged it off, she alluded to the Court’s visit. Not telling me that she would perhaps hint at some of the lies I’ve told, for that would make an enemy of me, but letting me find the idea on my own.
An accomplished liar remembers his lies. I cannot, of course, lie, but I do tell half truths, and a half truth could be said to be half a lie. Just as I piece thirds of truths together into a whole, others might piece half-lies together if I am not careful.
Better to have those half-lies bound in a physical form, where they cannot be put together, each marked clearly on a separate page.
Should I need it, it is useful to have my thoughts on a page, in case I need to discard the ones I have. One cannot be too careful, when the Court does their investigations.
It would be unfortunate if the Court found out I had left the bounds of my prison, under a different name. For that, they would most likely kill me.
More unfortunate, if they found out I had interfered in local politics. My punishment is to remain here, my hands tied, tortured with idleness. If they discovered I had amused myself, hah. For that, they would not be so merciful.
Worse still, I suspect, if they discovered that I had befriended miss Essylt and mister Keller.
Easy facts for the Court to discover, and Sandra had an idea of the punishments that awaited me if the Court found out. Our lady Duchamp did not truly know the punishments, but who can, without experiencing them?
She thought to blackmail me, and made three mistakes.
The first was simple. I want the Court to come looking. What fun!
By the time I’ve circled the block, winding ever outward, the blighted Rose is gone, the situation settled. I need only look at Sandra to know that she’s lost. She stands quiet and alone in a crowd, as others talk past her.
A tie of hair in my pocket, wound around my finger. My finger, in turn, winds around a lock of hair at my ear. Winds it in, as a corkscrew penetrates a cork. Let it reach the scalp and take root.
A shake of the head, a toss of golden hair. All done in plain sight. It’s clear the focus of the Duchamp contingent is elsewhere.
My jacket turns inside out while I still wear it. My hands come out the sleeves smaller, with gloves on.
The rest is simply changing how I think.
Adopting a role.
I have to put the pen and booklet away, and transcribe from memory at another time.
■
A paraphrasing of the events on the Night of Red Bells, I
Essylt and Keller knew how I think. They were waiting by the time I approached the collected group of Duchamps.
I let my eyes widen, taking in a breath at their beauty, but the rest was subtle nuance. As though I had emotions I was bottling up.
Essylt allowed me a small smile of amusement.
“Why,” she told me. “Miss Joanna. You wouldn’t be awed by someone like me, would you?”
A clench of the jaw, as if steeling myself, fleeting eye contact, a look away. I had to keep moving, and beckoned for her to follow, while averting my gaze.
“You flatter,” she said. She made no attempt to hide that she liked it. She and Keller fell in step behind me.
“Who?” Keller asked, his voice a whisper, the word curt.
I glanced at the crowd as we circled them.. I had my suspicions that someone had spoken about the possibility of attack. The actions are guarded, the glances turning outward.
I moved in shadow, ninety-seven strides away, but keen eyes could find me.
I looked at the eyes. I looked to see who studied the distance, as evidenced by the size of their pupils, the movements of their eyes, and their posture.
There. One man, with a gaze like an arrow.
He turned his attention in my general direction, studying the shadows.
He looked left, I quickly slipped right to evade his focus. He looked right, and I slipped left. I was obscured by the patterns that dance in the darkness when one stares at it with the naked eye.
Another spoke up, and the man turned around to listen.
Almost disappointing.
“I’ll need company,” I decided, answering Keller’s question. “One Behaim, one Duchamp. So the numbers are in our favor.”
“What’s our plan?” Essylt asked. “I’d like to see the expression of someone who fell into my clutches because they were looking for an evil from without. Wary of a stranger to this dreary little hole, more than a familiar face.”
“If someone’s familiar with you, Ev, they’re not going to ignore you as a threat,” I said.
She sniffed. “I’ll deign to take that as a compliment. I’ll make it happen, miss Joanna.”
“I’m sure you will!” I said, a little more lively in demeanor now that I was fitting into the role. “It’s almost a challenge!”
Essylt looked down at me, smiling.
I smiled wide. Easier to be someone young. Scarcely a teenager, only a little jaded by the world. Guileless.
Essylt’s gaze lingered a half-second too long. Critical.
But she wouldn’t tell me that I was missing a key part of my disguise. That would be insulting. Much as Sandra had communicated without communicating, Essylt could say a great deal with a fraction of a second’s worth of eye contact.
Joanna was the younger sister of Penelope Duchamp, daughter of Erica Duchamp, and not yet engaged. But she did have other ties.
I reached into a pocket and withdrew a thin metal flute that might have had more engraving to it than actual physical material.
No longer than the span of four fingers on my hand, it had four holes along the top. Had it found its way to the hands of mundane humans, it might have cost tens of thousands. The humans, in turn, might have decided it was cursed. The sounds it made were beyond the realm of human ears, but not beyond human ken.
Keller’s work.
It wouldn’t find its way to the hands of mundane humans. No antique collector would put it to their lips and use it to attempt a piece, only to hear expert variations on that piece each night they drifted off to sleep. Every night, every rest interrupted as their memory searched for the completed, perfected work.
For two minutes, I played.
“Aristoxenus,” Ev noted. She now wore the shape of a Behaim lad.
“She likes the Greeks,” I said.
“She does,” Ev agreed.
I was halfway through the second song before Letita arrived.
In the form of a chickadee, she settled on my wrist, eyes closed, as she listened.
Disgraced, not quite banished, her placement here in the service to a young girl had been intended to remind her of the fate that awaited if she did worse. The three of us were meant to be a threat, kicked dogs, broken Fae.
The Court had underestimated my winning personality.
I put the flute away. Letita stayed, not speaking.
A few heads turned as we stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
“Joanna? Chloe?”
“Hi Auntie Marge,” I replied. I didn’t quite stop, but I shuffled my feet, restless, excited, rubbing my hands together. Walking forward a fraction at a time, on the outward spiral I was traveling away.