Auntie Marge covered my eyes, and I might have killed her for it, if I’d been permitted by the terms I’d agreed to.
But I was only an observer, given the chance.
A work of art. A tableau, of action and consequences, frozen in a moment.
The Goblin King, now a distance away, reacted.
Ordering Gallowscream forward. Throwing fragments of etched bone to the ground, loosing more goblins.
His focus was on Sandra and the elder Duchamps.
The diagram drawer placed a wooden box on the ground. Lines slid off the individual wooden pieces and into the snow, forming a barrier between him and the others.
Then he raised his gun, aimed, and fired twice into the crowd.
The sound was deafening, even with the snow to dampen it. The ringing of the shot joined the sounds of the bell.
The returning shot, a paper card, burned as it passed through the growing diagram.
From an intricate web of relations to a tangle, a snarl. No doubt helped by the bell. A night of exhaustion.
“Penelope!” Sandra cried out, in the midst of the chaos. “Go, get the younger Duchamps-”
Penelope’s eyes widened, on realizing that Sandra was talking to her. Before Sandra could finish speaking, Penelope spat in the woman’s face.
Sandra stared, taken aback. No longer in control.
“Lea! Maisie! Jade, Lina, Juliette!” Penelope cried out, turning. Her eyes found me and Keller. “Joanna!?”
“Mother sent me here!” I answered.
Which was true. My own mother had sent me here to Jacob’s Bell.
“Chloe? You’re with. Come on,” Penelope said.
As a group, apparently eight girls and one supposed Behaim boy, we ran.
I cast a glance backward at Sandra Duchamp.
The faction had broken up. Grudges that had been suppressed now boiled to the surface. In the midst of it all, the former leader of the Duchamps stood alone.
■
A paraphrasing of the events on the Night of Red Bells, II
Penelope finished drawing the circle.
She checked her laptop, then looked down at the diagram.
Nervously, she looked over at the door.
Not one minute after we’d arrived, Erica Duchamp had left. She was the mother of Joanna and Penelope, and I told myself to look concerned, to fidget, to stare off into the distance.
“There,” Penelope said.
Her voice sounded hollow in the stillness of the house. When she looked at the other girls for confirmation, her face betrayed the same concerns they had.
The anger displayed by the Goblin King had been shared by others, if less obvious. Yet others were afraid, or upset for other reasons. The Duchamp camp was split in half, between those that agreed with the removal of the true monsters and those that didn’t.
Lola Duchamp had chosen not to join Penelope here at the house, claiming it was too dangerous to go out. That sunrise was in less than an hour.
One spark, a flick of a knife, and things had imploded. The allies had become enemies. Each girl had a mother, an aunt, a cousin, that might not survive this. Many had to wonder if their dads or uncles would turn on the family, now that the family was no longer convenient and useful to them.
Couch and chairs had been pushed to the side, a rug rolled up. The diagram drawn on the floor had circles that displayed the masks of Thalia and Melpomene. The dramatic masks of comedy and tragedy. Large, shallow bowls of water were set at different points around the diagram.
“Chin up, girls,” Penelope said.
Almost as one, the collected Duchamp girls fixed their expressions, squared shoulders, and wiped tears from their faces. Across the room, Chloe Duchamp crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands in her lap.
To all appearances, each of the girls was calm and composed. Only details here and there suggested otherwise.
Penelope tapped a spoon to the bowl.
It sang. Water rippled.
An image shimmered into existence. Then another.
Alister Behaim.
Ainsley Behaim.
Rose Thorburn.
Lola Duchamp.
Mags. Wearing a concerned expression as she looked around the room.
The ambassador’s eyes fell on me. The one who had taken her name.
She smiled sympathetically.
I smiled back, but to all appearances, I failed to put on a brave face, and broke eye contact.
“The Duchamps are out,” Alister said.
“Don’t sound so happy about it,” Penelope told him. “People are dying.”
“I was talking to Craig,” Alister said, ignoring Penelope’s point. “He explained the terms of the deal you were discussing. Terms for the junior council to follow, whatever happens.”
“I listened in,” Mags said. “The wording was right.”
“A bit late for that deal,” Penelope said.
“Is it?” Alister asked.
“You won. I have a hard time believing you’re going to agree to a deal that ties your hands.”
“Believe it or not,” Alister said, “I’m actually interested in the council succeeding. I believe in what we’re trying to do.”
“But?” Penelope asked.
He sighed.
Penelope went on. “I refuse to believe you’re being utterly altruistic in this. I grew up alongside you. We went to the same schools, traveled in the same general circles, despite the age difference. I know you well enough.”
“I am being altruistic. But I don’t think you’re going to like how far that altruism extends.”
“Extends?” Penelope asked.
“Rose Thorburn,” Lola Duchamp spoke.
“No,” Penelope said.
“She’d get a spot on the junior council,” Alister said. “With all associated benefits. If her friends remained in Jacob’s Bell, they fall under her wing.”
“That’s insane. She’s everything we’re fighting against,” Penelope said.
“Rose Thorburn the elder was a part of our local council,” Mags spoke.
“Rose Thorburn the elder was a hell of a lot stronger.”
“This Rose is just as scary. Trust me,” he said.
“If you think you can blackmail us,” Penelope started.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he replied. “Believe me, if things hadn’t happened this way tonight, I would be making the same offer. I’ll agree with what you were offering to Craig, provided Rose Thorburn is included.”