He leaned against the doorframe and took a bite. From this location he could see both the other children at their studies through the door and the carriage sitting in front of the house through the open window. His mother's friend, Simon Mudgett, was visiting again. His carriage was out front, the horses still harnessed. He squeezed the last two or three bites together into his mouth.
"Julien, Wind, March, Magic, Raina, Egeria, Dallarians, Zaeri?" the four children recited, almost together. Iolanthe missed Raina and went right from Magic to Egeria. Yuah was determined to recite the loudest. Augie was moving his mouth without actually saying anything at all. All of them were casting envious glances at the scant breeze blowing in through the window.
Then Terrence saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was his father down the hallway. Quickly heading down the hall after him, Terrence saw the shotgun in his father's hand. This was a great opportunity. Terrence liked shooting as much as any boy. But his father was going the wrong way. He was headed up the stairs. Had he already been shooting? Was he going to clean his shotgun now?
Terrence followed, now just a few feet behind his father, and as the elder Dechantagne opened the door to his wife's bedroom, Terrence followed right on in. Then it was as if everything was in slow motion. Terrence's mother was in bed, the bedclothes covering only the bottom half of her naked body. Next to her was Simon Mudgett.
With agonizing slowness, Lucius Dechantagne raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. A red spray blossomed from the bare chest of Iphigenia Dechantagne, covering the bed in blood. A second shotgun blast hit the bed just to her left, but Mudgett was already on the floor running for the window. The snap of the shotgun being opened was drowned out by the crash as he broke the glass from the already open pane, crashing through and falling naked and bloodied from the sloped roof to the grounds below. Terrence's father snapped the weapon shut again, having replaced the two shells. He walked to the window, only to find nothing to shoot at. He turned around to find his wife, her mouth and eyes wide open as she gurgled a few last dying breaths and his twelve year old son, his face gone white, staring at each other. He shot his wife once more in the chest, turned and gave the boy a long look, and then turned back and shot her in the head, leaving a corpse that no longer at all resembled a living human being.
* * * * *
Terrence walked into the parlor to find it surprisingly cool. Iolanthe was there sipping an iced beverage. The outside of the tall glass was covered with beads of condensation. She looked up casually, but narrowed her eyes at his appearance.
"What have you been doing?" she asked.
"What are you drinking?"
"Iced tea."
"Really? Is it any good?"
"Very refreshing. Would you like one?"
He nodded, taking a nearby chair, and she waved to a servant standing in the doorway, who then hurried off after the drink.
"What have you been doing, I ask again?"
"Reminiscing."
"I have been as well." She gestured to the family scrapbook on the divan next to her.
"You should burn that."
"We can't do that. But you are right, dear brother. We should stop looking to the past. Our future begins now."
"If you say so, Iolanthe."
* * * * *
Minutes before her brother had arrived in the parlor, Iolanthe had indeed been thinking over the past. It was not the same tragedy that Terrence had been reliving though. She knew that Terrence carried a scar from the murder of their mother, though she didn't quite understand exactly what it was or how deep it cut. She had her own, more recent scars-scars scarcely ten years old.
Iolanthe had continued to live in her father's house near Shopton, long after her brothers had gone away to military school. By her seventeenth year she had grown into a strikingly beautiful young lady. Not one to stay in the brooding mansion, she spent her days happily riding across the countryside. It was here that she met a young man named Jolon Bendrin. At first, she found him attractive. He certainly found her so. They met several times and talked and she enjoyed his company.
Then one day, he changed. They both attended a party at the Banner residence. Afterwards they had walked in the garden. Nothing seemed strange. When he kissed her, she had let him. But then he forced her down onto a stone bench and reached under her dress. She only realized the danger of her situation when he put his hand over her mouth. He raped her. Then week after week, he did it again. She tried to avoid him but she couldn't. He seemed to be everywhere. What could she do? She wasn't strong enough to fight him off, and there was no male protector for her-her father was in a drunken stupor and her brothers were both away. And who else could she tell, without disgracing herself? When she turned eighteen, she left Mont Dechantagne, moving to Brech, and leaving her father to waste away by himself.
* * * * *
Iolanthe took another sip of iced tea and looked at her brother sitting across from her. No, there was no point in living in the past. One must look toward the future. There was a great deal to do. But there was always the possibility that Jolon Bendrin might come to Brech. What would she do then?
Chapter Five: Putting Plans in Motion
Yuah knelt down and used the buttonhook to fasten the twenty-eight buttons on each of Iolanthe's shoes. As she fastened the last button, Yuah had to smile appreciatively. These shoes cost more than she made in a year, but unlike most wealthy aristocratic women, Iolanthe paid a premium not because the shoes were encrusted with jewels, but because they were exceptionally well made, and they were very comfortable.
"What are you smiling at?" demanded Iolanthe.
"Nothing, Miss. I would never smile in your presence."
Iolanthe pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.
"What do you think about moving to some faraway land, Yuah? say for instance, Mallon?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Yuah feigned.
"Oh please. I know you're all a bunch of spies. There is nothing that goes on in the house that you and your father and the cook don't know about."
"I'm just the servant, Miss. You're the mistress."
"You're cheeky too. I would fire you in a minute if it weren't that Augie is under the impression that you are his sister instead of me." Iolanthe stood up and brushed out her dress. "Have you heard from him, by the way?"
"Yes, Miss." Yuah had gotten at least three letters from Augie since Iolanthe had last asked her. He did indeed think of her as a sister, and she thought of him as a brother. She sent him a letter for every one she received. They were the same age, two years younger than Iolanthe, and six years younger than Terrence, and had spent an enormous amount of time together as children.
"And?"
"Hmm?"
"And what did he say?" asked Iolanthe, pointedly.
"Oh. He wrote mostly about the native?people. Can you call them people? They aren't really people are they?"
"It matters little what you call them," said Iolanthe as she crossed the room to the cheval glass.
"Well, he's been talking to them and learning their language. Isn't that marvelous? Imagine talking to reptiles. And he writes about the creatures that live where he is. It's all quite amazing."
"Amazing that he hasn't managed to mess it all up."
"Not at all," replied Yuah, raising her chin defiantly. "I think Master Augie is doing the family proud."
"My family," Iolanthe reminded her.
"Yes, Miss."
"Still, he's not the brother you would prefer to hear from, is he?"
Yuah's face turned red. "I don't know what you're talking about? Miss."
"Returning to my previous topic." Iolanthe carefully placed her new hat atop her carefully coifed hair. "Life would be different for you outside of Brechalon? in a colony, I mean. Colonial life is different. You wouldn't be a servant any more. In fact, you could probably afford servants of yo
ur own. You might be quite an important part of the community."
"Are you trying to tell me that in the colonies I might marry Terrence?"
"God no!" Iolanthe laughed musically. "Perhaps we could marry you off to a tradesman."
* * * * *
Zeah sat on the step in the courtyard and sipped his tea. It was hot and muggy and many might have preferred a cold beverage but the butler found tea soothing. The courtyard sat towards the side rear of the house, separated from the street on the east side only by an eight-foot tall stone wall. Though windows looked down onto it from all three stories on the other three sides, most of those rooms were not in use, so it was relatively private. Nevertheless, the door behind him opened and young Saba stepped out. Hopping down the steps, he sat down next to Zeah.
"Good morning, Mr. Korlann."
"Good morning."
The boy had a large brown glass bottle with a rubber stopper, which he pulled out with his teeth and spat onto the step. Then he tilted the bottle back and took a great swig.
"You'll pick that up in a minute, I trust," said Zeah, indicating the stopper with a nod.
"Oh, yeah. Sure."
"What are you drinking?"
Saba held up the bottle and Zeah read the label. Billingbow's Sarsaparilla and Wintergreen Soda Water.
"Is it any good?"
"I love it. Would you like a taste?" The boy pointed the open mouth of the bottle at the man.
"Um, no, thank you."
"Is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?"
"Where did you hear that?" asked Zeah, looking at the boy.
"I overheard my mother talking to Yuah about it."
"I think it best not to speculate what Miss Dechantagne might or might not do."
"You're afraid of her, huh?"
"Ah? afraid? No, I'm not afraid of Miss Duh? Dechantagne."
"Sure you are. Don't feel bad. Everyone's afraid of her. I'm afraid of her. I think Master Terrence is afraid of her."
"I, um?"
"You know how you can tell that you're afraid?"
"I'm not? um, how?"
"You only stutter when you're nervous."
"I duh? don't stutter? and nuh? nervous is not the same thing as afraid."
Saba took another swig of soda. "Sure it is. It's just another word for it, like hart is just another word for horse."
"They're not the same thing at all. A hart is a deer."
"You know you shouldn't be nervous. It's not like Miss Dechantagne is going fire you."
"It's not?"
"No. She always says she's going to fire somebody, but when was the last time you saw her really do it?"
"About five minutes ago," said Zeah.
"Really? Who'd she fire?"
"She dismissed Nora."
"I don't know anybody named Nora."
"She was the girl I hired the other day."
"Well, you see there," said Saba, knowingly. "She was new. When was the last time Miss Dechantagne fired anyone that had been with the house for a while?"
"She dismissed Tilda yesterday."
"Yeah, I miss her," said Saba wistfully. "So is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?"
"Um, I think it's best not to discuss this. Why do you want to know?"
"Well, I was just thinking. If she goes, then I imagine that we would get to go with her."
"Do you want to move to Mallon?" asked Zeah.
"Sure. Who wouldn't?"
"Um, I wouldn't."
"Sure you would. It would be great. It would be just like living in a Rikkard Banks Tatum novel."
"Don't all of his books involve monsters, chases, and narrow escapes from danger?"
"You bet," the boy grinned. "It'll be the dog's bullocks."
Saba drained his bottle of Billingbow's and stood up. "Well, I guess I'd better get busy. I'm supposed to wash the steam carriage. Do you think I could drive it out of the motor shed?"
"No," Zeah replied. "You had best push it out."
The boy's grin disappeared. He sighed and then walked across the courtyard to the motor shed. Zeah reached down and picked up the rubber stopper that Saba had left, then stood up, stretched his back, and went up the steps and back into the house.
* * * * *
It was the first time that Nils Chapman had seen Prisoner 89 doing anything other than lie curled up in a fetal position. Today she was sitting, cross-legged in the center of the room. It was hot and muggy and he had to wipe the perspiration from his eyes in order to see her clearly. She was muttering something, but he had to listen for a minute to make out just what it was.
"?nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days."
"Why are you counting the days?" he called to her through the small window in the armored door.
She locked eyes with him, but didn't stop repeating her words.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
She stopped. "Yes."
"Alright. I'll get you something."
Chapman made his way down the stone corridor toward the south wing and the kitchen. He hadn't quite reached it, when he ran into Karl Drury going the other direction. The other man wore his usual scowl and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He didn't need to ask what the other man wanted.
"Why don't you leave her alone?" said Chapman.
"Why don't you piss off?" Drury replied and shoved him into the wall.
Chapman immediately leaned back toward Drury.
"I'm not afraid of you," he growled, which was in fact not true at all.
"You'd better be," the other man hissed, producing a knife from somewhere. "I could gut you right now? or maybe I'll do it tonight, while you're asleep."
"Tosser," said Chapman, but he hurried away toward the kitchen.
Purposefully waiting a good half hour before returning to the north wing, Chapman unlocked the door after he was sure that his sadistic fellow guard had gone. Prisoner 89 was sprawled across the stone floor like a ragdoll. It was no surprise that she had been raped, but the guard was shocked at how badly she had been beaten. Apparently she was not nearly as acquiescent as she had been before. Her eyes were open, but they stared at the ceiling, unmoving.
"I brought you a Roger's Pie."
He sat the wooden bowl containing the bun filled with meat and turnips next to her. Her eyes rolled around in her head and then looked at him. She sat up and snatched the pie from the bowl, stuffing it into her mouth.
"Have to keep my strength up," she muttered with her mouth full. "One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days."
"Why are you counting?"
She finished the pie, but didn't reply to his question.
"Is your name Zurfina?"
Suddenly her eyes came alive, full of fire, of danger, and of power.
"Zurfina the Magnificent," she said.
"Can I get you something else?"
"Why?" she asked, the now dangerous grey eyes narrowing.
"Um, I don't know."
"Bring me a knife!" she hissed.
"I can't do that," he said. "Even if it wouldn't get me sacked, you'd hurt yourself."
He now saw that the woman had a series of slash marks up the length of both arms and on both thighs.
"You're trying to kill yourself."
"I promise I'm not going to kill myself," she said.
Chapman turned to leave and stopped in his tracks. Covering the entire wall of the cell all around the door were strange symbols, black against the grey of the stone. Though they weren't really letters and certainly weren't from any language that he knew, there was something nevertheless familiar about them. They seemed to swirl and move unnaturally, as if the wall was made not of stone but of rubber or something similarly malleable, and it was being manipulated from behind, creating waves and bulges.
"Kafira," he swore, and then he jumped as he heard the woman s
tir behind him. When he looked at her though, she was only getting to her feet, slowly.
"What is that?" he asked, afraid to look back at the wall and afraid to keep his back to it as well.
"That is Omris and Siris," she replied cryptically. "That is Juton and Treffia. It is Worron and Tommulon."
"I don't know any of those words."
She moved so close to him that her smell gagged him. She stank of years of sweat and urine and filth, and something else.
"That's your blood!"
"Tell no one about this," she ordered. "Tell no one. Tell no one."
He stepped quickly away and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. He ran down the corridor toward the south wing, and he didn't look back. Still, he could hear her voice behind him.
"One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days."
* * * * *
Avenue Boar ran west from the Great Plaza of Magnus to St. Admeta Park, which was a lovely square expanse of fruit trees and green swards open to the public only on holidays or special occasions. To the north of St. Admeta park was Palace Eidenia, home of the Princess Royal, though since the death of Princess Aarya some ten years prior it had been unoccupied by any member of the royal family. To the west of the park was Avenue Royal which led to Sinceree Palace, where King Tybalt III spent his days while in the city, and to the south was Crown Street which led to the Palace of Ansegdniss where the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon met. Along either side of Crown Street were the official homes of the King's ministers. Number 3 was the home of the First Lord of the Treasury while number 4 was the home of the Second Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer. The Foreign Minister lived in number 7 and the Judge Advocate General lived in number 8, but the largest of the homes on Crown Street was number14: that of the Prime Minister.