by S D Simper
She stole Flowers’ arm and took her away. Demitri followed, though he had to squeeze to fit through the doorway of the manor.
The door shut. Flowers frowned, shooting glances back to Demitri. “Casvir will wonder where I’ve—”
“By Eionei’s Asshole—can you even believe her audacity?!” she spat, imagining Khastra’s outline through the door. “Bitch just slides on in here like she never fucking left.”
“Do you mean Khastra . . ?”
“Who else? Fuck it—let’s not talk about it.” Etolié shoved said half-demon bitch out of her mind, ignoring the clenching in her ribcage. Etolié kinda hoped it was a heart attack. At least if she died she’d be free of this wedding bullshit. “Flowers, you have to meet Zoldar.”
“Who?”
She breathed out her anger, feeling at least ninety percent better after admitting to herself Khastra was definitely being the bitch here and not her. “My new assistant. You’ll love him.”
Etolié wove them down the familiar maze of hallways, forgetting a moment that Flowers had lived here and knew her way around. She cracked a grin when Demitri struggled through the doorway. “Guess we’ll have to expand it. You’re only gonna get bigger.”
Flowers, the silly thing, giggled at whatever Demitri said, or whatever she imagined he said—Etolié hadn’t figured that one out yet. “He appreciates your faith in him.”
Etolié glanced around the shelves, and cried, “Zoldar!”
“When will the rest of the guests be coming?”
“Tomorrow night. Zoldar!”
“Will the empress be among them?”
Etolié whipped around to face her at that. “Yes, in fact. Didn’t know you cared.”
“I can only assume you told her about Soliel and the dragon. There’s something I need to . . .”
Flowers’ words faded. The shock on her preciously young face told Etolié all she needed to know. When she turned around, a familiar Skalmite approached from behind a shelf, green and lanky with his insect-like physique, his crystalline eyes utterly foreign. Around his rail-thin neck hung a rough chunk of maldectine. “Flowers, meet Zoldar. He took your old job.”
Flowers approached Zoldar, smiling as she cautiously held out a hand. “My name is Flowridia. Perhaps we met at the cave.”
Zoldar ignored the offered hand, instead looking to Etolié and emphatically waving his arms across his torso, and then Flowers’. She listened to his clicking, managing to decipher enough. “He remembers your injury. He—” The oversized bug spat on the floor, and Etolié sneered at the rude bookkeeper. “He’s the one who patched you up.”
Light filled Flowridia’s eyes, and when she took a step forward, she suddenly stopped herself and placed her hands on her heart. “Would it be rude to hug him as a thank you?”
Etolié looked to Zoldar and mimed a hug, as well as offering a series of clicking patterns she had come to understand as meaning, “please,” in Skalmite. Zoldar mimed in return, and when Etolié nodded, he wrapped his spindly arms around Flowridia, who offered her own warm embrace.
Cute. “We’re not entirely certain what his name is, but when I asked, the name ‘Zoldar’ was the closest my mere Celestial ears could interpret from his speech patterns. He likes it, though. He’s doing well here in the underground, though he avoids the skylight. Generally, he’s nocturnal, but he wanted to be awake to meet you.”
Flowridia’s smile looked ready to split her face in two. “I’m truly touched, Zoldar.”
He didn’t understand, but with care he reached out to pat her head, then he climbed up the shelves in his insect way and returned to work.
“He lives in a void of magic—the crystal around his neck is always activated.”
“I suspected. I could feel it.”
“Lara was concerned about my well-being,” Etolié said, staring wistfully up at the Skalmite she would never admit to adoring, “and sent a spy. He clicks in my ear when I don’t eat. In other news, I can’t say, ‘hello,’ in Skalmite, but I do know how to say, ‘eat some fucking breakfast, you skinny whore.’” Etolié grinned at her own jest as she stepped farther into the library, but realized Flowers . . . didn’t.
“Speaking of calling people ‘whores,’” Flowers said, and already Etolié shied from her tone, “you were rude.”
Bold of her. Uncharacteristically bold. Perhaps Casvir had been good for the shrinking violet. “Don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Are you angry with Khastra?”
It wasn’t Etolié’s fault none of them understood humor. “It was a joke, Flowers. I say shit like that to her all the time.”
“Not like that, no.”
Who was this child? Etolié frowned at Flowers, recognizing her face but not this sudden combative streak. “Well, I-”
“Etolié, listen,” Flowers implored. “She’s only here because of you.”
Oh, was she now? “Seems like the two of you have gotten mighty close, if she’s confiding in you,” Etolié said, and somehow the statement irked her. She crossed her arms, defensive in ways that only pissed her off more because she didn’t understand—
“We’re better friends than before, but not as good as you and her. In my six months in Nox’Kartha, you’re the only one she’s asked about.”
Oh, was she? Etolié managed to bite her tongue.
“For my own peace of mind, will you please talk to her?”
“Everything is fine, Flowers.” It was, because Etolié willed it to be.
The ensuing silence was unbearably loud to Etolié’s drunken mind, and she took another sip, refusing to think that, perhaps, the world wasn’t the problem, but she herself.
Flowers’ bag glowed when she opened it, and what she withdrew nearly caused Etolié to spit out her booze. “Flowers, you—!”
She held an orb. Etolié stared first at the radiant blue and white artifact, then at Flowers, noting her darling, triumphant grin. “We found it less than a week ago. Had to kill a leviathan.”
“I need this story.” Summoning an illusionary handkerchief to protect her from the splitting headache that came from touching these bastards, she plucked the orb from Flowers’ hands.
“Will you come with me to the kitchen?” Flowers asked, a familiar sweetness in her smile—there was the girl Etolié knew. “I haven’t baked anything since I left.”
“First, we take care of this thing.” On a forgotten shelf, covered in dust she refused to let Zoldar clear, sat a gem-encrusted box, one that had once held a counterpart to the orb in her hand. She blew a short breath, coughing at the swirls of dust, and opened it with care. The orb fit perfectly within the velvet-lined box. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The kitchens were as she remembered, and Flowridia felt a bit of peace fall upon her, seeing the familiar cupboards and shelves. Home felt different in ineffable ways, but the ingredients were where she’d left them. She spoke of her adventure, filling in details she hadn’t the last time she and Etolié had spoken.
“The Coming Dawn was who?!”
Flowridia laughed at Etolié’s bafflement. “The Coming Dawn is Khastra’s sister. Well, half-sister. Apparently her youngest. She was odd, but once we were past her trying to kidnap me, she was really very nice. Her name is Kah’Sheen.”
She elected to not mention that Kah’Sheen had saved her from Murishani. The viceroy’s true character wasn’t something Etolié needed to worry about.
Yet.
“Hm.” Etolié’s perturb was palpable. Flowridia tried to not stare as the Celestial said, “Well, I never knew that.”
“Perhaps it never came up.”
“In twenty-three years of running this place? Not once?”
Flowridia steeled her annoyance—Etolié’s decorum would end with her being smacked at this rate. “Then perhaps you should discuss it with Khastra, if you’re this offended.”
“I’m not.”
And then Etolié had changed the subject.
The muffins, once done, were assembled prettily onto a porcelain plate. She plucked one from the top and offered it to Demitri, who easily ate the entire pastry in one bite. “I’m glad you still like my baking.”
But what if you made a giant muffin?
“I think what you want is a cake.”
A muffin cake.
The words brought a blush and a smile. “Might as well pass out the rest.”
Etolié followed her outside, heading out the back door with Ana and Demitri in tow. Flowridia was surprised to find a riotous bit of organized chaos. Behind the manor, hundreds of Nox’Karthans ran about, carrying supplies and painting lines upon the grassy area. Various beams were being measured and erected, and at the center Flowridia saw an enormous one lying on the grass, perhaps twice the size of the manor.
Taller than the surrounding foreigners, Thalmus stood with his back to her, watching the busy scene. Flowridia ran forward, dodging builders and managing to keep her muffins level. “Thalmus!” she said, smiling as he turned. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently, this will be the tent housing the wedding,” Thalmus said, and the warmth in his smile when she offered him the plate of muffins radiated. How she had missed that kindness and comfort, she mused, touched when his enormous fingers took a single muffin into their grasp.
He could have eaten it in one bite. But he took the tiniest nibble, savoring each crumb. Flowridia beamed. “And you’re supervising?”
“At Marielle’s request, yes.”
When Demitri affectionately sniffed Thalmus’ arm, the half-giant offered a hand. “His growth spurt is impressive.”
“Isn’t it?” Flowridia knelt down to lift Ana into her arms. “Did you see my fox? She’s as little as Demitri used to be.”
With visible apprehension, Thalmus glanced at the skeletal fox, who wagged her tail at the attention. “I did see it, yes.”
“Her,” Flowridia clarified. “Her name is Ana.”
Thalmus nodded slowly, directing his attention back to the flurry of workers. Flowridia shuffled in front of him, standing on her toes to try and steal his attention. “Thalmus—”
“Flowra . . .” He shut his eyes, and each passing second grew longer than the previous.
Long ago, Flowridia had felt the sting of loved ones staring like they’d never known her, of lifelong friends turning their backs when they’d known her truth. She had been fifteen, and far too young to lose a family.
She still remembered their hateful cries: “Witch!”
Flowridia waited, realizing he held her hope to a needle that might burst all she had worked for.
“Any sign of Marielle?”
Praise Etolié and her ability to cause a slightly less awkward mood.
Thalmus merely shook his head as he opened his eyes.
“Too bad. Perhaps we’ll find her somewhere else,” she said as she grabbed Flowridia’s arm. She dragged her away, back inside and into the hallway. “You all right, Flowers?”
“I’m fine, Etolié.”
“I sensed a mood.”
“Whatever it is he has to say,” Flowridia said, swallowing the sudden emotion in her throat, “I don’t know if I’m ready to hear it.”
When she tried to take a step forward, Etolié blocked her, eyes soft. “It’s not what you do; it’s what you do with it. You’re one in a million, Flowers, no matter what he thinks.”
“Let’s keep moving, please,” she whispered, and she moved down the hallway and to the stairs. “I didn’t know we were looking for Marielle.”
“We weren’t, but it seemed like a believable excuse. I think she’s upstairs.”
On the second floor, they passed Flowridia’s old bedroom. Later, perhaps, she would explore, but for now she felt determined to keep her emotions in check. All the memories her bedroom held might be overwhelming.
They turned a corner, expecting to find more rooms, but the duo stopped in their tracks at what madness they nearly ran into. An enormous arch, golden and gleaming, stood in place of what had been a guest wing, and from within some sort of pocket dimension roared with life. Flowridia and Etolié both peered forward, taken aback at the ostentatious visual, but more so at what waited inside. De’Sindai servants hurried about, and one met them at the entrance. A bit bedraggled and likely drunk, the man smiled languidly. “Can I help you?”
Etolié, expression utterly serious, slowly pulled a flask from her pocket and took several long, deep gulps. Flowridia tilted her head, staring past him. “What is this?”
“Viceroy Murishani doesn’t go anywhere without packing a tent. A home away from home, you might say.”
Actual stone connected the various entryways and rooms within, and a fountain at the center—a stone depiction of Murishani—spewed what appeared to be a sparkling red wine from his mouth. “Is Marielle here?” Flowridia tentatively asked.
The man nodded. “Just a moment.” He disappeared within the array of people and rooms.
Flowridia looked to Etolié. “This is what he takes camping.”
“We’re considered camping.”
“Flowridia! Etolié!” They saw Marielle, side by side with Murishani, both of them beaming as they approached. “There’s a tailor here who has promised the dress of my dreams! And a jeweler to decorate it. This place is spectacular!”
The lengths to which Murishani went to avoid making eye contact with her were truly impressive. His eyes darted from Marielle to Etolié, even to the muffins on the plate, but Flowridia genuinely couldn’t say he even stole a glance for her fingertip. “I’m sure it’s something,” Flowridia said, peering inside the archway. It expanded in every direction. Looking back, the hallway of the castle remained, but the bright lights and bustling dimensional space were a sight.
Marielle took a muffin and turned it over in her hands before taking a bite. Flowridia stared at Murishani, offering the plate and grinning when he stared off to the side. She stepped forward, holding the plate under his nose, vindictively amused at his antics. “Muffin?”
Murishani, staring out just beyond Marielle, covered the half of his face pointed at Flowridia with his hand. “Marielle,” he cooed, “would you mind delivering a message for me? To Lady Flowridia? Remind her that if I even so much as look at the sweet thing that Casvir has sworn to rip my head from my neck and feed me to the streetsweepers.”
“Why . . ?” Etolié said, and Flowridia cringed, preparing a lie to get out of this conversation without sparking an international incident.
“I truly don’t know!” he said, placing a rather pathetic hand on his heart. “All I ever wanted was to make sweet Flowra feel at home, but it seems Casvir misjudged my intentions, that brute. He’s very possessive of her, you know.”
Etolié nodded pleasantly. “We’ve noticed,” she said, just as politely, and Flowridia wondered how difficult it would be to deliver poisoned muffins to the viceroy.
“Such a pity, to be a vivacious flirt! It’s simply second nature, you see, even when I don’t mean it. My intentions were noble, but we were both burned in the end, mutually deprived of friendship.”
“Murishani—” Flowridia stopped when the Viceroy pointed his finger at Marielle. Rolling her eyes, Flowridia said, “Marielle, would you please ask Viceroy Murishani if he would like a muffin?”
Marielle stared expectantly at Murishani, but when he didn’t answer, she furrowed her eyebrows and spoke. “Flowridia wants to know if you’d like a muffin.”
Murishani smiled brightly from behind his covered face. “I would be absolutely delighted! Tell Lady Flowridia I would love nothing more than to bury my face in her offered muffin.” From behind his fingers, Flowridia saw the lecherous smirk twisting his lip. He stared at her from the corner of his eyes, coy and teasing.
Hesitation laced Marielle’s tongue. “Um, Flowridia, Murishani says—”
“I heard.” Grimacing, Flowridia offered the plate forward. Murishani made no move to accept it. Instead, Marielle took one from the plate a
nd placed it into Murishani’s hand.
“Do either of you,” Flowridia asked, lowering the plate, “know where Casvir is?”
Marielle gestured with her head. “Next door.”
Next to the enormous archway, a smaller, non-magical door met her view. With Etolié flanking her, Flowridia knocked.
A pause, and then an, “Enter.” Flowridia pushed the door open and found Casvir seated in a sparse guest room. What few supplies he had brought lay untouched beside his bed. But piles of paper neatly covered the desk he sat at, organized chaos at its finest.
“Lady Flowridia,” he said politely. “Magister Etolié.”
“A pleasure to see you again,” Etolié said, and Flowridia realized that Ana rested in her arms. “Flowers speaks highly of you.”
Casvir returned his attention to Flowridia. “Can I help you?”
“Why are you doing paperwork?” she asked, a bit of laughter in her tone.
“There is little else for me to be doing.”
Flowridia approached him and offered him the plate. “What you don’t know about me is that I bake.”
“I do know you bake,” Casvir said, utter indifference coloring his face as he studied the plate of baked goods. He reached out and accepted one, placing it at the corner of his desk. “Anything else?”
“How did you know I bake?”
“When I learned of Ayla’s pursuit of you, I questioned her on your day to day activities to be certain she posed no danger. She mentioned baking as a pastime of yours.”
To mention Ayla’s name brought sorrow, but Flowridia hid it behind a curt nod. “Murishani brought quite the tent. I don’t know how I’ll get through this wedding without brushing up against him.”
“You may interact with him,” Casvir said smoothly, returning his attention to his paperwork. “But given his recent behaviors, I do not trust him.”
Beside her, Etolié whispered, “What recent behaviors?”
Flowridia cringed. “Ask me later.” She set another muffin beside the untouched one at the desk and said farewell.
As she and Etolié trekked down the hallway, the Celestial spoke up. “He’s opaque, that one.”
