The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  We cruise over the lagoon, my legs wrapped tightly around his body, one hand in his mane, the other clasped around the Veritas.

  I lean forward, my stomach already in knots, and speak directly into his ear. ‘We need to talk.’

  His body tenses ever so slightly. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I look around for a quiet place to deliver possibly the most important – certainly the most difficult – words of my life.

  ‘Over there.’ I point toward the balcony at the top of the bell tower of San Marco. We’re unlikely to be disturbed up so high.

  I leave Tom’s back and fly through one of the marble arches of the tower balcony. My mouth is already dry with anticipation. The archways are too small for Tom to fit through in unicorn form so he transes mid-air and leaps through the marble pillars. He lands with an impressive commando roll and springs effortlessly to his feet.

  He turns to me with uncertain eyes.

  I look back at him, biting my lip.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. Waits.

  My hands are slick with sweat. I gently place the Veritas on the ground and wipe my palms on my filthy dress. I feel so self-conscious, it’s like I’m naked, stripped bare. I suppose, in a way, I am. I feel more terrified than I did fighting the defectors. I lace my hands in front of me and then unlace them.

  ‘Chess?’ Tom prompts gently.

  I take a deep, steadying breath. ‘I was wrong and you were right,’ I blurt.

  A hint of a smile flashes across his beautiful face. ‘About?’

  ‘About you. About … us,’ I stammer. Falling a hundred metres off the bell tower would be easier than having this conversation.

  He reveals one of his dimples. It’s like a little gift. The knot in my stomach loosens enough for me to plough on.

  ‘I used Gladys’s words as an excuse. I didn’t understand what she meant with her prophecy; it was so opaque that I couldn’t possibly know. But I clung to the worst possible interpretation, because I believed that I deserved to suffer, and that I didn’t deserve you.’ My eyes brim with tears. ‘Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me. So, I suppose I got in first with the rejection.’

  He takes a step towards me. ‘Chess —’

  ‘Let me finish,’ I say, putting up my hands. If he gets too close he’ll fry my brain and I won’t be able to say what I need to.

  ‘All my life I’ve felt unworthy. I thought that would end once I became Queen. But it didn’t. It kind of only got worse, with the Order’s constant disapproval and all their secrets. And when I finally felt like I’d done something right by killing the pyct virus and honouring the Treaty – well, a lot of people thought that that was wrong too. And then Victor tried to control me and call it love. Manipulation, that’s all I’ve ever known. Everyone who’s claimed to care about me has tried to clip my wings. Except you.’

  I muster the strength to look him in the eye. ‘You encourage me to fly. You were there when I had nothing, and now that I have wealth and power and a father, and hopefully very soon a mother, you’re still the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

  Tom swallows hard and my tears threaten to break their banks. I think of what Jules said about how we get to choose who we love, and who we will accept love from.

  ‘I know what love is now,’ I say as my heart hammers in my chest. ‘It’s you. I choose you.’

  Tom closes the gap between us in a heartbeat, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me close.

  ‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,’ he murmurs into my hair.

  I look up into his blue eyes and see vulnerability, strength, passion and kindness. Butterflies of anticipation and delight take flight within me. He strokes my cheek as if I’m precious, as if, in this moment, I’m the only thing in the world that matters to him.

  My lips are drawn to his like a force of nature. I wrap my arms around his neck. I kiss him deeply, finally giving in to being real, being fearless. And to being me.

  I lean into him until our hearts keep pace with each other, with each delicious and exhilarating beat. I absorb his gift of warmth and strength and give him mine in return. My wings burst from my back and cocoon us in a moment that belongs just to us. It could not be more perfect, standing above the most romantic city in the world with my best friend, the one I love. And with the absolute certainty that he loves me just as much.

  The moment is broken by the beating of drums. Slow, steady and ominous.

  Tom has already heard it. His ears have pricked up and his nostrils are twitching.

  My wings flare wide, readying to flee as I reluctantly step back from him.

  We stare down at the Piazza San Marco. Hundreds of solemn-looking people, all dressed in black, form a procession across the square, heading towards the Basilica. Unicorns in ceremonial blankets trot along beside the people. Grigio guards carry banners. A chill runs up my spine when I realise that the banners are not just for House Grigio. House Raven banners are mixed in amongst them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I focus my Fae-enhanced vision on the faces of the mourners. I recognise people from Victor’s court. And mine too. The Luminaress is walking solemnly towards the front of the procession with Victor’s father. Queen Eleonora is being pushed in a wheelchair. And then I see the Chancellor. He’s sobbing into a hanky. Further back I spot Mama and Maria and my maids. They are also crying.

  ‘A funeral?’ Tom says.

  ‘Whose?’ I ask.

  ‘Yours,’ a voice says behind us.

  I whirl around to see Abby hovering in the air next to the bell tower.

  ‘But I’m not dead,’ I say lamely.

  ‘Obviously,’ Abby says, landing gracefully on the balcony. ‘I knew it couldn’t be true. You’re too obstinate to die. If you weren’t royalty, I’d call you a cockroach.’

  Tom hugs his sister. ‘It’s good to see you, Abbs.’

  She releases Tom and carves a portal in the brickwork of the tower. A moment later Jules steps through. She takes a deep bow, resting on one knee with her eyes planted on the floor in front of her just like the first time we met in the ruins of the V&A.

  ‘Your Majesty, I failed in my duty to protect you,’ Jules says with deference.

  ‘Jules,’ I say. ‘No, I’m sorry. Get up. Act normal. Please.’

  She stands up, and although she’s avoiding my gaze, I can see how red and puffy her eyes are.

  ‘You needed time,’ I say. ‘I get that. And Victor promised he would protect me. He was the one who failed.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Friends?’ I step forward and embrace her. I feel her embrace me lightly back.

  The ice is broken. A little. Not completely. I can tell it’s going to take some more time before things are normal between us.

  ‘Right, well, if we’ve all made up and we’re all one big happy family, then we have the small matter of your death to attend to,’ says Abby as she glances down at the people below. ‘Not to mention that poor grieving husband of yours.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Tragic, isn’t it?’ says Abby. ‘Married for not even a day, and Prince Charming is already a widower. Still, I expect he’ll get over you eventually. This time tomorrow, he’ll probably be saying “Francesca who?”’

  ‘I didn’t marry him, I swear,’ I say to Tom, my eyes wide.

  ‘I believe you,’ Tom says. ‘But I’m not sure I’m the one who needs convincing.’

  ‘Since there is no suitable heir to Albion, Victor has generously agreed to rule over both territories,’ Abby says, her voice dripping with cynicism. ‘So you managed to die and sell out Albion all in one day.’

  I struggle to believe what I’m hearing about Victor’s lies. I knew Victor was ambitious but I didn’t think for a moment he would be so calculating.

  ‘Was this his plan all along?’ I say to no one in particular.

  ‘I suspect not, Your Majesty,’ says Jules. ‘Prince Victor
lacks the intellect to be so strategic. He is merely an opportunist.’

  I turn back to the procession in the square and wonder how many of them actually wanted me on the throne. All they needed was someone to stop my uncle from claiming it. I suspect the majority of them are thrilled at the prospect of Prince Victor becoming the King of Albion. His Grigio resources combined with my House would surely enable them to ward off any attack and counter-claim from Damius.

  ‘I will deal with Victor later,’ I say. ‘I have something more important to do first.’

  I reach down for the Veritas and flick it open at the page with the diagram of the Nine Rosettes. Pointing to the centre circle, I say, ‘I need to find this.’

  ‘Never seen it before,’ Abby says dismissively.

  ‘May I inspect the diagram for a moment, Your Majesty?’ Jules says.

  I pass her the Veritas. She pulls the diagram so close to her face it’s almost touching her nose, squints her eyes and then holds the book back at arm’s length. Tilting it left and then right, she gazes off into the distance and then her focus snaps back to the nine rosettes page.

  ‘I cannot be certain, Your Majesty, the likeness is not exact, but I may have identified the central concentric circle you seek.’

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘I suggest the diagram in question is a sketch of an architectural structure from an aerial perspective.’

  ‘Domes on the roof of a building?’ Tom says.

  Jules nods.

  ‘Well, where are these domes?’

  Jules points to the roof of Basilica San Marco below us. ‘Right there.’

  As soon as I see it I’m certain she’s right. I can feel it.

  ‘The scroll. It’s in there.’ I say.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Abby flatly. ‘Can’t you count? There are only four domes drawn in the centre circle. There are five on the Basilica.’

  ‘Well, perhaps this was the original plan for the Basilica and the extra dome was built later. Or a dome was deliberately left off to throw people off the scent. There could be a hundred different reasons why there is one less dome in the book.’

  Tom’s traces his finger along the swirling peaks and spires drawn on the top of each dome. ‘There is a definite likeness to the domes down there.’

  ‘I know the scroll is there,’ I say. ‘The first time Melusina told me about the scroll she said that it was woven in the fabric of life.’ I point at the Basilica as the mourners stream through the doors. ‘All those people have come to mark the end of my life. That’s what church rituals are mostly about – the beginning and the end of life.’

  Abby crosses her arms. ‘That might explain the “life” part, and that’s a stretch, but what’s the fabric?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a metaphor, maybe it’s literal. We’re not going to find out standing here hypothesising. We need to get inside the Basilica,’ I say firmly.

  Jules looks unsure but I think that has more to do with the potential danger of entering a building without a proper risk analysis and security precautions.

  Tom shrugs. ‘It’s worth a shot. We’re here anyway.’

  ‘Aren’t we all forgetting one small detail?’ says Abby. ‘It’s your funeral! You’re dead, remember? You can’t just wander in. What’s loverboy going to say when —’ A wicked smile spreads over her face. ‘Actually, forget I said anything. I want a front-row seat and a bag of popcorn when Victor sees you gatecrash your own funeral.’

  We transfer right into the middle of a teeming crowd of human tourists streaming into the stunning cathedral. A man behind is startled by our sudden appearance, but his look quickly turns to annoyance at our queue-jumping. It’s a risk transferring into Volgaris with so many people about, but not as risky as barging into my own funeral in Iridesca.

  What I didn’t count on was being herded like cattle. I look ahead and see that tourists are permitted only to move along a too-narrow roped corridor down the centre of the church to the altar, before filing off into another roped corridor to the left. Stern guards stand at intervals, making sure the tourists don’t stray from their path. The only thing they’re missing are cattle prods.

  ‘Try to blend in,’ I whisper, seeing the sea of tourists kitted out in shorts, t-shirts and walking shoes. But I only have to look down at my torn and bloodied cherry blossom gown to realise the futility of what I’m asking. Jules and Abby are just as conspicuous in their bodysuits. Tom is the most normal looking out of the lot of us, but his Fae beauty and imposing height is attracting furtive glances from women and men alike. I should have asked Tom to use the Art to dress us more appropriately but it’s too late now. Magically changing our clothes will draw even more attention to us.

  ‘Back off, girlfriend,’ I hear Abby snap.

  I turn to see her facing a woman peering through an SLR camera. The woman might be capturing the Basilica, but I suspect she’s taking sneaky shots of Abby too. Abby flicks her wrist. There’s an audible crack and the woman looks down at the camera, trying to work out why the lens has suddenly shattered.

  I pull Abby along, shepherding her through the crowd while cradling the Veritas against my body.

  Being inside the Basilica is like being in a giant jewellery box. Sunlight streams though the windows at the base of each of the five domes, forming necklaces of light. The gold and glass mosaic tiles glitter like ancient treasures. The floor is a giant mosaic of marble tiles depicting a menagerie of animals from chickens and foxes to deer, dogs and eagles. I spot a griffin-like creature, but this one has the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. I step gingerly around it.

  Keeping my head hidden behind a tourist wearing a baseball cap, I adjust my focus to take a closer look at what’s going on in the Fae realm. My mourners – and I use that term loosely – have almost finished taking their seats in the rows lining the church. I can’t decide if I’m flattered or offended that so many people have shown up to mark my passing. Not that it matters. By the time they’re finished here, I am determined that my mother’s life force will be free and the rightful monarch will be restored as the Queen of Albion. Well, that’s my plan at least. Truth be told, I’m a little short on details.

  Victor and his parents sit at the front of the Basilica, along with the most senior members of House Raven. A woman dressed in robes, a lot like what a human priest wears, is talking quietly to Victor. By the way she’s holding his arm, I’d say she’s comforting him.

  ‘I believe His Highness is enjoying himself,’ Jules whispers into my ear.

  ‘He’s doing an excellent impression of a grieving newlywed,’ I agree.

  I wrench my attention back into Volgaris and scan the huge building for any sign of where the scroll might be. I think back to Melusina’s words about the scroll being hidden in the fabric of life. I wonder if she meant that literally – that it is actually woven into some sort of fabric. Like a tapestry?

  We continue shuffling forward, but I can’t see any tapestries. There are plenty of stained glass windows and mosaics but no tapestries. It’s possible there are some in another part of the church. Maybe even a part that’s closed to the public.

  I overhear a tour guide wearing an orange shirt saying something about ‘Byzantine’ and pointing out the gold lines on the nearest mosaics. She clearly knows what she’s talking about.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I interrupt. ‘Do you know where the tapestries are?’

  ‘San Marco has no tapestries,’ she says apologetically after looking me up and down. She turns back to her group.

  ‘What about other types of fabric?’ I push. ‘Shrouds or cushions? Curtains?’

  Shaking her short, sandy blonde hair, she says, ‘Not that I know of.’

  Frustrated, I catch up with the others who have shuffled further along with the crowd. I’m racking my brain, trying to work out our next step.

  ‘The Catholic Church just pilfered most of its stories, anyway,’ I hear a man saying. He’s forty-something, balding and bespectacled, and indu
lging in a loud monologue. The younger woman he’s with gives a polite nod. She could be his daughter, or his girlfriend. Given the lack of family resemblance, I’m going with girlfriend.

  ‘Early Christians were heavily influenced by pagan traditions,’ he continues. ‘If we lived at another time, we’d all be looking at pictures of Aphrodite or Venus instead of Mary.’

  My ears prick up. ‘Venus,’ I say out loud as the realisation hits. ‘She’s Mary.’

  Abby, Jules and Tom look at me, confused.

  ‘Mary, Venus, Aphrodite – they’re all the same person,’ I begin again, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

  ‘What are you on about?’ says Abby.

  ‘Well, they’re not the same person, exactly,’ I say, ‘but they represent the same thing. Life! They all represent feminine power and life.’

  ‘And this helps us how, precisely?’ asks Abby.

  ‘The Scroll of Sirena is woven into the fabric of life. All three of these women —’

  ‘Are symbols of life,’ Tom finishes for me.

  ‘We need to find Mary,’ I say, scanning the vaulted ceiling. ‘Mosaics, statues, paintings – any depiction of Mary. There must be dozens.’

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Tom says in frustration at the slow-moving queue. ‘The only way we’re going to find anything in this realm is if we come back tonight and break in.’

  A security attendant eyes Tom suspiciously.

  ‘No time,’ I say quietly.

  ‘We could search in Iridesca,’ he says.

  From the look on Jules’s face, she doesn’t approve of the plan. I’m not too thrilled either. Turning up at my own funeral is creepy, but being a ghost does have its advantages. The longer people think I’m dead, the better. Without the Art, invisibility is the only magic power I have. Yet I can’t see any other way to search the Basilica.

  ‘You and Abby should be at my funeral anyway,’ I say to Jules. ‘Your absence might already have been noticed.’