The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  ‘Our first priority is the Queen,’ I say, placing a reassuring hand around Melusina’s teardrop in my pocket.

  Tom and Jules’s ears prick up as they scan the terrain, listening for any sign of danger. Jules gives the all-clear and we bolt from the cover of the bushes, keeping our heads low, straight towards the glass doors of the butterfly house.

  Inside, a crunching sound under my feet repulses me. The carcasses of thousands of butterflies carpet the stone floor.

  ‘Ew, gross,’ Abby squeals.

  ‘Chess,’ Tom says as he scans around. ‘They’re all dead. Everything here is dead.’

  He doesn’t need to say anything more. Hot blood pumps through me as I sprint past the pond and leap over the stream. I’m hoping, praying and bargaining with any higher power that will listen that not everything in the butterfly house is dead.

  I race through the secret stone door Tom showed me all those months ago and bolt down the stairs to the entrance of my mother’s crypt. It’s cold and dark in there. I summon every hovering candle from my chambers and set them alight.

  Before I can reach my mother’s glass case, there’s a deafening boom. I stop and watch as two hands appear in the air right in front of me and tear a hole in the nothingness.

  The friction from the tear in reality sends sparks flying, as if the air is being blowtorched. The energy intensifies as the hole is stretched wider before catching alight. Flames lick the edges.

  Tom skids to a halt at my side, his watchband glowing and ready. I can hear Jules and Abby running down the stairs. The Art flickers on my fingertips as we wait to see who – or what – has come for us.

  A leg appears through the portal.

  A man’s leg. Crumpled khaki.

  ‘Dad?’

  My father steps gingerly through the ring of fire into the crypt, patting at his hair and shirtsleeves, smothering embers. It looks like a rudimentary version of transferring between the realms, lacking the smoothness of the Art, but clearly just as effective.

  ‘You didn’t come back,’ Dad says to me. ‘I got worried so I …’

  He stops mid-sentence, his mouth still open, as he sees my mother in the glass case. He rushes over to her. Tom and I join him as he opens the clasp on the case, lifting the lid. I lean my ear towards my mother’s mouth, listening for signs of life.

  Her soft breath tickles the side of my face and I wilt in relief.

  My father’s long body folds forward over my mother. He wraps his arms around her and sobs.

  Unashamed, unbridled emotion. Love.

  My eyes fill with tears as I stare at a sight I never thought I would see. Both my parents. Together.

  I can feel Jules’s eyes on me, on the three of us, as my father looks up, smiling.

  ‘It’s time to undo this,’ I say, reaching into my pocket for Melusina’s teardrop.

  Tom stands quietly at my side while Jules turns away from us, scanning for danger. My father swallows nervously.

  The teardrop bursts open as it hits my tongue. At first, I just taste a salty residue. Then it sinks into my tongue, into me. Almost immediately, a high-pitched sound like wind howling fills the crypt, seemingly emanating up from the earth and echoing around us.

  Words from a strange language fill my mind, words of love and honesty, vulnerability and strength. Then sound wells up within me, streaming through me. I feel like a conducting rod for ancient knowledge. It melds with my own power, filling me with a sense of infinite possibility.

  I begin to chant words I have never learned, but whose meaning is unmistakeable: they are a declaration of righteousness, a liberation of spirit, a rejection of constraint, a command for freedom. The water in the pond above us shimmers to life, vibrating with the sound.

  I repeat the chant.

  The howling sounds subside, fading to silence. I look down at my mother, still cradled in my father’s arms. He’s looking at her, his face filled with hope.

  I have no idea what’s supposed to happen next. Mer magic is as foreign and unknown to me as Fae magic was before the morning of my sixteenth birthday. I look around the crypt, searching for some sign of my mother’s life force returning. But everything is quiet. Except for the dancing patterns of reflected light from the rippling water above, there’s no movement. My father releases his embrace and stands back from my mother, lines of worry etched into his forehead.

  ‘Try again,’ Tom says. ‘Try making physical contact.’

  I take my mum’s hand and interlace our fingers. I close my eyes, concentrating on the chant. It’s harder this time. The words don’t come as easily. But I continue, feeling power rise in me. My mother’s hand feels warmer. Something is happening, I can sense it.

  The chant comes to an end, the power ebbs, silence returns. I think I see a slight twitch at my mother’s mouth, but it’s fleeting. There’s nothing more. She lies serenely, perfectly calm.

  And then I feel a low rumble, growing in force. The room momentarily darkens as shadows move across the pool above us. Feet thunder across the butterfly house and down the stairs. Twenty Protectorate officers storm into the crypt, the new insignia – Damius’s standard – pinned to their bodysuits.

  Tom and Abby angle their instruments. Jules positions herself between me and the guards, her knuckledusters raised.

  The Art builds within me as I wonder if the guards defected to Damius out of fear for their lives or if they too believe my mongrel blood makes me unworthy to rule. Or perhaps it’s even simpler than that, and they’re just following orders like the trained guards they are.

  General Cassidy steps forward, dressed in a grey uniform and sash.

  ‘You will stand down, First Officer,’ she says to Jules.

  Jules looks at me. ‘The Protectorate serves the Queen.’

  ‘The Protectorate serves the Crown. And the Crown is now held by King Damius.’

  Quiet suddenly descends on the assembled crowd. Menace slithers down my spine. The air turns electric as the guards behind the General part and Damius appears as if from thin air, his long leather coat swinging.

  ‘How good of you to come home, dear niece. I see you’ve been trying to revive my sister,’ he says. ‘You now know that the water nymphs’ little ditties are nothing compared to my Art.’

  My magic sparks, baying for his blood.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t try anything, Francesca. You will regret it.’

  ‘Really? I thought I’d be a martyr if I was dead.’

  He smiles at me the way you might at a small, adorably clueless child. ‘You misunderstand me, dear niece. I’m far more interested in you alive. Or more specifically, your life force.’

  My throat constricts. Of course. He wants to do to me what he’s done to my mother. Make me his own little battery, drain me of my power to bolster his own. His face breaks into an evil smile as he walks towards my mother with the confidence of a man who has nothing to fear.

  ‘Poetic justice, don’t you think? That I should draw my power from the two queens who sought to deny me my rightful place?’

  I look at Jules. A mixture of uncertainty and curiosity flickers across her face as she watches Damius. The Protectorate is the only family she has known. Duty to the Crown has been the guiding star of her life. Now both have fused in the form of Damius: her monarch and her father. If her duty to me is on one side of her scale, Damius is one hell of a counterweight.

  I allow the Art to pool at my fingertips. I figure I have a 70/30 chance of taking Damius out before he even knows what’s happened. Happy with those odds, I summon my full force. The temperature rises within me, hot and delicious. I get ready to kill the man who has ruined so many lives. I savour the moment. Three, two …

  ‘That would be unwise,’ says General Cassidy, her knuckledusters pointing at my father’s heart, undisguised disdain on her face.

  I look over at my father. To have a chance of hitting General Cassidy before she can harm him, I need my father to be alert, ready to act. But he’s oblivious
. It would be comical if it wasn’t so serious. One flinch and we’re all dead, yet he’s transfixed, staring up at the roof of the crypt, watching the water in the pond above us, still rippling with lingering vibrations from the mermaid song.

  He finally looks back at me. ‘Water. It plays with frequency.’

  I stare back at him, the significance of his words hitting me. The mermaids’ songs bounced off the internal canals in the Basilica. Mermaid soundwaves must need water to work.

  ‘Seize them,’ Damius orders the Protectorate guards. ‘Destroy the human —’

  I raise my hands and unleash the Art, shattering the roof of the crypt. A torrent of pond water pours down on us, bringing with it giant lily pads, silt and gravel. A giant boulder also falls through, taking out a couple of guards. The candlelight is extinguished. Water sloshes around the crypt, rising quickly to our knees.

  Protectorate guards try to regain their footing in the pooling water and carry out Damius’s orders. Tom, Jules and Abby are covering me with blasts of magic as I begin Melusina’s chant again.

  But the words are gone. They’re on the tip of my tongue, yet I can’t summon them. I concentrate and start again. But I can’t finish.

  I look to my mother. She needs me to remember. Only I can save her. Gladys’s voice is in my head. I am the one I’ve been waiting for.

  Water pours down my face and into my eyes as I try one more time.

  The ground starts to rumble. The water splashes around my legs as I open my mind, my heart, welcoming the mermaid song, the power of Venus. The mer words flow from me, almost of their own volition. I release the full force of the song and the water comes alive, vibrating from the soundwaves.

  The fighting stops as the Protectorate officers lower their knuckledusters, shaking their heads as if trying to rid themselves of brain fog. It’s the chant; it’s setting them free too, loosening the constraints Damius has used to ensnare them.

  Capitalising on their confusion, Jules takes charge. ‘Take the General. Protect your Queen,’ she commands.

  Damius hunches over with his hands in the water, howling like a wounded animal.

  His amber ring is ablaze and, despite being submerged in water, his hand is consumed by tongues of fire. He casts a spell, trying to extinguish the flames, but it seems to have no effect.

  ‘Get it off, get it off!’ Damius yells, trying desperately to remove the blazing ring from his hand.

  The amber centre of his ring bulges and seethes under the watery flames before erupting in a molten splash. The force of it sends Damius’s charred body sprawling back into the pooling water, crashing through the giant lilies ringing the crypt. He doesn’t get up.

  The incandescent light released from Damius’s ring shoots upwards, refracted through the water. I look up to the ceiling to see the light dancing around the crypt like a playful firefly on a summer evening.

  My mother’s life force, free after all these years from its prison in Damius’s ring.

  Tom tracks the life force with his eyes. ‘We need to guide it home,’ he says, beckoning me closer to my mother’s body.

  I stand at one side of the glass case, my father at the other. Tom, at the foot of the case, begins to chant.

  Heart’s desire, crown of fire

  On your own, flesh and bone

  I recognise the transmutation spell immediately. Gladys used to sing in the laundromat. I join him.

  Heart’s desire, crown of fire

  On your own, flesh and bone

  Make your choice, find your voice

  Do not roam, hasten home.

  Do not roam, hasten home.

  Make your choice, find your voice

  Hasten home, hasten home.

  My mother’s life force hovers over us, curious but tentative. It swoops down towards her head but then turns abruptly and travels back up to the ceiling. It circles above us, slowly at first, then picking up speed. As if caught in a whirlwind, it spirals down towards my mother. Her body seems to grow brighter as the life force nears and then the light is sucked through the pores of her skin like water into a sponge.

  The crypt fills with white light, blinding us like a camera flash, but lasting longer. When our eyes adjust, my mother’s eyes spring open.

  Green. Just like mine.

  There is silence as everyone stares at my mother; even Damius, burned and dazed, stares in astonishment and wonder.

  Two Protectorate officers have him covered.

  My mother coughs and then clears her throat.

  The Protectorate officers bow to their Queen. But my mother looks only at me.

  ‘Thank you, Francesca.’ Her voice is nothing like the gravelly sound I heard in the crypt. It’s sweet and smooth like honey. It’s my mum’s.

  ‘I have wanted to tell you so many things these past years,’ she says to me as a tear slides from her eye. ‘But this is the most important. I am proud of you, Chess. Of the girl you were and of the Queen you have become.’

  I have imagined so often what it would be like to speak to my mother for the first time. But in all my hopes and fantasies, I never once dreamed that it would be as wonderful as this. That she would say something I have craved to hear but never once heard. That I am good enough, worthy enough to make my mother proud.

  She sits up in the glass case, unsteady. My father slips his arm around her.

  ‘You didn’t forget me, Sam,’ she says simply.

  ‘Not for a single moment,’ my father replies.

  They pull me into an embrace, cocooning me in love.

  A moment later, a light flickers in the corner of my eye. The Protectorate officers guarding Damius fly against the crypt wall, their heads making a sickening crack.

  ‘Watch out!’ I hear Tom yell.

  A fiery bolt tears through air, straight at us. I try to knock it off course, but just miss.

  Samuel shields my mother but they both get hit. My father slides into the water and my mother is knocked back down into the glass case.

  Tom races to pull my father out of the water. I look back over to Damius, his arm and half his face badly burned, using the wall to say upright. He fires another bolt in our direction.

  This time I’m prepared. I deflect his blaze and unleash my own. Fury wells within me and I raise my hand, unleashing the Art directly at Damius. I walk towards him through the water, firing one blast after another. But each one is deflected.

  And then I realise it’s not Damius who’s deflecting them.

  It’s Jules. Loyal Jules.

  Her eyes look glazed. She’s operating on autopilot, her training and muscle memory taking charge.

  Overcome by his burns, Damius falters. His eyes roll back in his head and he slides down the wall.

  Jules runs to her father and stands over him protectively. ‘Please, Chess,’ she pleads, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Please, do not kill him. He is my father.’

  Footsteps thunder above us. I look up. Through the broken ceiling I see soldiers in beige uniforms marked with Damius’s insignia, staring down through the tangled mess of vines, mud and pebbles at the edge of the pond. And then I see their flickering wands, thick like batons, pointing towards us. I hear more footsteps. Make that hoof-steps. Unicorns.

  The crypt will soon be crawling with guards loyal to Damius.

  ‘My parents,’ I order as I ready myself to take on the descending unicorns. ‘Get them to safety.’

  Jules is frozen to the spot, still protecting Damius.

  ‘Jules,’ I scream at her. ‘I need you!’

  She looks uncertainly at me, torn in half.

  ‘Need some help here,’ I hear Tom shout as he supports my father with one arm and helps my mother to her feet with his other. She leans heavily on Tom, conscious but only just.

  Abby takes my mother from Tom, holding her steady. I keep my hands trained on Damius’s oncoming army. I can’t risk my parents again.

  ‘A portal,’ I bark. ‘Somewhere safe.’

  Tom ca
rves a portal in the wall of the crypt.

  Abby pulls my mother through and I yell at Tom to take my father next.

  He hesitates.

  ‘Go!’ I yell. ‘I’m coming.’

  Unicorns thunder down the stairs.

  Supporting my father, Tom scrambles through the portal.

  ‘Jules!’ I scream. ‘Pick a side!’

  I fire at the unicorns as they rush through the doorway, picking them off one by one.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. Yes,’ Jules says, standing and leaving Damius, who slumps back against the wall.

  She runs to join me as I leap towards the portal, but at the last moment, she stops and pushes me hard into the opening.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I hear her say.

  Tumbling into the portal, I turn back and reach for Jules’s hands.

  ‘Please, Jules. I can’t do this without you.’

  She holds my hands for a second and our eyes meet, before she yanks her fingers from my grasp, her knuckledusters sliding off.

  Without them or any other channelling instrument, Jules summons the Art.

  Then she closes the portal between us.

  I slam into something hard, shattering it beneath me. Spikes scratch my face and upper arms.

  What have I done?

  But I don’t have time to catalogue all the ways I’ve screwed up. I spring to my feet, adrenaline flooding my system. The Art sparks at my fingertips as I look around for my parents and scan for danger. Something like relief comes over me as I spot them, my mother leaning heavily on Tom. Her shoulder is bloody and blackened from where Damius struck her and her face is slackening, as if she’s losing consciousness. My father is on her other side, hunched forward in pain.

  They’re hurt, but they’re alive.

  We’re in a courtyard. I see an uprooted fir tree and soil lying amongst the broken shards of a large flowerpot. I guess that’s what I landed in. A vintage lamppost takes pride of place in the middle of the yard. Stately windows set in cream brick look out onto the yard. To my left, I see an ornately decorated doorway with ‘Apothecaries Hall’ etched into the plinth. Above the words is a coat of arms made up of two unicorns either side of a crest, all rendered in gold.