by J. L. Carter
A fountain is erected at the center of the town. Rather than water, it shoots out sparks and oil. The Sky Men use it to refill their weapons, and to refresh their mechanical limbs.
Much of the time, Julian leaves Margaret at home while he takes care of helping run the resistance. Battles continue to be waged and, for the most part, won by the invaders. Truly, these are dark days for the humans of London. Truly, these are dark times indeed.
14
On one of the Duke’s rare trips home, he catches Margaret by surprise. She wakes up to a bundle of flowers resting on the foot of the bed, and a tray of tea already prepared in the kitchen. Julian is grinning, clearly proud of himself. “Good morning, my sweet.”
“Good morning,” says Margaret, lightly. She clutches the flowers against her breasts. “Did you pick these yourself?”
“Aye, I most certainly did!”
“They’re lovely, Julian. I haven’t had flowers since before this war started! And they’re daisies, too. You know these are my favorites!”
“I thought that, in these grim moments, you could use a little bit of brightness.” Julian brushes a stray hair out of Margaret’s face.
She gives him a small, gentle smile. “I feel bad. I have nothing for you.”
“Coming home to see you is more than enough,” insists Julian. His hand flattens out, sliding around to cup the back of Margaret’s neck. He catches the young woman in a kiss, one that’s so passionate it manages to steal away Margaret’s breath. She’s loathe to admit, but having the Duke out of the house so often has proven to be very difficult.
The first few times that they slept together, Margaret had been horribly nervous. Now though, she craves his touch; his affection, his love, his ability to push her into a physical heaven.
Margaret’s free hand finds its way to Julian’s chest. Her fingers dance over the breadth of it, run up along his shoulder. She parts her lips, letting him more fully into her.
If they could carry on like this, just for a little while, Margaret thinks that she would be quite content. For in these moments, brief and fleeting, it’s almost as though there is no war.
Footsteps in the hallway. Julian jerks backwards, eyes narrowing at the closed door. He asks, "do they wander freely?"
“They do what they want,” says Margaret, trying to pull her fiancé into another kiss. She lets her hand move down, resting on his hip. Her fingers toy with the waist band of his trousers. “I find that, the less we interfere, the less they bother the staff.”
Julian doesn’t look as though he’s been put at ease by the comment. In fact, he looks more distraught than ever. “I don’t like it,” he says, voice low and deep. “I don’t like this at all. Margaret, I must ask something of you. It may seem like a strange request but, please, promise me that you will hold it true.”
“I would promise you most anything.”
“Then promise me this. Promise that you will wear the necklace I gifted you at all times.”
Margaret blinks, surprised at the request. Considering the grave look on Julian’s face, that seems like a fairly mundane task to carry out. “Pardon?”
She just wants to make sure. Is that truly all that Julian wants her to do?
Despite the seemingly small task, Julian looks as though he’s passing along the most awful of news. His brows are drawn, lips twisted into an uneasy sort of frown. One hand slides down, wrapping around Margaret’s waist to rest on the small of her back. The other absently brushes hair from her face. “The necklace that I gave you. You still have it?”
“Of course. I keep it in my treasure box, tucked under the bed.”
“Wear it.”
“Now?”
“Always,” insists Julian, fervently. “From now until the end of this war. Never take it off. Not for anything. Not for anyone.”
It’s not until much later that day, after Julian has gone back to his business at the castle, that Margaret manages to piece things together. While the request had seemed strange at first, now she thinks that there’s some actual sense behind it.
“He’s jealous,” says Margaret, as she puts the treasure box down on the edge of the mattress. It’s an engraved thing, carved with golden flowers and silver leaves. The latch is slightly rusted. She has to wiggle it a few times before it pops open.
Inside, she keeps all of her most precious belongings – including the necklace. It shimmers in the candle light.
“We have a prince staying here.” She pulls the necklace from the box, holding it a loft to get a better look at it. Margaret is fairly certain that not even the Queen has such lovely jewels. “He may be an enemy, and he may be from a faraway place, but he is still a prince. It seems only right that my Duke would be jealous.”
And while this necklace is no ring, it’s certainly close enough. No casual courtiers would dare give out such a precious heirloom.
It’s like a claim, she thinks. Like playing a collar upon your dog.
A shudder runs down Margaret’s spine. She finds herself fancying the thought, strange as it might be. Slowly, she loops the necklace around her throat and hooks the clasp back together. It’s the first time that she’s worn the necklace since the war started. The crystal feels strangely heavy.
“There. That should make him happy.”
Margaret tries to pay no mind to the dampness between her own legs. Turned on by wearing a necklace! How simple could she get?
Instead, with a red face and a pounding heart, the young woman chooses to turn in early.
It is a dire mistake.
That night, Margaret dreams.
She’s standing in the middle of the city. A massive clock tower rises from the center of it. The building is clearly a recent addition; large sections of it have been made up of strange, copper colored metal plates. Rather than a clock face, an elaborate set of gears and toggles don the front top of the tower.
The streets are empty. There is no destruction – but there are additions, and many of them. Those copper metal plates are everywhere. They cling to the sides of buildings, both old and new. They have been plastered into the cobbled walk, taking the place of bricks that have no doubt been destroyed in the war.
Strange words replace the signs. They have been carved onto the walls, the windows, and the other placards. Margaret can’t read them, but she has a feeling that, much like the posters advertising propaganda, they have more meaning than anyone would dare imagine.
“Hello? Hello,” calls Margaret. Her boots click clack on the ground with every step that she takes. No one answers her. It doesn’t look like anyone is here. “Hello? Someone? Anyone?”
It’s strange.
For the most part, when Margaret dreams, she doesn’t know that she’s asleep until long after she’s woken up. Now though, Margaret’s mind is very clear; she knows that this is a dream, and yet can’t shake the feeling that this is of the utmost importance, that ignoring it would be a grave mistake.
And so, she wanders down the streets, no longer familiar with all that changes that they have undergone. A busted wagon rests on the corner of Fifth and Oakland Street. The windows have yet to be patched on the Carousel - a local bakery, known for their scrumptious biscotti.
Occasionally, Margaret tries to call out, but no one ever answers. At least, not until she rounds the bend onto Jasmine Lane.
That’s when she sees it.
There’s a dark shape at the very end of the path. The moment that Margaret’s eyes land on it, he turns and races down the sidewalk.
He?
Despite the fact that the figure is mostly unclear, Margaret has no doubt that it’s a male. She gives chase, suddenly overwhelmed with the desperate need to catch him.
“Come back,” she cries. “Come back!”
But it’s to no avail. Margaret chases the man all through the city, only for him to vanish at the dead end on Carson Road. She’s left standing there in the reformed city, alone, lungs aching as they try to draw in a proper breath.
>
Margaret closes her eyes, opens them again.
She’s still there.
“Wake up,” says Margaret, firmly. There are eyes on her, making the hair along the back of her neck prickle. When she looks, she can’t find anyone.
Slowly. Margaret starts to back out of the alley.
“Just wake up. Come on now, Margaret. It’s not that hard of a thing to do. Just wake u—"
Her back hits something solid. Margaret yelps and spins around.
It’s the dark shape.
One by one, the street lights flicker into being. Their soft glow casts awful shadows on the man’s face, but it does illuminate it to some degree.
It’s Aidar. His eyes are hooded, lips pulled back into a gruesome sort of smile. The purple scales around his eyes are stunning, and the others are coming into existence fast.
Aidar opens his mouth, and a serpentine tongue rolls out from between his lips. It flicks at the air, like a snake trying to taste its surroundings. Piece by piece, the scales fall away, revealing a pulsing, twisting mass of unrecognizable flesh.
Margaret screams.
When she wakes up, she’s still screaming.
15
Even taking a hot bath, fixed by Madeline, doesn’t ease Margaret’s worries. The dream has left her thoroughly disheveled, grabbing at straws just to make it through the day. The air in the manor house feels too thick. the pendant around her neck feels too heavy.
And yet, the crystal is also a comfort, for it reminds her of Julian, and of a time before this dreaded war started. Just as her sweet Julian asked of her, Margaret wears it all day.
This is the first time that Aidar catches sight of the pendant.
It’s late in the day. Margaret has just sat down for an evening snack, a rarity in these times of scarcity. Her biscuit is a little dry, her jam a little too sweet. She tells Madeline that it tastes amazing all the same, and then settles in.
Margaret has hardly started on her second biscuit when footsteps announce another person in the small sitting room. It’s pushed into the back of the manor house, and not too many bother with it. The window looks out onto a field of burnt grass, the site of a recent battle. The book shelves have been raided by the Sky Men and stripped bare. It holds but a single candelabra, and no true importance to the house.
In a way, that’s what makes Margaret love it so much. She is seldom disturbed while she’s in here.
Assuming that it’s Madeline come back to retrieve the platter, she twists around in her seat and says, “I’m not quite finished.”
It’s not Madeline.
Aidar has the gall to laugh at her. It always makes Margaret think of birds – an animal that is deceptively sweet in comparison to the Prince of Beyond. He has a book tucked under one arm. There are smears of ink over his hands, as if he’s just been writing letters.
That’s strange. Margaret doesn’t think that she’s ever seen Aidar write anything before.
Feeling a little sheepish, she says, “pardon. I thought you were Madeline.”
“I could tell,” says Aidar. “You have jam on your face.”
Margaret blushes and scrubs at her lips. Sticky jam does, in fact, cling to her palms. How unladylike!
While there was a time when she wouldn’t care what Aidar thought of her or her appearance, it has long since past. Margaret wouldn’t dare call them friends, but there’s a certain level of respect between them, formed from their many conversations, debates, and discussions on their respective home planets.
Roughly, she asks, “did you need me for something?”
“Yes. I need you to explain a passage in this book,” says Aidar, simply. He steps around the love seat, taking up space at the opposite end.
The book is on physics, and Margaret’s blush grows darker. She admits, “I doubt that I’ll be able to explain such a thing. I’ve never taken lessons on that subject. It’s a foreign thing to me. Julian, though—if it was on his shelf, then he probably has a great knowledge of the matter. On his next visit, you should try asking him.”
“Oh? Would he answer me?”
“Perhaps. If you told him something of importance first. Julian is a good man, and he quite likes helping people.”
“Yes, but would he help someone that was not a person?”
“In all technicality, I think that you are a person. You can breathe, and you have a heart. I know it,” says Margaret. “You let me feel it earlier. You have the shape of a human—”
“For the moment,” interjects Aidar. “You know that this is not my true form. That this is not the true form of any of my people.”
“And yet,” continues Margaret, as though she had never been interrupted. “You act as though your race is different from mine on a fundamental level. You need sustenance to survive, even, and you have emotions the likes of which nothing else I have ever laid eyes upon does. As you are obviously carrying no traits of an animal, you must be a person.”
Aidar chuckles again. He lays the book down on the table, next to the platter of biscuits. “And you think that reasoning will work for your—”
“Fiancé,” finishes Margaret. “I believe that, if explained to him, and if he were able to gain something from the discussion, that Julian would certainly be willing to explain his book to you. He does love bragging about his schooling, you know. It took him many years and quite a pretty penny to gain all that he has!”
“He is a Duke, right?”
“Mhm. The Duke of Bridgewater.” Margaret leans forward, grabbing another biscuit. The crystal slips from its place within the confines of her gown. Light catches on the many facets, turning it once more into a veritable rainbow of colors.
Aidar’s hand snaps out, grabbing Margaret by the shoulder. He demands, “where did you get that?”
Startled, Margaret drops her half-jammed biscuit. She stares at Aidar with wide, confused eyes. “Pardon?”
“That necklace,” elaborates Aidar. The hand not holding onto Margaret reaches out, fingers curling in the air just shy of the crystal. “Where did you get it?”
“Oh—” Margaret blinks, looking down at the crystal. Carefully, she wraps one hand around it, hiding it from view. "Julian gave it to me as a courting gift. It’s quite lovely, yes?"
“Quite,” drawls Aidar. He doesn’t let go of Margaret’s shoulder. They are indecently close now, legs touching, breath mingling in the shared space between their faces.
Margaret’s skin is buzzing. Her face feels hot. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m certain that I’ve seen it before.”
“I wouldn’t believe that. Julian says that it’s a family heirloom. I doubt that there’s another crystal like this the world around.”
“As do I. There is no chance that I’ve merely seen a crystal resembling that before. No, no. I have seen that necklace. Can I have a closer look at it? Just to make sure, of course. You would have it back in a matter of moments.”
Margaret almost says yes. She sees no harm in it, after all. While beautiful and precious, at the end of the day, it truly is just a fancy piece of jewelry.
It’s just that Julian had made her promise not to take it off, and Margaret already feels as if she’s done a great deal that the Duke wouldn’t approve of. So, in the end, she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that I can’t take it off. It’s a promise, you see, to Julian.”
Aidar says, “he would never know that it left your pretty neck.”
“But I would know,” says Margaret. “And I would end up telling him. I’m horrible at keeping secrets, you see.”
A shadow crosses Aidar’s face. It’s only there for a moment, but Margaret knows that look.
Anger.
Unjustified and barely controlled anger.
Her father often looked like that, late in the day and several drinks in.
Margaret squares her shoulders. “I simply can’t take it off,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, Aidar. This is one request that I can’t grant.”
&nbs
p; “Very well,” says Aidar, voice clipped and words short. He stands up, retrieving his book. “I shall leave you to your meal, then.”
“Wait! You could—”
But Aidar has already left. Alone in the sitting room once more, Margaret slouches down against the plush, over stuffed cushions. She hides her face in her hands and tries to figure out why she feels so guilty.
That is not the only time that Aidar asks about the crystal. In fact, it becomes a very frequented topic of conversation. Over the next week, Margaret finds herself constantly trying to deflect questions about the stone, trying to explain that, really, she knows next to nothing about the crystal hanging on the end of the necklace.
In the end, she takes to wearing it tucked inside the collar of her dress. For the most part, if Aidar can’t see the crystal, then he tends to be easily led into other conversations.
Margaret blames the stress of dealing with the Prince as the cause for the strange dreams that she’s suddenly having. That and, perhaps, a few too many cups of slightly spoiled milk.
“They can call it buttermilk,” grumbles Margaret, as she readies herself for bed. “But I know that’s just an excuse not to throw it out after it’s passed the point of prime.”
It’s a cool night. Margaret rushes through getting changed into her dressing gown and then all but flings herself into the large bed. Rather than stay in her own room, she’s taken to sleeping in the bed that rests in Julian’s room.
Partly, it’s because she wants to be here if he comes home. Partly, it’s because she likes having the space to roll over at night without fearing a crash to the ground.
In these late hours, that worry has become exceptionally true. In fact, Margaret almost fears going to sleep at night.
She laments, “if only I didn’t have to dream. If only I could just sleep and not remember what I’ve seen come morning.”
But wishing has never changed anything and, par for the course, Margaret finds herself trapped in a dystopian version of the world during her slumbering hours.
