by Tabitha Vale
VENUS CITY
Tabitha Vale
Copyright 2012 by Tabitha Vale.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
To June
You always believed in me
If it weren’t for your motivation, this book would not be
Thank you
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Rotten Apple
Chapter 2: The Brides
Chapter 3: Moon Tamer
Chapter 4: Underground Flowers
Chapter 5: Thy Master
Chapter 6: Stepping Into the Haze
Chapter 7: The Golden Eye
Chapter 8: Garden Party
Chapter 9: Petticoat Racing
Chapter 10: Jealous Face
Chapter 11: Missing Past
Chapter 12: Camille and Tristant
Chapter 13: Watercolors
Chapter 14: Shadow Guard
Chapter 15: The White Graveyard
Chapter 16: Beautiful Nothing
Chapter 17: Ugly Act
Chapter 18: Begonia
Chapter 19: Disturbing Likeness
Chapter 20: Runaway Bride
Chapter 21: Mother Ophelia
Chapter 22: Introducing War
Sequel Sneak Peak: Ephraim City
~Chapter One: Rotten Apple~
“Aspen? What are you doing here? Where's Mother? She said she'd—”
“I'm sorry...” His usual soft voice was strangely amplified in the grand foyer. Aspen shoved his hands into his pockets, a black notebook awkwardly tucked under one of his arms, and lowered his head apologetically. He was troubled by something, she could tell. Aspen never minced words, never stalled. This must be bad indeed, she realized with a pang.
“Charlotte decided I should be your Witness in her stead.”
Braya scoffed, hoping to hide the fear his news brought her. “Why on earth would Mother do that to me? That can't be right.”
Well, it couldn’t be right. Why would her mother choose him of all people?
“By the way,” she sneered. “Call her mother. Or mom, at the least. It's so rude to address her by her name like that.”
Aspen always did that. Likewise, Braya always corrected him.
Her voice echoed through the foyer just as Aspen's did, and suddenly she became acutely aware of their surroundings. There were two curved staircases on either side of the foyer winding up and meeting at the second-floor landing. Delicate black railings of coiled designs edged each staircase. In the center of the foyer there was nothing but a polished floor of white marble that Braya could nearly see her reflection in. She’d never liked this part of the house. In the worst of situations it often had the tendency to remind her how small she was. Braya didn’t like reminders of her vulnerability.
“She must have a good enough reason for changing her mind,” her brother shrugged his shoulders. His words were halfhearted, like he didn't believe them as they came out of his mouth. His demeanor, his expression, his apology—they were all halfhearted, and for a moment Braya felt an irrational rage fill her up like water soaking paper.
“You could at least act like you care about this, then,” Braya hissed, taking a step toward him. “There would be nothing more dishonorable than you being my Witness. It has to be Mother, or at least Aunt Rosamund—”
His magenta eyes flashed up to meet hers and for a moment she thought she saw something spark behind them—something fierce, something challenging. Something decidedly not her brother, and it made her recoil.
“Why would you say that, Braya? You know I care about this,” he said softly, his eyes cast down to the floor again. “I care about you. This is the most important event of your life, and I'm sorry that I'm not Char—Mother, but I will do my best to help you.”
Braya felt guilt sweep over her, and forced herself to fight it. She schooled her features into a sneer.
“You're no help at all,” she let out in tone she hoped would sound cold and unyielding. “Never mind, I can face this interview alone. You're Mud. How would that reflect on me, Aspen?”
He didn't flinch at the insult. He was used to it. “If you're sure, then. I'll see you afterward.”
He made toward the staircase on the right—she had a suspicion it had something to do with the fact that their mother only used the staircase to the left—and then slightly turned so she could see the side of his face. He didn't make eye contact.
“Are you sure—”
“God, Aspen. I know what I'm doing.”
He was looking at her now. The look stamped into Aspen's delicate features—features so alike her own—told her he thought otherwise. That small flare, the one she'd noticed a moment ago—the one she could easily be misjudging—was back in his gaze and Braya didn't know how to address it.
Braya chose instead to adopt an air of indifference and waved her hand dismissively. She turned from him and continued her way through the spacious foyer and down the vaulted hallway indented with elegant archways.
Aspen was her older brother by two years and she always held a soft spot for him—she knew she shouldn't, that such an unfavorable softness brought her character into question, but it couldn't be helped. She had a growing suspicion that he knew it, too. That, unfortunately, couldn't be helped, either.
Having her mother sit in as a Witness—a crucial element of the Career Interviews—would help her immensely because of her mother's position in the Fair Lady's Court. Having no one would be better than having Aspen as a Witness. A minor detail he should know by now.
The end of the hall diverged into two hallways that led to her left and right. In the center, directly in front of her, was a lounge that the Malister family tended to entertain their guests in.
Its subtle entryway was arched and the room itself deep set, making it appear as if it were added on as an afterthought. The walls were thick with white wainscoting and the entire back wall was dominated by massive, rounded windows. White daylight filtered through the heavy drapes of cream and gold. A circular rug held two elegant divans facing each other and a small, low-to-the-ground coffee table rested between them.
Braya settled onto one of the divans. Her hands sought each other, twisting and knotting in her lap as she glanced at the delicate watch she wore under her white gloves. The Interviewing Committee—they would be there in mere moments.
Braya let out a hitched sigh. There was no reason to be nervous—she was overly qualified for any position available in the entire city, with or without her mother as a Witness. Right. Absolutely no reason to be nervous.
She smoothed over her long white dress and made sure her thin matching cardigan—essentially a pair of ruffled long sleeves separated from the dress and fastened with a couple buttons along her collar—was smooth and wrinkle-free. It was always her bad habit. It was as if the clothes were an extension of her. Smoothing them over when she was anxious, it was like smothering all of the bumps and creases in her canvas of nerves. A canvas she liked to keep blank and taut. Braya would never be caught wearing something a knit out of style, so the actual act of running her hands over her person the way she did might only enhance her appearance of nervousness, something she hardly liked to contemplate.
The doorbell rang.
Braya's heart was sent clattering through her chest like a bell tossed down stairs. She furled her fists together in her lap and stared at the floor with a dizzying intensity, intent on appearing proper and nerve-free when the Committee appeared before her.
Harmony, the
ir Maid Bride, materialized at the entryway to the lounge. She must have answered the door. God, of course she opened the door, that was her job. They certainly wouldn't just let themselves in.
Braya slowly rose to her feet. There were three figures trailing behind Harmony, their interest apparently lost in the designs of her home. She didn't know why, but that made Braya even more nervous.
“Elegant home you have,” the first woman said. Braya blinked at her, surprised at how closely she resembled a bird. Bird-woman gestured toward the lounge. “Is this where we'll be conducting the interview? The lighting is just divine.”
Braya nodded mutely.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Harmony said. If she was trying to step in to save Braya the embarrassment of clamping up and forgetting herself, then she should butt out. Pronto. Braya didn't need anyone's help, especially not Harmony's.
Casting the Bride a withering glare, Bray stepped forward. Unfortunately, that was the same moment the other two figures came into view—sharply, and startlingly.
Braya felt something hammer against her ribcage—Mother Ophelia and some man were standing before her—with all intents to burst through her stomach.
“Mo-Mother Ophelia.” The words stumbled out of her mouth before she could help it. Hastily composing herself, Braya let her gaze drop to the floor as she gestured toward the lounge. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Repeating Harmony's words like that—how embarrassing. Braya was consumed with a fresh wave of irritation and shot the Bride another glare, as if to dismiss her. She nodded in acknowledgment and scurried away.
Brides were so useless Braya wondered why they still existed. Apparently Mother Cordelia had formed the organization seventy years ago in hopes of promoting beauty, elegance, and refinement. The girls selected for the program had always been attractive, hence the title of Brides. A girl was always her prettiest while she was a bride, right? At least, that’s what Braya had heard.
As the years had whittled by, the Bride organization had slowly transformed into something different. It was during Mother Olivia’s time that it’d been changed into a means of breeding attractive children. Before then, the Brides had never had to actually marry a Groom. They had only been required to promote peace and honor within the city. But under Mother Olivia’s reign, that had all changed. The girls were strapped into a marriage and ordered to create an abundant amount of attractive children. Nowadays, the inane practice had become an actual career. That’s right—smile pretty, and you may be lucky enough to live on the opulent Heartland property with all the other Brides and Grooms and raise a lively brood of sparkly-eyed kiddos. Unable to conceive? That’s okay! You can just become a Maid Bride, like her dear nanny, Harmony.
Miserable, pointless career it was.
“My name is Hera Sens,” the bird-woman introduced. She was circling the lounge now, gazing out the windows almost wistfully. It only added to her resemblance to a bird, Braya mused. “I'm the head of the Interviewing Committee, and as supporting Witnesses you are graced with Mother Ophelia and...Sir Channing.”
The pause on the man's name—Braya hadn't missed it—was a clear indication of how the Hera-bird viewed this Channing character. It pleased Braya a little—but not an ounce more.
There was something deeply wrong here, and Braya was itching to reveal it. Mother Ophelia never attended the Career Interviews—she was their head of state, their queen! Her presence alone was enough to send Braya into a private fit of hysterics. What was wrong? Was it her applications? Was she there to announce Braya was being thrown out of the city? While that hadn't ever happened—at least as far as she'd heard—Braya was willing to bet there was a first for everything.
It wasn't just Mother Ophelia, though, that bothered her. Channing—why was that Mud allowed to be there? For the same purpose she had rejected her brother's presence, this man had no right to be sitting on their divan with that stupid tight-lipped grin. He was dirtying the entire process!
“Now, Braya Vace, please take a seat,” Hera-bird motioned to the vacant divan. Mother Ophelia was sitting gracefully on the furniture opposite Braya, with Channing resting casually at her side. They looked so familiar, so cozy together—Braya's teeth were starting to ache from the pressure she was applying. Something was bound to escape her lips if she didn't keep them shut.
There were no other seats, so the Hera-bird took to circling the room. No matter fretting over the woman’s inconvenience; Braya saw she seemed to prefer pacing around like an animal. She had her translucent tech pad opened in her palm and from what Braya could see, the bird-woman was sorting through a stack of files.
“I have everything you submitted to us. Your first career of choice is the Fair Lady's Court. You've done the necessary schooling for it, I see. Went to Ellaber Girl’s Academy, the finest of the city. Your second choice is the Hem Line, which you have also completed the requirements for. And, your third—” the Hera-bird paused, and Braya noted the subtle change in her expression; the twist of her features, the shadows of the early afternoon sun casting lines over her beak-like nose, the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. “You left it blank. Now, tell me if this was intentional or not.” She was a bird of prey now, and Braya suddenly felt like a worm wriggling through the dirt in a hopeless attempt of escape.
She didn't have a brilliant explanation for her decision—truthfully she'd been following what her older cousin Seralie had suggested. “Leave the third option blank and they'll be astounded by your confidence!” She had assumed there would be nothing wrong with that—after all, she was a Crown citizen; privileged, wealthy, envied. But most importantly, her mother was Charlotte Malister, the Head of the Fair Lady's Court. Really, she should have been exempt from the Career Interview. This was merely a formality—they went through the motions of interviewing her, but there was no truth to it. Right?
By the looks on all three of their faces it was nothing of the sort. Hera-bird's odd glow of triumph, Mother Ophelia's pitying frown, the man's almost-there expression—he seemed to be carefully neutral, though Braya could sense something off about him—they struck her straight through the heart.
“Well—” she floundered for a response—anything, anything to wipe those looks from their faces. Why did the Hera-bird seem like she would swoop down and snatch her in her talons any second? Where was her mother? If she had only been there, none of this would be happening. She wouldn't be spiraling down to her own death.
Her hands were wrung together. Beads of sweat had cropped up along her hairline, across the back of her neck. They were streaming down her shoulder blades in rivulets, soaking her dress.
“Well,” she tried for lofty and steady, but her voice trickled out simpering and weak. “I had to show some—you know, confidence. Plus,” curse the pitch in her voice! “Nothing else really suits me.”
There it was—her trademark, her dignified self finally peaking through like a ray of sun cropping up from behind a sheath of gray. If she could grab it, clutch it tight, she might manage to fight her way through the interview. But it was impossible to snatch at sunlight.
The Hera-bird let out a strange hybrid of a sound—Braya imagined it to be the sound of a bird laughing, if they could laugh. It was overall frightening. “What a self-presuming little girl you are! You thought we'd be thunderstruck by your insolence and just give you your first pick like that?”
Braya's throat was painfully dry, and she wished she could do something to clear it, but she feared she'd resemble a cat coughing up a hairball. Instead, she swallowed hard. She had to hold back a cringe at the way her voice sounded—much like a leaf being tossed through a windstorm—when she responded. “I certainly didn't mean to give any negative impressions, but—”
“But,” the Hera-bird interjected, clucking her tongue, “you presumed your mother would be standing in as Witness, did you not? Which, may I ask, where is your charming mother? I thought for sure she would not miss her own daughter's Career Int
erview.” Her tone hinted that she thought her mother anything but charming, and Braya was filled with a brimming rage at that dumb bird's nerve.
“Since she's lamentably absent, shall I fill in the blanks?” Hera-bird fluttered her eyelashes mockingly—they were short, uneven, ugly—and then turned her back to Braya as she continued her pacing. “Your mother had something more important to do, it seems. So, Braya Vace, who doesn't even have the honor of carrying her family's proper last name yet, is left alone to maneuver this Interview with nothing but an aristocratic attitude and bad temper. Am I correct?”
“Shut up!” Braya lashed out. “You don't know anything about our family so stop acting like you're an effing expert!” She was shocked by her own outburst, and quickly sunk back into the divan. When had she gotten to her feet? When had her body been consumed with trembles, her hair in her face? Part of her wished the cushions would swallow her whole while another part of her, a dark and vengeful part, imagined shoving the dumb bird-woman out the window and watching her try to flap her way out of a messy death. Braya always knew living on a hill would serve its purpose.
Mother Ophelia's brows were knit together, but Braya couldn't quite tell if it was because she was worried or uncomfortable, and Channing was still tactfully neutral.
Her attention was drawn back to Hera-bird, who apparently chose not to address Braya's loud comment. Her back looked straighter, though, and Braya felt a prick of pride—she had been affected by what she'd said, even if the dumb beak-nose wanted to pretend she hadn't been. She was talking again.
“You live in this luxurious home in a luxurious part of the city. I'm sure you've lived the luxurious lifestyle as well. Your mother unquestioningly spoiled you with your every desire and you were even granted the best education offered in Venus City. You're part of a family whose importance in this city is almost more than Mother Ophelia herself! And yet you entered this Interview thinking you could be handed whatever you wanted, without earning it?”
