by Violet Grace
The shock and disgust takes a moment to sink in.
Agent Eight had a child with Damius in an attempt to unlock the Luck of Edenhall. And when the child couldn’t do it, they killed her?
And Agent Eight accuses me of being a monster?
And what on earth is ‘scaevus’?
The rest of the documents are a mass of acronyms and tables I can’t make head or tail of, except for the final document. It’s a brief, unsigned letter from a ‘Director of Operations’ on official letterhead, expressing ‘concerns about the observed development of emotional attachment to the child and father’ on the part of Agent Eight, and then, ‘Decision: LoE Project shuttered.’
I run searches on ‘LoE’ and ‘Luck of Edenhall’. But there’s nothing more – or at least, nothing that means anything to me. I search again on Tom’s name but come up blank.
Pondering my next step, I remember the listening device I slipped into Tom’s pocket. It might still be on him. My ribs are still a little tender from the bodyslam I did to retrieve it from the desk in the interrogation room. Maybe the bruises weren’t for nothing.
I recall the serial number that I read off the top of the bug and enter it into another app on my laptop. Hacking listening devices isn’t something I do every day, but I figure the encryption engine and geolocation will work pretty much the same on any device. It’s a low-power device with hardly any processing power, so it’s likely there’s almost no security to speak of.
I wait for the map to load.
And wait.
And wait.
It must be a weak signal.
I wait some more. And some more.
The map is loading one excruciatingly slow pixel at a time. I calculate that at this rate it’s going to take about half an hour for the map to load. Dammit.
I stand up, stretching my stiff neck from side to side and rolling my shoulders. My head is fuzzy from staring at the screen too long. I need some fresh air.
Not wanting to deal with the unwanted company of a Protectorate detail, and the subsequent fallout when they report back to whoever’s orders they’re following, I creep out of my bay window.
The moon breaks free from the thick cloud, creating enough light to see shadows in the gardens. The moon will be full in a matter of days. And I am expected to be Queen. The thought of it makes my head hurt. I walk over to a stone bench to sit down and wonder how much time I have in peace until I’m discovered. A squirrel scurries out of the bushes and stops in front of the seat. It looks up at me, tilting its furry head. Startled by approaching footsteps, it continues on.
‘Your Highness?’
‘Don’t bow,’ I say to Jules, stopping her mid dip. ‘If you’re going to watch me then you may as well sit.’ Even in the dim light I can see the confusion on her face. I pat the bench seat beside me. ‘Don’t make me command you.’
‘As you wish, Your Highness,’ Jules says, stiffly lowering herself onto the seat.
It’s amazing how Jules can be so graceful and confident when she’s being a warrior and then so awkward and unsure when she’s doing life.
‘What do you do when you’re not guarding me?’ I ask.
‘I train,’ she says in a tentative voice, as if she’s worried it’s a trick question.
‘Anything else?’
‘I sleep, of course. If you are suggesting that I’m in need of additional skill development I will action your request immediately.’
‘I’m not suggesting that,’ I assure her. It’s probably a good thing that it’s too dark for her to see the bemused expression I’m unable to keep off my face. ‘You’re already awesome. I was just wondering what people did around here when they’re not working.’
‘I am always working.’
‘Why?’
‘The Protectorate is my home and my family. It is what I am,’ she adds with a little quiver of emotion.
I let out a quiet sigh. ‘It must be nice to really belong.’
‘You have no reason to envy me, You Highness.’
I’m struck by the raw honesty in her unguarded tone, something I haven’t heard from anyone since I arrived in Iridesca. It’s so different from Gladys’s cryptic responses to everything.
‘Jules, can I ask you one more thing?’
‘As you wish.’
‘What does “scaevus” mean?’
Jules sucks in a long, jagged breath, followed by a couple of short ones. When she’s composed herself, she spits on the ground.
‘An abomination,’ she says.
‘What is it?’
Jules looks around like she’s making sure we’re alone, then whispers, ‘A female who cannot fly in her two-legged form, but can trans to unicorn.’
‘But that sounds pretty cool,’ I say. ‘I’d love to be able to change into a flying horse.’
‘No, Your Highness, you would not. It is a violation of nature. To be scaevus is a death sentence.’
‘Seriously? People surely aren’t killed just for being born different?’
‘There is a scaevus in the dungeon at this moment. She is to be executed at first light.’
The blood drains from my face. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Your Highness, I would never.’
‘Take me to her.’
‘Your Highness, I counsel that you —’
‘Now, please.’
We walk across the manicured lawn towards the dungeon. Who are these people? They’ll allow all manner of cruelty and sit idle when they could change things because it’s supposedly what nature has ordained, but then conveniently forget all the natural philosophy stuff when they come across some people who aren’t like them?
I thought I was on the side of the good guys, the side that is enlightened and abhors violence. Gladys hinted as much. But the more I learn, the more I think the Fae are just a different species of barbaric. Worst of all, I’m expected to fight for these people. I’m beginning to wonder if Damius and this lot all deserve each other.
By the time we reach the tower my body is racked with fury. The dungeon at Windsor Castle was built in the thirteenth century – and it looks like it. They didn’t care much for natural light and ventilation back then.
Two hulking male guards step in front of the spiral staircase. I guess they need to rely on brute strength for security in the dungeon since the graphite bars stifle the Art down here. But it’s patently clear to me that, just like at the Agency, graphite does not dampen my magic. Magic swells along with rage and disgust in the pit of my gut. It’s molten, it’s building, it’s begging for release.
‘Out of my way,’ I order the two guards blocking my path.
‘Your Highness, I am not permitted —’ says one guard.
‘Now!’ I command, without breaking my stride.
‘We cannot —’ starts the other.
A blazing bolt bursts unexpectedly from each of my hands. I gasp as the bolts collide with the guards, slamming them against opposite sides of the stone archway. Their eyes roll back and they slump down the walls like potato sacks.
Jules doesn’t appear half as shocked as I am. ‘They will awake with headaches,’ she says, checking their pulses. ‘But that will pass.’
I silently hope Jules is right as I step around the guards’ unconscious bodies and race down to the cells, collecting grime and all manner of nastiness on the hem of my gown. Jules follows me in silence.
The air is thick and foul. From the dim flicker of torchlight I can see moisture dripping down the walls. The energy changes as I descend. It’s heavy and dark, as if I’ve just walked into depression incarnate. It feels like I’m inhaling despair with each breath.
Two more guards greet us at the bottom of the stairs. They look towards Jules, presumably asking for guidance or help. She offers none.
‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way,’ I snap.
One guard puts his hands up in surrender, and the other one holds out a ring of keys.
‘Leave,’ I say. But I’m talking to their
backs; they’re already scurrying up the stairs.
I peer into the first cell and stop abruptly. A girl, filthy and scrawny, is curled up in the corner. She couldn’t be more than twelve years old. How could a child do something so terrible that she deserves to be here?
She slowly raises her head and looks at me. Her face is tear streaked, her eyes wide with fright.
‘It’s okay,’ I say gently. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Maria.’
‘Why are you here, Maria?’
She says nothing, but I can see her teeth chattering from cold. I conjure the thickest, warmest cloak from my dressing room around her shoulders and repeat my question.
‘I am scaevus,’ she says, in a voice croaky from not being used.
‘You’re in prison because you can become a unicorn?’
She pulls the cloak tighter and looks into dead space.
‘Where are you parents?’
A tear drops from Maria’s eye, turning the dirt on her cheek to mud. ‘I do not have parents anymore. They disowned me. And then alerted the Protectorate.’
I spin around to Jules, who is standing a pace behind me. ‘You do this?’
‘It is our duty,’ Jules says.
‘It’s your duty to lock up children?’ I say, incredulous.
‘Yes, Your Highness.’ Something flickers in Jules’s eyes, but it’s gone before I can decipher it.
I turn back to Maria and unlock her cell. ‘Do you have anywhere else to go? Anywhere outside of Albion? Family or friends who will hide you from these, these … monsters?’
‘I have kin in Serenissima.’
‘Where?’
‘Venice, Your Highness,’ Jules says.
I begin chanting the transfer spell I learned while folding socks at Gladys’s table. I bet she never imagined I’d be using her songs to undermine her laws and rescue prisoners.
‘Your Highness, your health,’ Jules interrupts. ‘You should not conjure without the supervision of the Luminaress.’
‘And you should not lock up innocent children,’ I snap, before beginning the spell again.
My heart, my mind, my soul
The window of realms in harmony
Space and time in my control
I am both the lock and key
The dank wall behind Jules begins to shimmer and the stones peel back on themselves like the lid of a can of sardines, revealing a dark tunnel behind. I visualise what I’ve seen and know of Venice at the end of the tunnel. The rush of magic and power feels glorious.
Until it doesn’t.
A burning, aching sickness starts to build within me. ‘Go now,’ I say. ‘Quickly.’ I’m unsure how long I can hold open the portal before I pass out.
Maria steps into the tunnel tentatively, as if this is some sort of trick. Then she gives me an uncertain smile and runs to freedom.
As the stone portal closes behind Maria I lean against the cold, damp stone to catch my breath and steady myself. Jules is looking so pale she could be ill.
‘Are there any more scaevus girls locked in this hellhole?’ I demand.
A conflicted look flickers across her face. ‘No, Your Highness.’
As we reach the top of the dungeon stairs I watch Jules’s posture change. Her neck lengthens, her shoulders square and her jaw locks into her kick-arse expression.
‘You four, line up against the wall outside,’ she orders the guards.
It’s a relief to see that the two I knocked unconscious are now awake.
Jules requests to address the guards in private. I move further away from the prison and can’t hear what she’s saying to them – although I see golden light radiating from her knuckledusters.
As Jules escorts me back to my room, she says, ‘I regret to inform you that a prisoner has escaped from the dungeon, Your Highness.’
‘Oh?’ I say.
‘It’s the first escape in over a hundred years.’
‘Really.’
‘I have interrogated the prison guards and not one of them witnessed the escape or saw anything out of the ordinary. Two of them have sustained minor head injuries, however, which might account for the memory loss. I will document that in my report.’
‘Good idea,’ I say with a smirk. Then I add, quietly, in case anyone else is about, ‘But this isn’t over.’
chapter 21
I’m consumed with rage and disgust about the treatment of Maria. The callous disregard for people is bad enough, but the one consolation I have had is that the enemy is worse. Much worse. I thought I was on the side of good. I’ve been clinging to that. I needed that.
Now I see I’ve been naive. And betrayed.
I should have seen it coming. The indifference about Tom’s fate and the willingness to chalk him up as a casualty of war was a big flashing red light about the true nature of ‘my people’ that I chose to ignore. Then there’s the lack of concern about the wellbeing and safety of those beyond the walls of the palace, while we play dress-ups and make plans for a coronation.
Sure, it rankled, but I accepted the explanation that we’re living in a time of war and nothing is to be done. What would I know about war, anyway? I wanted so much to believe in something, something good, that I bought into the simple explanations. But Maria has opened my eyes.
‘Locking a girl in a dungeon is not amoral,’ I whisper to Jules as I climb through my bedroom window. She climbs in after me, her shoulders tense. ‘It’s not neutral, either. It’s evil. Pure and simple. And it’s being done in my name. I will not succumb to this.’
I’m so over all the Fae talk of superiority and the laws of nature. I know what’s right and now I’m going to fight for it, starting with what I should have done when all this began.
Save Tom.
Jules stands in the centre of my room, looking at my computer. The map has finished loading; there’s going to be no more delaying.
The docks. Tom is at the docks. Well, his jeans are, at least. Presuming the bug’s still in his pocket.
‘You cannot go, Your Highness,’ says Jules. ‘Master Williams is immaterial to the maintenance of the Treaty. Nor is he necessary to the survival of the Fae.’
‘Have you been reading my mind?’ I say, sounding angrier than I am.
‘I would never, Your Highness,’ she says, blushing. ‘You must believe me. It’s just that your concern for Master Williams has been clear since you came here.’
‘Am I really that transparent?’
‘Officers of the Protectorate are trained to detect signs of dissimulation.’
‘So that would be a “yes” – I really am that transparent.’
Jules looks down, embarrassed. I’m about to ask her how she can be so cold about Tom before I realise there’s no point. My sense of obligation to Tom is grounded in morality. To Jules it’s either incomprehensible or a human weakness that is to be overcome.
‘I am going to find Tom,’ I say, in a voice that I hope sounds authoritative, ‘and you’re not going to stop me.’ And then for good measure, I add, ‘As your Princess I command you to return to your post and say nothing of this to anyone.’
Conflict registers on Jules’s face. ‘I cannot do that, Your Highness.’ She bows her head in contrition and I try to work out what to do. Do I go in heavy and demand compliance? Pretend to go to bed and then do the transfer spell when she’s not around?
‘For your protection, it is my duty to accompany you.’ Jules lifts her gaze to meet mine and I could swear a conspiratorial grin flashes across her face. I’m guessing she’s broken the rules only twice in her whole life. And both times have been tonight. Because of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But I have one condition. You are not to use the Art in Volgaris. You will not make any sacrifices on my account.’
She says nothing.
‘Jules?’ I say sternly.
‘I will endeavour to do as you wish
, Your Highness.’
‘You will leave the Art to me.’ I’m hoping I sound more confident than I feel. Maria’s transfer took it out of me but Gladys told me that was a heavy-duty spell. Perhaps smaller ones will be okay. And I’ll worry about how I’m going to manage transferring Tom, Jules and me back to Iridesca when the time comes.
I use the Art to shorten the hem of my dress to above the knee and remove the sleeves. This gives me a rush of energy rather than pain. I take that as a good omen.
Inspecting my reflection in the mirror, I see more of a normal teen going through an emo phase than a fairy princess.
‘What is the target destination?’ Jules asks.
I enlarge the map to show her the Agency’s site at the docks. Her knuckledusters flicker and a portal materialises on my bedroom wall. A foghorn signals somewhere in the distance, sounding more like a warning than a greeting. We step into the tunnel and the portal vanishes behind us.
Through the thick, early morning fog I can make out a chain-linked fence topped with razor wire. On the other side of the fence is a long stretch of shipping containers. Some containers are stacked sky high like building blocks, while others stand alone like discarded toys. Cargo cranes tower above them. I was expecting a compound, or some sort of building at least, but this seems to be an industrial storage facility. Why would the Agency need shipping containers?
Some sort of trap, perhaps?
Jules tilts her head to the side, listening. She steps in front of me like a shield and readies her knuckledusters as a security guard approaches in all-black commando gear, a gun strapped over his shoulder. He looks to be on high alert, as if he’s expecting trouble rather than just completing a routine perimeter check.
Something’s here that’s out of the ordinary. You don’t protect a yard full of regular shipping containers with G.I. Joe.
As the guard nears us I push past Jules. Using the cover of the fog, I brace for the pain and blurt:
Where you look, you have not seen
Where you go, you have not been
Your tongue in knots, will not encumber
