Vivian Amberville - The Weaver of Odds

by Louise Blackwick

  ‘Since you entreated the truth, little miss, naturally I shall reveal it. The whole truth. But kindly forgive this old man. We all did it to protect you…’

  The butler’s tenor seemed to be dragging Vivian’s temper to a halt. She pulled the thick woollen covers to her chin, listening intently. The lightning-struck willow outside her window rattled in the wind, its branches grazing the burgundy-curtained windowpanes.

  ‘Many years back, master Darien and his wife Aniya returned from the clinic with a bundle of joyful promise,’ Miles started, his veined, balding head catching the light of the moon. ‘Their wealth had finally come to compensate for a lifetime of infertility: Aniya Amberville had belatedly given birth to a perfect baby girl.’

  ‘For years, the beautiful and talented Mira Amberville brought nothing but happiness to the Manor. Her joyful singing coloured our lives, and there was something about her graceful dancing that made one forget the vulgarities of our failed world.’

  ‘Mira? The daughter they lost to Filth?’

  ‘The very same,’ the butler told with a crusted sadness in his voice. ‘The fortress the Ambervilles had spent a lifetime to erect kept away any whatsoever filth except the cancer of our age. Nearing a decade, slimy tentacles of Filth penetrated the Amberville fort, destroying its virtue from within.’

  ‘Yes little miss, it hadn’t been long before the sickness of the outside world penetrated the Manor. When Mira Amberville was taken ill by the Black Flu, the last ray of happiness grew into a weed of despair. Despite her family’s best efforts, Mira faded to grey… to black… adding to the long line of misfortunate casualties of the age.’

  ‘It’s true then? Their daughter really did die? Despite her being a nobleton.’

  ‘Everyone is equal in death, little miss.’

  Vivian gulped down her exhilaration, clutching the bed sheets in her small fists. She had always known her adoptive family had lost their birth daughter, yet somehow never brought herself to asking the details.

  ‘Master Darien realized it too. The rich were no more immune to society’s tumours than the clusters of Neds mushrooming along the city’s fringe. The odds were no more in his favour than in those of a Restrict commoner,’ sighed Miles. ‘And your parents, little miss… they went to do something about it.’

  Vivian dropped her head into her palms as Miles continued.

  ‘With the ghetto slowly inching towards their front door, the Ambervilles invested their wealth in slowing its progress. It wouldn’t bring their daughter back, they knew, but doing something to help society felt better than doing nothing at all. Darien donated heavy money to the research of a Black Flu cure.’

  In all the stories the butler supplied, Vivian had never seen him so distraught. Miles took a moment to clear his throat, before moving on.

  ‘Three years and half a billion quid later, the scientists made no progress in chewing the disease over. They could not cure Black Flu – a sickness brought forth by the Floods, native to poverty and filth. They couldn’t stop the Filth, no, but they could give Filth-children a chance to escape it,’ the butler paused, averting his eyes from his young listener. ‘The Ala Spuria Shelter franchise was but Darien’s feeble attempt to pay his debts to society. A way of righting the wrong that had cost him a daughter.’

  ‘Is that why they founded that… that horrible place?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Indeed, little miss. For many years, the Ned Adoption Law continued to be ostracized. The Madhad state made no amends in abusing the ghetto-dwellers instead of lending a helping hand. After a long time of battling windmills, the Ambervilles had raised enough signatures to pass the motion and force the Madhad state to change it. Finally, people willing to adopt Neds were faced with little to no restriction. Everyone was free to adopt, and your parents had a heavy hand in forcing that law through.’

  ‘Needless to say, Mira’s death left a gaping hole in their lives, which is why they went about life trying to replace her. Darien and the mistress… they filled the void left by their departed child with the only thing they deemed fit—’

  Miles’ eyes now fell upon the young girl, currently blanketed by too many covers.

  ‘—by bringing in new life. By taking a child in.’

  A number lottery had brought about Vivian’s noble status and citizenship. A game of odds had put a roof over her head; had given her the family she never had. But Vivian Amberville had always known it had been more, a lot more, than chance. She remembered that day only too well. The eloquent Miles went on.

  ‘Naturally, no two children are ever the same. While Mira Amberville had been joyous through and through and widely enjoyed sitting in the company of large parties, you, little mistress, proved to mirror her entirely. You kept to yourself, at best, playing mostly on your own, refusing food and avoiding company when you could help it. You chose to spend most of your time writing stories.’

  Miles adjusted his high collar. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with stories, of course. I rather enjoy telling some myself,’ he coughed, and Vivian could have sworn she heard the trace of a laugh.

  ‘Be that as it may, despite everyone’s best efforts, you fell prey to depression. Your parents blamed their “shelter for strays” for your new-found unhappiness. They could tell you were unhappy – very unhappy – and they blamed themselves for it. That was, until…’

  Unexpected tears gushed out of his dull-coloured eyes. ‘Little miss was, of course, t-too shocked. She… she wouldn’t remember half of it.’

  Vivian suppressed a sob, but bit her tongue for fear of interrupting.

  ‘Winter had barely set in when a wildfire broke in the Manor’s western wing. The conflagration spread more quickly than a Filth outbreak, as flames engulfed the western wing—’ Miles produced a tatty handkerchief yellowed with age and buried his wrinkles in it.

  Vivian’s eyes were narrowing, her teeth chewing into her fist. Thick streams coursed through the maze of wrinkles on Miles’ old face. Every spoken word seemed to be causing him unimaginable pain. Vivian seemed to gather the worst from his silence. An interminable silence later, he broke into speech again.

  ‘The firefighters found you unconscious in the library. You seemed to remember nothing. For weeks, you were very little aware of your surroundings. Became catatonic. It broke our hearts to see you like this.’

  ‘Miles—’

  ‘When you arose from your coma, your state of shock extended to weeks,’ continued the butler. ‘We all knew you had a proper trying life, so we decided to withhold this from you u-until—’ his voice was breaking again, ‘—until after your Earmarking Ceremony. We were all planning to tell you tomorrow, but given the situation…’

  ‘Miles—’

  The butler loudly blew his nose in his satin handkerchief. In-between a couple of sobs and hiccups, Vivian distinguished words like “such tragedy” and “so young”. Once he recomposed, Miles continued.

  ‘Though Angus might’ve spotted it from the grounds, Benoît and I couldn’t get a clear view of the fire. Not in time, at least. You know it yourself, little miss. That part of the Manor had never been visible from the Servants Chalet.’

  ‘You… you couldn’t have helped it,’ mumbled Vivian. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It’s how the old crib came to sport that monstrosity of a cave-in. T-there was nothing any of us could have done, little m-miss—’ Miles finally said in an extinguished voice ‘—n-nothing at all.’

  Vivian Amberville felt a metallic taste on her tongue. She had bitten her fist into an open wound. Miles seemed to be incapable of finishing the story, but Vivian no longer needed him to. Somehow, she had suspected it all along.

  ‘They’re not coming back,’ she mumbled.

  Miles heavily shook his candy flo
ss head. ‘They are not.’

  The silence lingered on for minutes. It pressed its leaden weight upon the room – stifling, unmovable. Before she knew it, Vivian was clutching at her chest, chocking. On his rush to offer her aid, the butler overturned his chair.

  ‘It’s alright, little miss. You’re alright,’ he comforted her, patting her gently on the shoulder.

  Vivian Amberville emerged, breathing deeply. ‘Am I ill, Miles?’

  ‘It’s harmless. You’re suffering from anxiety. Doctor Kipper said considering what you’ve been through of late, attacks are bound to happen sometimes.’

  Vivian looked into the great old face. If she was going to say it, it must be now or never.

  ‘The Earmarking Ceremony… I’m not going through with it.’

  ‘Little miss, tomorrow you turn thirteen! Your parents have worked very hard so you can—’

  ‘They’re gone. You said it yourself, Miles. My birth parents may still be out there,’ she pointed at the crumpling ghetto beyond the Manor’s fence. ‘I need to find them. Confront them. Ask them— Miles, I need to know why .’

  Miles did nothing more than sigh and hand her a hundred Madhad pounds.

  ‘Happy birthday, little miss.’

  The next morning, Vivian Amberville woke up before everyone else in the Manor, a pang of rebellion at the back of her mind. As she made her way through the ballroom-sized sitting-room, a metallic device caught her attention. Perched upon the mahogany table was the ominous piercer she would be expected to use during her Earmarking Ceremony. A second, much smaller object caught her eye. Vivian pulled to a halt.

  A shiny case lay next to the piercer, the words “Vivian Amberville” artistically coated in black and gold. Inside it, resting upon a minute cushion was the tiniest microchip.

  So that was who they expected her to be. One click of a stapler and whoever she really was would disappear forever. Vivian Amberville would replace her instead; velvet-haired and dark-eyed, the last living descendant of a prominent kin. She angrily pushed the ear-piercer aside. Her business was with the chambermaid today.

  ‘Ayesha?’

  Behind a small wooden door, a small voice wriggled through the keyhole.

  ‘M-miss? Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Sorry to bother you so early in the day. I need to borrow some clothes.’

  A small metallic click and the door creakingly moved aside. On the threshold stood a sixteen-year-old Indian woman, whose recent housekeeping services had earned her a permanent home in the Servants Chalet. Twisted a fate she might have had, it was a healthier alternative than the filth and poverty of the Restrict.

  ‘Young miss has clothes,’ her brown eyes sparkled enviously. ‘Expensive clothes.’

  ‘We’re about the same size. I need some of your oldest, most tatty clothing,’

  ‘But miss, you’re not thinking of leaving the Manor, are you? You know as well as I do, Master Angus forbids it.’

  ‘Ayesha, this is really important.’

  The chambermaid bowed her head obediently, though her brown eyes continued to fix Vivian disapprovingly. With a defeated gesture, she opened an antique-looking wardrobe and extracted a handful of clothes at random.

  As she handed them over, Vivian noticed they were all tattered and colour-faded, each sporting a larger hole than the next. Surely not all Ayesha’s outfits were in such dire estate?

  ‘Will miss be needing anything else?’ Ayesha asked darkly.

  ‘Just one thing.’

  Vivian fumbled about in her pocket, retracting a set of iron keys.

  ‘Go to my chambers and choose any two outfits you fancy,’ she said, pushing an astounded Ayesha the keyring. ‘In fact, take them all. Yours for the keep.’

  ‘Miss, I cannot—’

  ‘I’ve outgrown them anyway.’

  ‘Miss, I really cannot accept—’

  ‘Ayesha, I don’t want to make it an order.’

  Ayesha’s hazelnut eyes sparkled like gold; two caramel toffees melting in warm milk. She seemed to be at a loss for words. Vivian kindly thanked her for the clothes, and rushed away from her chambers. Halfway down the hall, she heard Ayesha call.

  ‘ November the twenty-third ! – can’t believe— completely forgot— Happy birthday miss!’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘Morning, morning!’

  A strong smell of garlic bread preceded the appearance of a large man in a white toque. Over his shoulder was a three-feet-long plait of garlic.

  ‘Chef Benoît!’ she exclaimed.

  Vivian had always associated Benoît with an all-year Father Christmas. Born with a heavy hormonal imbalance, even the smell of food made fat stick. The man used to work as a sous-chef in a famous Walloon restaurant before joining the Amberville household. The portly Belgian and his heavenly dishes had over the years grown on Vivian.

  ‘Going out again, I see,’ he pressed a fat finger against his lips. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  ‘Thank you, Chef!’

  ‘Don’t leave without your fuel,’ he said through a wide smile, handing her a large, slightly oily paper bag. ‘Almond tarts. Just made them.’

  ‘These smell great, they do.’

  ‘Just don’t give them to the poor again, alright? I know you want to help—’

  After her stale-eating ordeals at the Shelter for Strays, Benoît’s marvellous cooking got Vivian well again. Had it not been for his constant care, she’d still be suffering episodic anorexic relapses.

  ‘I’ll eat them all, promise.’

  Vivian opened the bag and demonstratively stuffed a whole tart in her mouth. That seemed to have convinced Benoît, for he returned another great smile before retreating into the kitchens, the plait of garlic jouncing on his massive back.

  Ayesha’s old clothes safely tucked under her arm, Vivian sprinted all the way up to her room. She pulled the tattered maid attire over her head in great haste, checking herself in her large ornate mirror. Her hair was lank and slightly oily, from not having showered that morning, a look she complemented by smudging shoe polish on her cheeks.

  ‘Alas, I barely recognize myself.’

  Today was the day, she thought. She was sure she counted thirteen dead crows in last night’s dream. It had been an omen, Vivian felt sure, and omens were not to be questioned. Thirteen years had flown by. She was going to find her parents today.

  But they abandoned you , another thought entered her mind. Wouldn’t you rather pay your respects to the Ambervilles?

  ‘No, I’m going to find my parents today,’ Vivian crossly told herself.

  Darien and Aniya are your parents. They took you in when nobody else would. Offered you their love, their care… the prospect of a better future.

  ‘That dream means something. If I don’t act upon it now, on my thirteenth birthday, I may never find them. Omens are not to be ignored. It has to be today.’

  You know where they lie. Just bring a flower to their graves. Pay your respects.

  ‘Later!’ Vivian snapped at herself, her hands fumbling with a particularly large gold comb. ‘The dead can’t answer my questions,’ she took out the money Miles gave her and put it in her pocket. ‘But the living will.’

  With that thought in mind, she jotted her collection of fine golden combs in a small bag, dashed out of the Manor and into the grounds.

  She was already running late; the sun was well above the orange trees, which only meant she had eight hours’ worth of sunlight to conduct her search. Save the dream, Vivian had no clue what her parents looked like or whether they were even alive.

  ‘YOU!’

  The moment s
he spotted Angus Trimmings’ unkempt ginger stubble, she knew she hit trouble. The gardener had a knack for making her life miserable.

  ‘Gunna head on, are ya? Bout ta scarper?’

  ‘I need fresh air, Angus,’ she muttered feebly. Inside her pocket, she felt around for the money she got from Miles.

  ‘I need fresh air Master Angus,’ he corrected her.

  Vivian disliked calling that prick of a gardener ‘Master Angus’, but the Ambervilles had long insisted that she addressed him as such. Aniya had particularly demanded that Vivian had lessons in humility. Was that the same as humiliated? If so, Vivian deemed it unnecessary, seeing as she had been humiliated for the greater part of her life. Angus sure did his best to remind her.

  ‘Ya look like ya downroit swallow’d a chimney sweepa with da wrong way op. Why yous dressed like a mingy Ned? Feeling a tad melancholic?’ he sneered, fumbling about with his hark. ‘Nostalgic bout yer great childhood craic? Sure look it.’

  Vivian’s dark eyes pointed at the holes in her shoes. ‘No, Master Angus,’ she answered shrilly, a look of pure venom in her eyes. ‘I’m heading for school, is all.’

  ‘Weren’t ya tummy bug home-schooled?’

  ‘I was,’ Vivian replied through gritted teeth. ‘And running quite late already. See ya!’

  ‘No yah don’t, petal. Oi know ‘bout da damn’d lamp oil; how ya forgot yer house-duties da noit Mr. and Mrs. Amberville passed. Oi’m onto you, ya hear?’ Angus grabbed her by the collar, pulling her back.

  ‘Oi, let go!’ she struggled, extricating herself from his grip.

  ‘Nat goin’ to dat ghet’o either. Yer staying right put!’

  ‘I’m not afraid to go there!’

  Angus unshaven figure was the colour of vermillion.

  ‘Yah should. Dirty moldwarps, those Neds. Yous think they’ll see ya as one of their own? Guess again, petal. They think no farther than their prick. Sedated by porn and drugs and bloodie dangerous ideas. Moindless animals, prone to abuse—’

  ‘—they’re folk like you and me.’