by India Arden
The maid finished my hair, buffed my nails, then brought out a velvet-lined tray of jewelry. Normally, I can’t be bothered. Call me pragmatic. Anything dangling or extraneous has the potential of catching on The Great Machine, and it’s not worth the risk of damaging its delicate components. But the sight of the ruby choker on its velvet cushion made me realize I did own a piece of jewelry that actually meant something to me. I glanced up at the publicity photo from the last Transfiguration. In it, my mother wore a magnificent strand of jewels, with a huge, teardrop shaped star garnet dangling at the base of her throat. Asterism—the effect of light refraction that looks like a star floating across the surface of a gem—only occurs in a handful of stones. While garnets are generally much more common than rubies, star garnets were rare—especially a five-pointed star. My mother’s necklace was as rare as she was, and the focal stone was the only five-pointed garnet known to exist.
I raised my hand when the maid approached me with the Ruby necklace I didn’t care about, and said, “Not that. I’m wearing my mother’s necklace instead.”
Maids don’t generally disagree with me, but I caught a look of apprehension in her eyes, since doing what I said would mean going against my father’s wishes.
“It’s tradition,” I said reassuringly. Only slightly mollified, she nodded and retrieved my mother’s necklace from a locked cabinet.
Its weight was cool against my collarbones, but going against my father’s wishes by wearing it felt like less of a triumph than I’d hoped. Rare as the necklace was, it was no substitute for my mother.
As the maid finished clasping the necklace around my throat, a door banged open—most definitely not the gentle sigh of a servants’ door—and the Arcane Tetrad’s publicist strode in.
Trish Noble had been working for the Masters ever since I could remember—but even so, that still shouldn’t give her the authority to barge into my private quarters without my permission. But before I could say anything, she beat me to the punch with, “How did I know you wouldn’t be ready yet?”
I glanced down at her shoes. She’d truly mastered walking in heels. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d picked out the pointy red torture devices just to see if I could handle them.
“Once you’re done scrubbing the axle grease out from under your fingernails, memorize these talking points.”
I took the clipboard she thrust into my hand without dignifying the insult. It wasn’t just any machine I worked on, it was The Great Machine. And to do my job, my hands needed to be immaculate. “Why do I need talking points?”
“For the press conference, obviously. You’ve got five minutes—so get cracking.”
Trish checked her watch in obvious impatience while I tried not to gawk. Press conference? Me? I was no stranger to reporters. They came around whenever a drop of Arcanum fell, hoping to pad out their broadcasts with fluff pieces on Arcane history. But it was Vernon they’d speak to, never me. And given the significance of the last drop of Arcanum, this reporting would be a heck of a lot more serious than the typical banter about the Masters and all they did for the city.
I glanced down at the clipboard.
Don’t give specifics as to the time or date of the ceremony. Security risk.
Speak of The Great Machine in generalities only. Do not boast about your position among the crew.
Reassure the press that all Aspirants are qualified and have trained their entire lives to serve the Arcana.
Do not speculate on the Water Master’s health. Assert he’s in high spirits.
In other words, everything’s fine. Just fine. Hardly surprising it’s what I’d be required to say, though I was still unclear as to why I’d be the one to say it. “Why me?”
Trish gave a long-suffering sigh. “Complain all you want…” I hadn’t been complaining. “…but most people would kill to be in your shoes. You may be nothing more than a figurehead—but that position still comes with certain responsibilities. Maybe not as important as your manual labor in the distiller room, but necessary, nonetheless. So, pull up your big girl panties, smile for the cameras, and make an effort to represent the House of Fire.”
She turned on her heel and strode out with as much impatience as she’d burst in. Without meeting my eyes, the maid walked me out to the hall, handed me off to a tall guard in a suit and a bluetooth earpiece, then escaped into one of the many servants’ passages. Not for the first time, I wished I could follow.
The Transfiguration isn’t exactly a joyous occasion—it typically heralds the death of an existing Arcane Master—but it is cause for excitement. Given the excruciatingly slow pace at which the Arcanum falls, I suspect the general public can’t help but wonder if the Masters’ mortality could outpace The Great Machine, and once again Corona would be without a full Tetrad. Knowing that, yes, the Arcanum is once again full? At the very least, it was a relief. I glanced down at my talking points again. Surprisingly enough, I hadn’t been instructed on what to say if anyone asked if I thought the Transfiguration would be successful.
Maybe my expected response was just too obvious. Of course it would be successful.
It had to be.
Although, if it did turn out that the Aspirant couldn’t handle the Arcanum and it consumed him—in a horrible spectacle, from the inside out—would that really be so bad?
Once I had that distressing thought…it was hard to unthink it. All Aspirants are qualified and have trained their entire lives to serve the Arcana.
Maybe so. But….
The guard showed me into a large, formal parlor I seldom had reason to use. Four seats were arranged in a semicircle, each chair bearing an emblem from one of the four elemental houses. Two wives were there—Earth and Air—and a chill raced down my spine as I realized I truly was walking the same path my mother had gone down some twenty years ago. After she died, my father never remarried. And now I was old enough to be the titular representative of the House of Fire—one willing to pose for photos while my father and brother were off doing things that actually mattered.
I took my seat in the red chair and returned the greeting the other two women gave me—a much warmer greeting than I’d ever seen from either of them, thanks to the presence of all the cameras. I returned the greetings just as “warmly,” and wondered if, in those publicity photos, my mother’s face had hurt as much as mine currently did. I was accustomed to coaxing replacement parts into a delicate, aging machine. Not forcing myself to smile.
The last ceremonial representative to arrive was from the House of Water—and the only one whose name I ever actually used. Dorothea. It had been a few weeks since I’d last seen her, but in that time, she’d aged years. Her white hair was perfectly coiffed, her signature triple-strand of pearls was in place, and her storm blue skirt suit was impeccably tailored. Unfortunately, she looked shrunken and wrinkled, as if the suit’s padded structure was the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
My face didn’t hurt when I smiled at Dorothea. But my heart did.
When I was little, back when my mother was still alive, we spent hours poolside with Dorothea, Mom sunning herself, me splashing around the shallow end of the pool with its intricate mosaic of sea creatures and ships. I still remembered one in particular, a giant squid that was clearly dragging a vessel to the bottom of the ocean. In my version, they were “playing.”
None of the other Masters bore children, so Dorothea doted on me like I was her own granddaughter. But when Blake was born, everything changed.
“Your allegiance is to your own house!” my father had bellowed in Mom’s face. Since I wasn’t quite five, I didn’t understand what allegiance meant. I also didn’t see what all the fuss was about, since we all lived in the same estate, which was basically a very big house. But it was plain enough that after that huge fight, my mother and I saw precious little of Dorothea, and I never set foot in the Water Master’s quarters again.
I must’ve been eager for eye contact from Dorothea, because when she fi
xed her eyes on the dais, I felt a stab of disappointment. In her? No, in me. Because her husband was dying, and I’d been spending all my waking hours attending The Great Machine.
I wanted to lean in to her. Take her wrinkled hand in mine and let her know that I remembered. I might’ve been a child back when we were close, but still. Some things you don’t just forget. But Gloria, the Air Master’s wife, was between us—a cold woman who spoke volumes of disdain without saying a single word—and I could hardly reach across her lap.
Besides, a bunch of cameras and reporters were jockeying for position, and the press conference was about to start.
A middle-aged man in a creased brown suit stood up and asked the group, “Of the four Aspirants, which is most qualified to receive the Arcanum?” The Air Master’s wife answered, her tone slightly condescending—exactly on script. Well, that was an obvious question, wasn’t it? Of course it would come up. But then the next reporter stood, and asked Dorothea, “Will Master Fathom be attending the ceremony, and what is the current state of his health?”
She gave a scripted assurance that he was in good spirits. If I didn’t know her, I’d think she just made it up on the spot.
One by one, the press ticked off all the talking points. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who’d been coached. And apparently no one was particularly interested in my opinion. I was the only one there who had anything resembling a career, the only one who’d actually studied the Arcana. Heck, I’d felt the hot/cold burn of the Arcanum myself when I bore the vessel up all those stairs. But while the photographers seemed particularly keen to snap my photo, none of the questions were directed at me.
Not until a reporter I didn’t recognize with the public broadcasting logo on his press card said, “Aurora, what do you make of the recent Rebel activity? What message were they trying to send with the arson of the Fourth Street Bridge?”
That burning things down made people feel powerful? I couldn’t say that. It was too personal—knowledge I’d gleaned from dancing carefully around the tempers raging through my life. Way too personal coming from the House of Fire, as well, even if I might be nothing more than a token member. Suddenly, I wished I’d been supplied with a coherent answer. Something scripted. Something safe.
Thankfully, before I said anything I’d regret, security closed in on the reporter and hustled him to the door. But not before I was left sitting there with my mouth open, looking like the ignorant, vapid figurehead I truly was. Because I hadn’t given a single thought to the Rebels, and it never occurred to me that people would regard the Transfiguration with anything other than delighted anticipation. But the original Riots had left a mark on Corona that, decades later, had still not been erased.
With the confidence born from years of dealing with the press, Trish strode to the front and announced, “That will be all for today, folks. The members of the Arcane houses need to prepare for the Transfiguration. We’ll meet with you again once the ceremonies are complete.”
5
Once the unwelcome reporter had made himself known, I noted there were now two guards on each member of the Arcane houses, not one. The stoic guards on either side of me obviously wanted me to hurry up and get to the ceremony. But they hadn’t been forced into high heels.
The normally-deserted halls of the estate were filled with people. The extended families of each Aspirant were present, along with all their business associates, their lobbyists, their legal teams, and everyone else who wanted to finagle some kind of “in” with the Masters.
Idly, I scanned the crowd to see if the reporter was still there. Doubtful. The guards who’d whisked him out of the room didn’t look like they were just showing him to the buffet. If he were still there among the crowd, what could I say? Of course the population of Corona was getting restless. That’s why the distillation process needed to be refined.
But saying that aloud to a member of the press would be suicide. As much as I dreaded the thought of my volatile brother being chosen to Transfigure, if he did ascend to the Masters, would that really be so bad? At least he understood the importance of the Arcanum. At least he wasn’t afraid of progress.
The crowds milled in the general direction of the courtyard. Sounds pretty, but the location of the Transfiguration ceremony hadn’t been chosen for its aesthetics. You had to go through layers of security and a maze of corridors to get there. It was the best-guarded point in the whole compound. That reporter might have gotten away with using his press pass to slip into the interview, but it wasn’t humanly possible for anyone without an invitation to make their way that far into the estate.
My security guards ushered me through the VIP door into a more private area. The murmur of the crowd fell away as the door closed behind me, but I could still feel the excitement. At the opposite end of the tastefully-appointed hall, another suited guy motioned me forward, though as I approached, he tapped his earpiece and signaled for me to stop.
A door opened, and even more security hustled in the Aspirants. The four young men were all barefoot, in plain linen outfits that looked like pajamas. No house colors. Technically, there were no affiliations, even though each of them was there by the grace of one of the reigning Masters. Historically, the Arcanum didn’t necessarily Transfigure an Aspirant into the house he’d been sponsored by. Not that it was sentient, technically, but it seemed to seek balance. Whoever imbibed it today would be the next Water Master.
None of the guys so much as nodded to me as they marched past in their PJs, not even my brother. None but the last one…Gus. He was a smirking creep, with a shirt always undone one button too many, to expose a wimpy smattering of chest hair. Maybe some poor girl who didn’t know any better would think he was handsome. But I’d known him forever—I’d literally seen him take a bite out of a mud pie when we were five—so I couldn’t help but remember the icky child behind the man.
I’ve never liked Gus, but once the teenage hormones kicked in, he sure liked me. As we passed in the hallway, he not only met my eye, but he smiled, too. And not like he was happy to see me, either. It was the smile of a predator scenting his prey. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips as his eyes raked down my body, languorously, oozing down my breasts, slithering along my belly, and settling, finally, right on my crotch.
Ugh.
Too bad there were so many security guards around, because I realized my pointy-toed pumps would make short work of his pale, exposed toes. I was seriously tempted, but the guards hustled me toward a private staircase before I did anything I’d regret.
The immediate families of the reigning Arcane Masters had the best seats in the house: a balcony just to the side of the ceremonial dais. I’d only been there once before, and that was many, many years ago. I vividly remember my mother coaxing me to leave my best friend behind, a scuffed plastic pony with a mane that had been braided and combed so many times, the mylar sparkle was breaking off. Blake squirmed and fussed, straining to get off my mother’s lap. Me? I’d pouted the entire time and refused to even look at the dais.
Strike, the reigning Air Master, had Transfigured that historic day…and I don’t remember any of it. I’d been too busy sulking over Moonbeam.
There were fewer chairs in the balcony today. The four of us from the press conference, plus Strike’s parents—he was the youngest of the current Masters, so they were still alive. That’s it. No squalling babies this time around. None of the other wives had ever managed to carry on the family lines. None but my mother. Who really should have been there.
I took a seat beside Dorothea this time, hoping I could find the words to tell her I was sorry. That I missed her—even if it might be more accurate to say I missed the idea of something that might have been, but was squelched for reasons I’d never really understood. That I’d do better. I’d make time for her. She could count on me. But before I could say any of that, a reverent hush washed over the crowd below us as the reigning Arcane Masters took the dais, and all Dorothea and I could to was excha
nge a small nod.
I closed my eyes and willed myself away from the brink of tears. Once I was calm again, I gathered myself and forced myself to look at the courtyard. If no one listened to me about upping the production of Arcanum—which seemed likely—it might be an awfully long time until the next Transfiguration Ceremony. Another two decades. And I was determined to pay attention this time. Especially after the debacle at the press conference.
The reigning Arcane Masters wore modern suits in modern colors—black, navy, charcoal gray—but over those, they’d donned the traditional Arcane regalia. Ridiculous stuff. Cumbersome woolen collars and cuffs, thick with appliqué and couched threads of precious metals, all laid in patterns of stilted sacred geometry. The ceremonial items dated all the way back to the second Tetrad—the time of Freemasons and Shriners—and seemed as if they should have disintegrated by now. But, no. And with every Transfiguration, they seemed more incongruous and strange.
I scrutinized the dais. It was a plain stone platform with a slab in the center, its top carved with patterns. In the center of that was a small cage, with bars made from every metal on the periodic table, and within that cage rested the hot and cold steel vial I’d carried up from the distilling chamber. The Arcanum.
Normally, the reigning Masters stood in a semicircle around the dais while the Aspirants knelt before them. Not that I remember this from the ceremony I actually attended—I’ve seen photos. This time around, Master Fathom was too weak to stand, so a couple of burly security guys brought out a ramp and pushed his wheelchair into position. He looked so weak, it was a wonder he didn’t collapse under the weight of the regalia. I cut a look to Dorothea, who was dabbing the corner of her eye, and wondered how she’d react if I took her hand. But before I could work up the courage, the Aspirants filed in.
The sight of each one filled me with its own flavor of dread. Of the dozens of men who’d studied the Arcana, these four were the best and the brightest? It hardly seemed possible. Grab any random guy off the street and put him in that spot, and that’s the one I’d be rooting for. I focused hard on Blake and told myself his Transfiguration would be a good thing. Progress. But I didn’t feel it. Not in my gut.
