by Loren Walker
*
The town of Honorwell was arranged in careful rows, individual businesses all housed in the same blue and brown architecture. Historical lighthouses blinked every ten seconds, sleepy, hazy and picturesque along the blue shore and clean, white sand. As they drove down the winding one-lane roads, Phaira stared at the waterside mansions peeking through the greenery. The sandwich-board advertisements for a community picnic welcomed residents in for corn, cookouts and games at an outrageous price. Rustic resort living, playing at being a small town, Phaira thought, already uncomfortable; beautiful, to be sure, but warped in some way that she couldn’t place.
Emir turned the transport into one of the driveways. The road was lined with trees, the land even and manicured. A break in the landscape, and the estate loomed before them, with its stone and marble, cool grays and whites, and a thousand windows reflecting the sun.
Emir went inside to announce their arrival. Stepping onto the stone path, Phaira surveyed the house. Cameras everywhere, alarms, patrolling bodyguards. As the seconds stretched on, Phaira stared at the white pillars and delicate gold etchings, the statues flanked by winding rose bushes. She didn’t even know where to look. Or how to look. Phaira resisted the urge to fidget, to scratch her arms, her hands, anything to distract. “You live in squats when you’ve got this waiting for you?” she asked Anandi.
Anandi shrugged. “Why are you so fidgety?” she accused.
“I’m not sure that I should be here.”
“Why, because it’s not running around and beating up people?” Anandi teased. “Most would consider this a nice break, you know.”
“Maybe for you,” Phaira started, but the intricate door to the estate swung open. Emir emerged from within, this time with an elderly, slightly-stooped woman on his arm. Her silver cane flashed before her, and her clothes billowed, lavender, silken and shimmering.
“Nonni,” Anandi called. “You look wonderful.” She began to walk up the staircase. A few steps behind, Phaira followed. On closer look, the woman, Emir’s mother, did look well, and quite beautiful. Her black and white-streaked hair was coiled into a chignon. Her golden skin held only lines around her mouth. Her cheeks were smooth, the right one anyway - it was offered to Anandi for a light kiss.
Then her blue-green eyes shifted over Anandi’s shoulder. “You brought someone?” Her voice was tight around the consonants.
“Not what you think, Nonni,” Anandi sighed, flushing a deep pink. “This is Phaira. She’s our bodyguard.” As she said the word, she quirked an eyebrow at Phaira as if to ask: is that right?
Phaira gave a curt nod to the grandmother. The woman’s expression remained cool. Phaira shifted her stance. This was not going to be much of a vacation.
Finally, the grandmother tipped her head to the left, addressing the doorman behind her. “We’re still short a girl, so there is a spare bed in your wing, correct? Would you make it up?”
“Nonni!” Anandi exclaimed, growing even redder.
“Mother, she’s a friend,” Emir said brusquely, sharper than Phaira had ever heard before. “She can stay in a proper guest room.”
“I’m sure Ms. Phaira understands how things work in estates like this,” the grandmother responded. Her gaze rested on Phaira again, flicking up and down. “Don’t you?”
The situation was so surreal that Phaira didn’t have room in her brain to be offended. In fact, she battled a sly impulse to scream, to storm into the house, to do something to make the old lady keel over with shock. Why were they even here?
Her mind clicked. Of course. Money. This was a quick stop, a quick rana grab to pay for Emir’s procedure. Some peace was required, then.
“It’s fine,” Phaira said. “It doesn’t matter where I sleep. A bed is a bed,” she added, shooting Anandi a quick look to silence her.
The grandmother nodded. “Very good. Emir, shall we go inside?”
His mouth pursed, Emir offered his elbow to his mother. Anandi cast a thankful look back at Phaira before following her father.
The butler remained where he was. Phaira sized him up. Was she supposed to bow on entry, or something? A light rain started to fall.
“You can wait here,” he finally told her.
“Gee, thanks.”
*
When the rainshower ended, the sun came out with power. Phaira tilted her face back. She forced herself to appreciate the weather. She’d spent most of her life in pollution, living in dark districts and basement apartments. She should love this.
But her mind twitched with inactivity. And a strange, tiny sick sense of loneliness. Renzo’s confession that blood money built the Arazura; it rattled her, far more than she’d dared to show. But, then again, any reminder of Nican or his family made her paranoid. It was their influence that turned the whole city of Daro against her. Their money funded the bounty hunters to chase her when she ran. She never guessed that their money was strong enough to touch Renzo, too.
Now the Arazura was a haunted house, ingrained with anger and the smell of death with every step that Sydel took inside its corridors. Every flicker of the girl’s eye held an explosion. No one else seemed to notice, or care. Phaira had a plan to neutralize Sydel out if things grew dangerous again, but it was the agony of waiting, always wondering if it would come to that. When it might come to that.
Over the din of the sea, Phaira heard the soft creak of a door. Anandi came onto the lawn, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked around the veranda. Phaira heard her name, echoing up. She kept silent and still, perched on the edge of the roof, next to the open attic window, her bare toes curled around the stone gutter. She made a map in her head of everything she saw: the bird cages, ten feet tall, twenty-feet wide, and full of feathers; the ravine just behind it, providing the water source; the snaking, private path to the harbor, glimmering in the sunlight.
“Hey, you up there! I can see your shadow,” Anandi’s voice rang out, bemused. “Come downstairs. It’s time to get ready. I have clothes for you.”
“I don’t need clothes,” Phaira called down, annoyed.
“Lots of options. Come on, little crow. Hop on down and see.”
*
As Anandi sorted through crinoline and satin, Phaira stood in the center of the bedroom and scowled. “I don’t want to get dressed up,” she protested, feeling like a whiny child. “I’ll sit in the corner, but I’m not your doll.”
“Stop being so silly,” Anandi said, her voice muffled in the fabrics. “I want you there with me as my guest, not just my muscle. It’s a compliment.”
Phaira looked down at the floor. “I’m warning you now, I look stupid in fancy gear. Even expensive gear.”
“It’s not ‘gear’, Phaira, it’s a dress,” Anandi corrected, pulling out a voluminous orange and red gown.
Phaira immediately stepped back. “Not a chance.”
“For me, not you.” Anandi sighed like a lover. “I always wanted to wear this one.” She brushed at the silk with her fingertips; the gesture was a practiced one, checking the seaming, the quality of the fabric. The impulse of someone accustomed to a certain standard of quality. Maybe that impulse to always measure was never lost, once learned.
Musing, Phaira walked the circumference of the room, taking stock. Between two gilded chairs sat a cello, propped in the corner, chestnut and gold and black. “You play that?” she called over her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s still here,” Anandi exclaimed. She left the orange and red monstrosity hanging on the closet door and shuffled over. “It’s been a long time, but I used to be good. Did you play music, growing up?”
Phaira shook her head. Then a memory struck her; she didn’t, but her father used to play the piano. When she was little, Phaira liked to sit on the floor by the bench and watch his feet on the pedals. From above, he swayed from side to side, as if caught in a wave. Sometimes their mother sang with him.
Remembering, a strange numbness spread in her chest.
Phaira pushed down
the sensation, focusing on Anandi and her curious preparations: the angled chair; the stem at the bottom of the cello, placed carefully on the floor; the instrument so hulking, balanced against the girl’s torso and between her knees. The balls of her feet popped up, as if she were about to dance. Her right hand held the bow with a delicate grip, her little finger apart from the others. Then Anandi took in a breath, and lowered the bow.
For the next two minutes, Phaira was consumed by the sounds that Anandi produced. Her shuddering fingers, the twisting bow sometimes drawing on one string, sometimes on the full hundred, all worked together to pull out beautiful sobs and strangled laments from the cello. Anandi swayed as she played, sometimes drawing in sharp breaths, as if creating the notes hurt. The music hit Phaira at the bottom of her lungs, weighing her down, and Phaira couldn’t push down the heaviness in her throat and the pain going through every limb, threatening to swallow her in black.
“Stop,” Phaira said suddenly.
The last note jerked with a screech.
“I’m sorry,” Phaira added in a rush. “You’re amazing. I just -”
“She is, isn’t she?” came Emir’s voice from behind. He leaned against the doorframe, his face full with quiet pride.
Anandi waved the bow at him. “You know I’m just average at best.”
“Will you be ready soon?” Emir asked. “Guests will be here shortly, and you know your grandmother.”
“That’s why I’m trying to get this one in some acceptable clothing,” Anandi joked, jerking her chin at Phaira. Despite her light tone, Phaira saw wariness in the girl’s eyes. She hadn’t forgotten the outburst.
So Phaira strode to the closet, surprising both Anandi and Emir. Surveying the finery, she plucked out the first shimmer of gray. “Will this fit?” she asked loudly, hoping that it was enough of a distraction. At the same time, her mind whispered, and she wondered if, somewhere in the shadows of Honorwell, behind all the beauty and order, there might be someone with an open hand, an offer of mekaline and release….
“That’s so boring! Don’t you want a color?” Anandi whined.
“Anandi,” Emir warned. “Half an hour, girls. Then it’s time to perform.”
Perform, Phaira thought. Studying the pale-gray ballgown in both hands, she breathed in and out, again and again, pushing down that one, final, swell of emotion. Soon, her familiar cool returned, her craving calmed.
It’s all about performances here, she reminded herself. One night. It’s one night to get through.
*
Rain fell in soft warm drops. Cakes of marigolds sat on tables. Orchestral music echoed through the ballroom, the notes accompanied by dancers, performers and acrobats, elegant experts in their crafts, performing in the corners. In the center, the guests mingled, exquisitely dressed in every color of the rainbow, jewels shimmering under the chandeliers.
Phaira pulled up her bodice for the third time. The gray gown was an okay choice; it mostly fit, and it wasn’t as tacky as some of the other glittering selections in this room, but the neckline was cut far lower than she was comfortable with. Phaira didn’t have much to fill it out, but she wanted the bit she had to stay concealed.
As she shifted her weight, there was a brush against her inner thigh: a blade and a forged identification packet, tucked within a concealed holster, always on her person, just in case. Tonight would be no exception, no matter the crowd.
Someone nudged Phaira in her side. Then Anandi’s hot forehead slumped against Phaira’s arm. Fine pieces of hair stuck to her forehead, and she smelled of lavender and sweet alcohol. She was definitely drunk.
“Having fun?” she asked Phaira.
“It’s very nice.”
“Kind of strange being together, isn’t it?”
“A little.”
“I wish you’d picked out an actual color, Phaira, but you look pretty tonight.”
“You look nice too,” Phaira said. “Like a sparkler in mid-burn.” And Anandi did, so flushed and vibrant, engulfed in those swirls of red and orange silk.
“That’s so poetic!” Anandi exclaimed, cuddling up to Phaira’s arm. “You would have looked good in this, too - wait, come down here.”
Phaira bent at the knees, holding up the bodice of the dress. With careful fingers, Anandi removed the bejeweled comb on the left side of Phaira’s hair, smoothed the strands back, and secured it again. Then Anandi lightly slapped Phaira’s cheek. “There,” she cooed. “Now I can see your face.”
Phaira couldn’t hold back the surprise on her face, and her smile, as she straightened to her full height. “Enough cavorting with the hired help,” she told Anandi, mock-sternly. “There are far cuter girls here to lavish with attention.”
She glanced around the ballroom, looking for someone to point out. One guest caught her eye, towering over all the rest. Her smile fell.
Anandi noticed. “What is it?”
The base of Phaira’s throat flushed with heat. Mortified, she covered it with her hand. “Nothing.”
But Anandi had already followed Phaira’s line of vision. Her mouth twisted. Hoisting up her gown, Anandi stomped across the ballroom floor.
Phaira started to go after Anandi, but was caught up by the mingling crowds. Her brain screamed at her to do something.
“I don’t want you here. Get out!”
Anandi’s cry rang through the grand ballroom. The music stopped. People were staring, but Anandi didn’t seem to notice, glaring up into Theron Sava’s impassive face.
“I was invited, Anandi,” Phaira heard his response, wafting over the heads of the crowd. “My grandfather is here somewhere. Nice to see you again, too.”
“I don’t want you here!” Anandi roared. “So leave! Now! You and anyone else you brought.”
Phaira crept closer. She was mostly weaponless and dressed like a fool, but she could manage something, if necessary. What was he doing here?
Then Emir appeared at Anandi’s side, taking his daughter’s arm. He whispered something in her ear. She began to protest, but Emir gave her arm a slight jerk, and kept whispering. Every eye was fixed on the three of them, waiting to see what would happen next.
As Emir stepped back, Anandi’s hands drew into fists, her mouth tight with anger.
Then Emir moved in front of his daughter. “Enough,” he told Theron quietly. “Enough.” He took Anandi’s hand and led her into an adjoining room.
When the golden door closed, the crowd began to rumble. The band began to play again. Theron shrugged, saying something to the man at his side. Then he wandered to the far end of the ballroom, ducking through a set of silken white curtains.
Staying ten steps behind, Phaira followed.
Through the curtains sat a small terrace with an intricate stone bench, overlooking the grounds. Theron sat down, leaning back on his hands. His long black hair, tied back with red cord, swung between his shoulders in a perfect vertical line. Rain sheared over the edge of the roof. Phaira focused on the droplets as she walked, and turned on her borrowed high heels when she reached the left side of the bench.
They faced opposite directions: Theron looking over the lawn, Phaira watching the shadows inside the ballroom.
“This is her birthday, Theron,” Phaira finally spoke. “She’s just a kid. Was that necessary?”
Peripherally, she saw Theron shrug. “I’m just an escort tonight. No ill intentions.”
Couples waltzed across the open doors. The wind was cold across Phaira’s bare shoulders. She refused to shiver.
“It’s good to see you,” his voice floated up. “That dress is pretty different. Doesn’t really suit you.”
Phaira barely heard him, so focused on weighing her two impulses: she could smack him across the face, or she could wrap her body around his. Both were equally overpowering. The last time they saw each other was three weeks ago. She confronted him, demanding answers, and she’d kissed him out of spite, but then everything went hot and lopsided before she got away.
Since then, Phaira replayed that moment a hundred times, and every time, she was left with a different wish.
“You made it out of Kings,” Theron continued, even quieter. “I wasn’t sure - but I was relieved to hear it.”
There were so many things she could say, rushing through her head. Sorry about your cousins; they were evil, but they were your family, and that has to be painful. But when you said that the NINE killed your parents and left you brain-damaged; was that true? Or a story for sympathy? And was that the goal all along, to gain control over the Sava syndicate? Her shame, her wounded pride, her fury at being used, it was all swirling into a violent firestorm inside her chest. She wouldn’t start a fight with him here, not in Anandi’s moment, and not in this estate full of pretenders.
Movement caught her attention. There was a commotion inside. Squinting, Phaira caught sight of Anandi’s dress, that vibrant, dramatic orange. And figures in grey uniforms: local law patrol.
Somewhere, far away it seemed, she heard Theron ask what was wrong.
But Phaira couldn’t move, nor choke out an answer, so horrified by the scene in the ballroom: Anandi’s hands bound with plastic strips. Emir already restrained, the rest of the guests had backed into the walls, save for the grandmother, who spoke in a low, disgusted voice. “…. enough of you indulging her disrespectful behavior, Emir. Family honor and loyalty mean nothing to either of you. If she cannot behave, then she will be treated as any other adult.”
Phaira balled her hands into fists. Anandi had a long record of security breaches. She could go to prison for years. Which was a death sentence for Emir, so dependent on her blood transfusions to stay alive. Phaira had a fleeting vision of the future: Anandi’s vitality drained away, a husk of a woman, wracked with the guilt over her father’s death. Phaira knew that guilt too well. That future was unacceptable.
Phaira glanced in all directions, forming her plan. She already had a good idea of the security systems in place. The main obstacles were the officers inside, any estate security that might have orders to give chase, and getting off this damned estate.