The Ondine Collection

by Ebony McKenna

  “No taste in music then?”​

  With a rueful smile, Melody turned off the side road and onto timber-lined track that slipped and slopped in the mud. In front of them lay a field of icy brown slush. In the midst of it loomed a three-storey concrete extravaganza, shrouded in scaffolding and tradies. [289] They parked on more mud-set slabs of timber that substituted for a car park. Melody exited first and unfurled a double-width umbrella, then opened Vincent’s door. More planks of wood lay in a haphazard pathway towards the door. Every step squelched as the wood sucked and slopped in the thick wet clay. By the time they reached the doorway – there wasn’t a door in place yet – Vincent’s hair was streaked with damp.

  Babak Balakhan himself stood there, a huge smile on his cold-blotched face. “Ah! Beloved guests. Welcome, welcome!”

  The man wore a black three-piece suit that only just buttoned up over his ample stomach. His hair was shaved low to disguise how fast it marched backwards. A thick twist of gold sat around his neck, while the fingers on both hands were studded with chunky jewellery. He looked more like the head of security than the head of a household.

  Extending his hand in greeting, Vincent said, “Gaspado Balakhan, I am so pleased to meet you.” [290]

  “So formal, My Lord!” He grabbed Vincent in a bear hug, “Call me Babak. All my friends do. Come, come, let’s be out of this miserable weather.”

  “I tell you, never build in a Slaegal winter. Build during the other three weeks of the year. Ha!”

  Vincent grinned but he refused to guffaw. That would be unseemly. As if to ram home his wealth, Babak’s silk tie flipped over in the wind to reveal the logo of a Paris fashion house. No discount Sletto clothing for him.

  “Babak, may I introduce my personal witch, Melody?”

  “Oh but you are beautiful!” Taking her free hand, Babak kissed it on both the back and the palm.

  It pleased Vincent to see Melody blush. If Babak charmed her enough, maybe she’d shift her romantic attentions to him instead.

  “Thank you.” Melody took her hand back, then fumbled as she closed the umbrella.

  “I have never met a witch before,” Babak said, “We don’t have so many in Slaegal, Brugel is hogging them all.”

  Inside the construction-zone mansion, they found an atrium. It was completely open to the sky, with no tree. Good, Vincent thought, they wouldn’t have to make nice around the trunk while their toes snapped off. Unlike his cousin’s crumbling pile, Babak’s halls and promenades were dotted with portable oil heaters, throwing a deep red heat out to anyone nearby.

  “It’s freezing here, you’ll catch your deaths,” Babak said. “Come into the . . . sitting room, I think they call it. My office is not yet finished. Ah, and we have something for your umbrella. Here, here,” he gestured to a series of ornate galvanized hooks.

  “But it will drip on the floor.” Melody hesitated.

  “And the rain won’t? Ha! There is such mud and rain, with an open sky and the trucks outside. The cleaners do their best, but eh, what can you do?” He shrugged, as if damaged timber flooring was of no concern. “Come in here, out of the cold.”

  A servant stepped out of nowhere and opened the triple-glazed doors that led to an airlock. The next set of doors were triple-glazed as well, and once they were closed behind them, they were warm and draft free.

  “Ah! The tree!” Babak said as he looked out the window.

  A heavy tray-truck backed into the yard, its fat tyres sinking into the gloop.

  “So,” Babak said as Melody unpacked her satchel and prepared three shot glasses of plütz. “You are here for money, yes?”

  Vincent tried – and failed – to keep his expression neutral as he turned to face his host.

  “Ha! I am direct. But then, being direct is a good thing.” Babak held his arms wide as if to show off his luxurious house and all that it entailed. His success. From being direct.

  “I guess now you’ve said it, I have to say you’re right.” Vincent felt the tension ease out of his shoulders. Being direct would save them a lot of messing about.

  “Everyone wants money from me.” Babak said. “How much, and what will I get in return?”

  A quick glance to Melody’s contrite face revealed her interference. She must have used some kind of revealing spell in here, to reveal what Babak really wanted. Laid it on a little thick, though.

  Swallowing past a rock in his throat, Vincent’s mind fast-forwarded through the polite chitchat and shadow boxing he’d prepared, so he could move to the end game. “I honestly don’t know. Because it could take a while to –”

  “Stop now. The rain may drip here with no end, but my money is no endless winter. You want to be Duke again, yes?”

  The man’s brain moved fast. Vincent had to adapt. “I have not yet been Duke, so I cannot be Duke again. But I will regain my birthright.”

  There was a steely gleam in Babak’s eyes as took his shot glass and held it up. “I shall meet you under the table.” [291] Babak downed his drink, so Vincent grabbed his and downed it too. It wouldn’t do to let the man drink alone when they were supposed to be . . . what, friends?

  Melody refilled their glasses, but did not serve herself.

  “You. Drink too,” Babak’s gaze homed in on Melody. “I don’t trust people who don’t drink. There is no truth in them.”

  Melody poured a shot and drank hers, then turned her shot glass upside down for no more refills. “I love the stuff, but I’m also driving. The conditions out there are woeful and I need a clear head.”

  Babak laughed. “Slaegal weather. What’s not to love? More booze.”

  This was some kind of game where Vincent didn’t know the rules. Babak had said he’d give him money, which was a plus. It didn’t stop a lump of dread growing in his belly. Not even the plütz could dissolve that.

  Babak tilted his hand to the window, to see the tree being unloaded from the truck. “Look at my beautiful pine! Is it not the very best money can buy?”

  It surely had to be. The workers wrapped thick hessian strips around the tree base, then fastened a set of hooks on the end of a crane. Slowly, securely, the crane lifted the hundred-or-so-year-old pine into an upright position. It swayed in the wind and the crane driver slowed progress to make sure it didn’t crash into the building.

  ​“This is a good meeting,” Babak slammed his glass down and motioned with his hand for a top up. “I have plenty of money and no respect. You, Vincent, have the name and respect, but no money.”

  He’d summed it up perfectly.

  “So, what’s standing in the way of you becoming Duke, eh? Your aunt? Your cousins? That’s a lot of people to push aside.”

  Panic burned the back of Vincent’s throat. “No! Not like that.” He steadied his hands on his thighs to stop them shaking. “My cousins cannot be harmed. That’s not how we’re going to play this.”

  “Play what?” Babak looked offended and pointed to his empty glass as he eyed Melody. “More booze.”

  Dammit, Vincent felt five times heavier now he’d insulted his host. Scrambling to get things back to where they should be, he said, “The issue is, yes, I do want to be Duke. I’m here because I’m broke. What’s in my favour is my people want me to be Duke.” Oh dear, was that the plütz talking? Had Melody cast a spell on him too? He was saying far more than he should.

  “Good. We are near the truth. You should be in politics, not waiting for relatives to die. More booze.” Babak clinked his glass to Vincent’s and nodded.

  The alcohol wrapped Vincent in a fuzzy blanket. How lucky he was already sitting, because his knees no longer worked.

  “What is wrong with your cousins?” Babak asked, while also encouraging Melody to pour more shots.

  In the edge of his vision, Vincent could see the pine flying higher outside. Yikes, the plütz had gone straight to his head. But wait, hadn’t Melody put that spell on him to stop the effects of alcohol? There was no food in here to space out the drinks. No wat
er to dilute it. He and Babak were sure to meet under the table very soon at this rate. Wait a minute, his brain said, the tree wasn’t flying, it was on the end of the crane, and the crane was lifting it up so it could lower it into the middle of the house and into the atrium.

  A sigh of resignation seeped from Vincent. “There’s nothing really wrong with them. They’re just not . . . not suited, not trained, not sensible. Not anything.”

  “You should marry the oldest one,” Babak said. “Then you’d be Duke.”

  “No I wouldn’t. I’d be consort to an unsuitable Duchess. And they’re all broke as well. That and the fact I’m not the cousin-marrying kind.”

  “I like your truth.” Babak upturned his glass to show their drinking session was at an end. “Now here is mine. You have ambition and status, but no resources. I have all the resources in the world, but no respect. Let us make an alliance. My money, for your respect.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  Melody shot him a look, like he was forgetting himself. Because he was in the throes of “plütz truth”, that terrible affliction that removed the social conventions of keeping your secrets.

  “My daughter,” Babak said. “She is very much a catch.”

  Vincent slumped, Melody sat up straighter. The man with all the money reached into his inside suit pocket and pulled out a phone. “Ruslana, come to the sitting room. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  The room swayed. The woman who walked in took Vincent’s breath away. In a really, really not-very-good-way at all. The girl had whiter than white blonde hair that sat up a good ten centimetres above her forehead, which then flicked and flailed its way down to mid torso. That wasn’t the worst of her.

  Despite the cold, she wore a cut-off tank top that came perilously close to showing underboob. But even that wasn’t the worst of her.

  The mini skirt the width of a seat belt and the platform lace-up boots did her no favours either, but they merely served to highlight the very, very worst of her.

  Her skin. Her terribly orange skin.

  The public would have a field day with this orange from Norange.

  COULD THAT BE THE SUN peeking through the clouds? Ondine peered through her bedroom window at the finger of light hitting the neon dragon that guarded the front door of On The Fang, the restaurant across the road from their pub in Venzelemma.

  Come on spring, where are you?

  Trudging downstairs, Ondine knew a good way to keep warm would be to submerge her arms into a sink of hot soapy water, filled with breakfast’s greasy dishes. Which was exactly what her family needed her to do this morning, just as it was every other morning. Yawning her way into the kitchen, she nodded her family greetings. Sure, she was tired, but she couldn’t complain. Everyone else had been up a few hours earlier to cook and serve breakfast to the customers.

  “Happy birthday darling,” Ma said as she landed a kiss on the top of her head.

  Sunshine flowed through Ondine. Today was her sixteenth birthday, and her family had remembered. Not that birthdays were as important as name days in Brugel (her parents had botched that spectacularly a couple of months ago) but it was lovely that they were making the effort.

  “Thanks Ma,” she said with a grin as her mother handed her a card with sixteen cupcakes on the front. Opening it, a twenty-schlip note fell out and she caught it before it could land in the sink and get wet. Then she gave Ma a hug and sat the card up on the high shelf above her.

  Da poked his head around the corner. “Has Ma given you our card?”

  “Sure did. Thank you very much.”

  Da moved in for a hug, and excellent excuse for Ondine to put off doing the dishes for a few more minutes. “You’re very generous, I’m feeling well-loved.”

  With a soft chuckle as the hug continued, Da said, “Wouldn’t even pretend to forget, not after your name day dramas.”

  Trust Da to bring that up. “Already forgotten.”

  Da planted a kiss on her forehead. “When did my baby girl grow so mature?”

  It rankled that he called her a baby girl, but she pushed it down. “Don’t worry Da, if it makes you feel better, at least I’ll never be as old as you.”

  “Cheeky.” He tickled her chin. “Aww come here again, my big baby.”

  There was no escaping this hug as Da gave her an extra squishy squish.

  “Happy birthday Ondi,” Cybelle said, jamming a card between their bodies.

  “That’s from me as well,” Margi called out.

  It was the excuse Ondine needed to pull back from the suffocating love. Da headed back to the dining room. A five-schlipp note fell out of the card. Seriously, five? She pocketed it all the same and put their homemade card on the shelf, away from soapy, soggy-making water. Hamish sidled up to her. He too had a hand-decorated card, but coming from Hamish it held far more meaning. It proved he’d taken the time to make something for her. As opposed to her sisters, who’d simply been cheap. And he’d put a twenty-schlipp note in there.

  “Yer ma said this was all I was allowed to do.”

  A smile broke over her face. “You’re so thoughtful.”

  “Aye, that’s me all over.” His immodest words led to utterly immodest kissing, which Ondine took part in fully. They did things to her brain, his kisses. Melted reality and warped time. Made her feel like the most important person in the world.

  “All right you two, back to work.” That would be Ma, interrupting them as usual.

  One more kiss, then she’d stop.

  “Come on,” Ma said.

  Reluctantly (was there any other way to end a kiss?) Ondine pulled away and promised she’d kiss him for longer next time. Hamish left her side and she faced the dishes. Before plunging her hands in, she turned the radio on to bring in some music. She nearly dropped a plate when she heard Margi and Belle’s voices, singing on the radio.

  “Everyone, listen to this!” she grabbed at the volume up with her sud-soaked hand.

  “Turn it up!” That was Cybelle.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Give it here.” Not normally pushy, Cybelle nudged Ondine aside and turned the noise to maximum. Margi’s clear voice washed over them, but Ondine could tell by the look on Belle’s face that she was listening to the music more than the lyrics.

  Da stepped back in to the kitchen. “Is that yours?”

  “Shush! Yes!” Belle said.

  Margi’s eyes were huge with delight as she ran to Belle and hugged her. They jumped up and down on the spot.

  Pride soared through Ondine for her sisters’ success. It was a great song. The kind that would be sung at weddings, or played in the background while loved-up couples had a really good snog. Josef stood there in silence, beaming at his daughters. Then Ma joined in the three-way hug. Henrik and Thomas gave each other high-fives.

  When the song finished, Margi and Belle started giggling and jumping up and down again.

  “You can turn it down now,” Da said, rubbing his ear as the radio played something modern, which Ondine loved but knew her parents hated.

  Great-Aunt Col sauntered in to the kitchen and dished herself a plate of scrambled eggs from the stovetop. “Good morning everyone, how are we?”

  “Good thanks. Um, Auntie dear,” Ma said, as she took the plate away from her and handed her a bowl of stewed fruit instead, “You are welcome to stay any time, as you know, but please don’t take food from the mouths of paying guests.”

  “Yes Young Col,” Old Col said as she reached for the tongs beside the hotplate of bacon, “But I need protein this morning. Hamish and I have dance rehearsals.”

  Dancing lessons would provide the perfect cover for Ondine to sneak off and visit Anathea, so she could warn her about Vincent.

  Grabbing a piece of bacon she declared, “I’m coming too.”

  LORD VINCENT, MELODY, Babak and his citrus-skinned daughter Ruslana stood in the freezing atrium of the Balakhan mansion while an army of landscapers rushed around shiftin
g soil and securing ropes to stabilise the gargantuan pine tree into place. On the floors above, tradies worked in the swirling rain to tie the tree’s multiple branches to the balconies. Each kiss of cold wind deepened Vincent’s misery. If only Babak hadn’t brought his daughter into the negotiations. He needed Brugelish people to like him, but with Ruslana on his arm, the predominant emotion he’d get would be ridicule.

  Another worker rushed in and gave Babak a cardboard box.

  “Ah! Excellent! Ruslana, you have long nails, help get this open for me.”

  In a moment they had it open, Babak held the bubble wrap and was popping the little bubbles, while Ruslana held a small wooden pail and matching spoon.

  “What is it, Daddy?”

  “New tradition. Ah! I have idea,” Babak turned to Melody. “Young witch, pour the plütz in here.”

  “Is that good for pine trees?” Melody raised her brow.

  “Eh, we’ll mix it with Slaegal rainwater. Best in all of the Europe.”

  Somebody must have been paying attention, because yet another tradie approached with a metal bucket, filled with clear water. He poured some into the wooden pail, then stepped out of the way. Melody handed the plütz bottle to Babak.

  “Excellent. New Slaegal and Brugel tradition. Wonderful combination,” Babak said, pouring the plütz in. A peachy aroma floated on the swirling breeze. “Ruslana, Vincent, please do the first honours.”

  Sickness swirled through Vincent like sleet through the atrium. Do I have to? “Thank you, I’d be honoured.” Together, he and Ruslana dipped the spoon in the plütz-water and splashed it on the base of the tree. Ruslana’s perfume clogged his nostrils as she leaned to his ear. “You’re the fourth boy he’s tried to marry me off to.”

  This was beyond ridiculous. “Fourth time lucky then?”

  “What’s she saying? Eh?” Babak said as they returned the spoon to him.

  “Nothing,” Ruslana and Vincent said together.

  “Ah!” Babak rubbed his hands with glee. “What a great match. Talking sweet nothings already.” Then he grabbed Vincent in a strong hug. “Welcome to the family. You can call me Daddy. Now, what is this on your hand, eh?” The man gripped Vincent and turned his palm back and forth. “Why is it blue? It is not so cold?”