The Reformation

by Garggie Talukdar

  “You know you need to put that on, right?” Jan asked, looking just as grim as he did earlier on. Z decided not the comment on it, instead resigning himself to mope over the mask.

  “Thanks, genius. Don’t want to ruin my hair.”

  Jan shot him a look—even without his lie-detecting abilities, he knew how false Z’s words were. “Oh, come on. It’s not even that bad.”

  “Says you. You look like a hot super-spy.”

  “I am a hot super-spy.” It took 5 whole seconds for the fact that January was joking, to register in Z’s brain.

  Biting back a grin, Z gently shoved Jan’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, hotshot. Don’t want to keep your admirers waiting.”

  They descended in the elevator in silence, and Z was grateful for Jan’s lacking need for conversation, because Z wouldn’t have been able to if he tried. The sentence 096 uncooperative DS was echoing off the walls of his mind.

  Now to only find what the hell it meant.

  …

  “How’s observations been going?” Z asked Celine, crossing over to stand by her side. He offered her a glass filled with bubbly champagne, which she took without casting him a second glance. She took a long, elegant sip, before answering him out of the corner of her mouth, not letting her eyes leave the scene of dancing and conversing politicians and high-ranking nobles around them.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Women are fluttering about in their gowns with their hen-pecked husbands chasing after them. In that corner over there, you have the people who only came for the drinks and refreshments. Scattered around the room are the men who are speaking of politics, although they have not half an idea of what is happening out of their own little social bubble.”

  Playing along with Celine’s overly-done English and teasing comments, Z asked, “Pray, do tell of whom you speak of.”

  “You’ll recognize them in an instant. They talk a mile a minute, but their ties are too tight,” she told him out of the corner of her mouth. Z’s hand fluttered down to his own tie (not a cravat, a tie), loosening it gently as so Celine wouldn’t notice. “Speaks of social breeding, you know.”

  “Social breeding?” Z sputtered out, trying to restrain his laughter. Celine suppressed a grin.

  “Yes; social breeding. This is my game, so you have to follow me, Z.” She finally turned to face him, her eyes (currently more green than brown, Z noticed) set out of her mask, glittering with mirth. “And besides, there have been no attempts of His Majesty’s life yet, which I would presume to be a good omen.”

  “It is. And I forgot to mention, you look magnificent this evening, Miss Hollingsworth.”

  “Thank you, dearest.”

  Z burst out laughing at Celine’s impression of an accent, “Your accent is truly terrible.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault that I’m the only one in all of London to not have the accent.”

  “I still find that so peculiar.” Offering his hand to Celine, he asked in a mock American accent, “A dance, m’lady?”

  Smirking while looping her arm through his, keeping on her horrifying English accent. “Lead the way.”

  …

  “I forgot to inquire after your family’s health, Miss. I hope they’re all well?” Z asked, but as they both drew closer for their switching of positions, he quickly whispered, “I have suspicions of who the spy is.”

  Celine quirked her brow, though her pleasant smile didn’t leave her face. “Quite well, thank you. And yours, sir?”

  Catching on to how Celine was trying to integrate their actual conversation in mock civility, Z remarked: “They are in good health. My sister sends all of her condolences for not being able to meet you here. She’s missing from the festivities here tonight.”

  “She’s alright, I hope?”

  “Yes, she just had some things to do. Of what particular substance, I’m not sure.”

  Understanding set in Celine’s eyes. “Ah. I must tell Miss Downcley and her fiancé; they both are so fond of her.” Z cracked a wicked grin at the mention of her fiancé.

  “After this set, Miss?” he offered.

  “Gladly. I must congratulate you, Mister, on your new project. I was delighted to hear of your success.”

  “Thank you. I would go into detail, but I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “No, please, do explain.”

  “Well, a colleague of mine made a remark a few days ago that got me thinking. And then of course, with your ingenuity, I was able to come up with this result.”

  Her eyes softened, curious but understanding of what this could mean for Z. “What was this project’s name?”

  “Project 096 which we call Delta Sierra. The name was quite uncooperative at first, but we got there.”

  The violins slowly ceased, and the final chord of the piano was struck, so Z knew that their dance was over. He could not bear another one, his skills only went so far, so instead he just pressed a kiss to the back of Celine’s hand, whispering meet me in the room in 5, on his way back up.

  Smiling, Celine curtsied. “Thank you, sir. I must go and tell Miss Downcley of the bad news.”

  “Of course. But maybe restrain telling her directly; she will certainly be dismayed.”

  “I understand. I hope I’ll see you soon, sir?”

  “As long as you’ll be obliged. Enchanted, Miss Hollingsworth,” Z tipped her imaginary top hat, winking, relishing the fact that Celine couldn’t publicly shove him at his playful teasing.

  “Whatever. Just hurry up, Z,” Celine muttered under her breath, but Z caught her words.

  He deliberately took the stairs on the opposite side of the castle.

  …

  “Took you long enough,” Celine drawled, sending Z a look from his beloved swivel chair. Her deep green gown wrapped around the leg of the chair, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention to it.

  “I recall saying to meet here in 5 minutes,” Z started, switching on the light of the dark room, “so I am not late.”

  “It’s been 5 minutes and 23 seconds, so you are late,” Celine kicked off of the table, spinning herself in his chair, gown swirling around her. “But who’s counting?”

  “Right.”

  “So, do you really think you know who the spy is?”

  “Wait; if we’re both here, who’s down there to keep an eye downstairs?” Z asked, averting the topic.

  “I already told Fey and Jan—separately, mind you- and then-” she paused, realizing what Z was doing. Then, her voice dropped low in warning: “Z.”

  He just busied himself with taking off his mask.

  “Z,” she repeated herself, voice a little lower.

  “The damn thing is so irksome, I had to-”

  “Z!”

  “Celine!” He replied in the same tone. She just shot him a glare, and he looked down.

  “Look, I know that it’s hard to think about, but are you sure? You know who the spy is?” Her eyes were just pleading and tired, and Z felt that same exhaustion flow over him. He sighed, and then slunk down on a chair.

  “I’m not 100% sure,” he admitted. “But little things are piecing themselves together, and the more I think about it, the more sure I become.”

  “Is there any way to confirm?”

  “I managed to hack into some files. Right now, all we need is some decryption, and we might be able to get in without triggering some alarms. Might be. Like 70%, might be.”

  “So, 30% of failure aside, how coded are we talking about?”

  “Like, Downcley level.”

  “Okay, I can call Fey up from downstairs. I’m sure Jan will be happy to patrol by himself-”

  “No!” Realizing how forced he sounded, Z hastily corrected himself. “I mean, thank you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. The less people knowing about this, the better.”

  “Does that mean that you don’t suspect me?”

  “No. If you were, you would’ve pulled a gun on me already—I never specified who my suspici
on of the spy was, so the anxiousness of being discovered would have already made you take a shot at me, despite of how bad of a move that might’ve been. The present time would matter the most, and such a big secret coming out, wouldn’t help you out at all.”

  “And how do I know that you aren’t the spy?”

  That question caught Z by surprise. Of course, they were all suspects. But the idea of someone believing that it was him, never occurred to him. But it was a possibility, no less probable than the rest. “My case seems pretty weak, doesn’t it? Take it on as faith, I suppose.”

  She hesitated, and Z felt his body tense, and his hand inch slightly towards the gun hidden under his belt, and he instantly felt regret at having such a reaction. All this suspicion was doing something to him. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  “Alright. I will, so don’t make me regret it. I’m no Fey Downcley, but I can help with the process. Let’s get to work, shall we?” Celine proposed, tight smile on her face.

  “You don’t have to, Cel.”

  She shot him a small smile. “Don’t worry, not that many people will miss my presence down there.”

  “Oh, but I’m most sure that a certain king will miss your presence acutely.”

  “Shut up, Z.”

  “Oh, now I’m almost certain-” Z started, opening documents on Celine’s laptop.

  “Z, shut it. I mean it.” Z laughed at Celine’s angry yet flushed tone.

  “The Governors will all wonder what is wrong with their esteemed ki-”

  “Z. The shoes are coming off.”

  He paid no heed to her warning, continuing on, focusing in on the bright screen. “And then, he’ll-”

  The shoe hit him dead center of his head.

  …

  Celine rubbed her eyes tiredly, her mask long since discarded on the table. Z noticed this with guilt creeping up. He was working her too hard and he should suggest a-

  “Don’t even think about it, Z. I’m good.”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “You were going to; your face said so.”

  “Well, I better inform my face to stop speaking for me.”

  She gave him a look. “Seriously Z, I’m fine. The ball’s still going on downstairs, therefore, so will I. Besides, we’re getting somewhere, I can feel it.” And with that, she dove back into her work, leaving Z with no other choice than to do the same.

  …

  Long after they started their task, but only slightly after the ball had winded down, they got to that place that Celine’s gut suggested they would reach.

  “Celine, I- I think we- we found it,” he choked out, the words on the screen betraying his secret hope that he would be wrong. But the fine print on the screen blinking in front of him, confirmed it.

  Celine hurriedly stood up, the skirt of the gown that she had yet to change out of, trailing behind her. Suddenly, the dark circles under her eyes, seemed to disappear. There was some hope, some dismay, and some mental preparation that was flickering across her face. This was it, and she knew it.

  As it turned out, their spy was not just some amateur smuggling some small files under the king’s nose. She was a huge agent, an apparent favourite of the Immortale court. She was a world-class spy, a young one, at that. And she was closer to the damage than expected.

  Eyes flickering down the lines, Celine looked aghast. “Oh god. This is-”

  “Yeah,” Z’s voice was breathy and hoarse. He couldn’t believe this.

  The favourite spy of the Immortales was in their castle right now. The leading agent of the Immortale Espionage department was Arleyene Crawford. Arleyene Crawford, who wasn’t at the ball. Arleyene Crawford, who was leaking all of their progress to the Immortales.

  Arleyene Crawford, who was the king’s most trusted confidant.

  Arleyene Crawford, who was Areya Carson.

  Thirty-Four

  “JAX, you need to come downstairs.” Celine's looked frantic and a bit regretful and most certainly watery-eyed, causing Jax’s heart to jump out of his chest in concern.

  “What's happening?”

  “Spy- we found-” she couldn't manage the words out, so Jax took the liberty of placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “Breathe. What happened with the spy?”

  “I- I'm sorry Jax, but you have to come to the meeting room. It's not my secret to tell, and I doubt I could if I wanted to.”

  Jax was worried, and so he quickly stepped out of his room, disregarding his father's rules of looking king-like every second of the day. A crumpled shirt and waist-coat wouldn’t have been approved by any of the advisors or governors present at the Ball that evening (which tired Jax out more than anything he had ever experienced in his life), but it would do.

  He nodded, trying to reassure the blonde. “Lead the way.”

  The walk down the corridors was silent, save the unsteady breathing of Celine and the occasional sniffle from what Jax presumed to be the aftermath of a good cry if her red eyes were any indication. But he didn’t offer any reassurance, knowing that pity or sympathy—no matter in how good of faith it was given in—was the last thing that she wanted right now. Besides, he had his own inner demons to battle with right now.

  The spy. They found the spy. And Jax assumed that said spy had to do with Celine’s current condition- so who was it, whose betrayal sent Celine into a sobbing mess? What if it was January? Jax doubted it would warrant such a reaction from Celine, but the thought still nagged him. What if Fey was right? What if January Kurata-Tormont, who Jax gave so many second-chances to, never deserved any one of them?

  But what if the spy was her? What if Celine was the spy and was in this state because she was going to finally do the task of killing him like she had plan—no. Jax refused to think about it. She deserved better than to be accused so suddenly without any base of suspicion, and he didn’t deserve to think of himself so highly in her eyes and think that betraying him would do this to her.

  “I never thought that the path to the meeting room was so long,” he voiced, fighting back the nagging voice in his head echoing she’s killing you all, slowly and surely, and you were too weak to even notice.

  “Yeah,” Her voice was definitely watery. “You won’t like this, Jax.”

  “I don’t like the whole idea of anybody doing this. Knowing that someone is knowingly betraying us-” he stopped himself short, locking in his jaw. The annoyance and years of pent-up rage was flaring up in him again, and he had to stop himself before he could kindle it into something bigger and much more disruptive than personal oppression. “Yes,” he amended. “I won’t like this at all.”

  “No, you don’t get it, Jax.”

  “What don’t I get, Celine?” he asked, gentler than he felt right now.

  “It’s-” she shook her head, looking hopeless. “You wouldn’t believe me if I tried to tell you.”

  Strangely, Jax couldn’t find anything in him to argue against that. “Then don’t tell me.” They had reached the door. “Show me.”

  She nodded, though she stuck out her pinky. “Promise me that you’ll hear us out.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the gesture, locking his own pinky around hers regardless. “Alright?” he agreed hesitantly.

  “Just, brace yourself,” she instructed, shooting him one last despaired pitying look, before pushing the doors open.

  Her words didn’t brace him in the slightest.

  Areya was chained to a chair, and confusion—along with that buried rage—surged up in him again.

  “Why is Areya here?” he demanded. All four of them were here, still dressed to the nines, and while Celine and Z looked as if they were grieving, Fey and Jan—still seated far away from each other—looked slightly confused, but sleepy and weary of the life forms moving around them.

  “Good question. We were hoping that with your arrival, that these two would be so kind and explain,” Fey drawled, her dark eyes piercing.

  “Areya Carson is the spy that we’ve
been tearing each other’s throats out for,” Celine announced, voice melancholy.

  They were all out of their minds.

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?” Jax asked, incredulously. “This is all just a birthday prank, right?”

  “Because January is the spy, I’m sure of it,” Fey stated obstinately crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Have a little trouble procuring that evidence though, aren’t you Downcley?” January stated darkly, shooting her a cold glance.

  Fey lifted her nose in the air, looking at the ceiling. “Maybe. But just you wait.”

  Jan shot back another detached, Fey Downcley-riling comment, but Jax paid no heed to the brewing argument, because Areya was apparently the spy.

  “No. You’re wrong,” Jax numbly stated, catching a glimpse of the worry and fear in Areya’s wide brown eyes, and—no. There was no way in hell that Areya, the one person who had stuck with him through thick and thin, was the spy. Jax wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t. He was incapable, because Areya was the only remainder of his old life. Of the life of a crown prince, fighting each day against the crown, against a burden that he never wanted. Because Areya had come when King Calix was at his worst and had stayed by him when the old king had died, and remained a constant crutch for him, as soon as the heavy burden of kingsmanship touched his head.

  Z looked devastated, his brown eyes filled with pity and despondency. “I’m sorry, Ja-”

  “Shut up!” Jax finally yelled. He was being cornered by his own demons, pushed to the edge of a cliff, and he had just lashed out. Everyone in the room, looked startled by the sudden outburst, but it wasn’t exactly sudden, was it? Jax had seen it a long time coming. What else was he supposed to do? —too much was happening too fast, and he had already gone through so much. What better way to cope, than to finally let go? “Let Areya go, right now, Z.”

  Z looked forlorn, though he resolutely shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He means,” Celine interceded, “That he won’t be responsible of letting a murderer go. And you shouldn’t be responsible of that either.”

  “A murderer?” Jax let out a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine. If you won’t, then I will.” Jax stepped forwards toward Areya, but Z stepped in his path.