There is an unpleasant smell in the garden; something not wholly subsumed by the freshly turned gravel and the scattered wood chips. An unfamiliar flower, perhaps, though to the Fulminous Princess’s practiced nose it has more in common with the exercise of power. She’d never thought that the stories about saint-sworn nuns were true, but …
Johanna sits in her accustomed chair, idly swirling the last drops of brandy around her glass. It’s a comfortable chair, well-positioned in one of the many nooks ringing the lounge’s floor; it gives her a good view of what’s going on, and a place to keep her papers. All of the other nooks are curtained booths with cushioned benches and high tables; hers is unique only because of her contributions to the social club. Rank brings its privileges, even when no one can quite say where one’s rank comes from—for despite it all, Johanna is merely a rat-catcher.
The poison taster stands behind her queen’s throne, eyes downcast. She is the only thing in the hall that is drab and unadorned, denied even the fine livery that the serving maids and footmen wear with pride. Her purpose is to die, and when she does her thick black robes will contain the mess.
Around her throat is a band of plain silver. The queen wears one too; gold, studded with polished bezoars and staring agates. It vanishes into her finery, just another thing to sparkle and shine; her courtiers easily forget it. The poison taster never does.
Hey.
I just want to say thank you, to all of you. For reading my writing, looking at my photos, or enjoying my art; for chatting, or listening to me yap; and, more than any of those, for existing.
The world we share is not a kind one, and I fear so much for what it will become, but all of you make it brighter.
Thank you.
“Pathetic mortals! Hear my demands,” Corvina intones, feathers raised is a posture of challenge, “and despair, for the will of the night is unstoppable! Your compatriot has made a mockery of our alliance! You must,” her voice shifts, a faint squawk betraying a feather-covered blush, “make her let go of me.”
Maria, Halberd of Noon, peers up at Corvina. The villainess, once barely taller than her, has grown beyond all reason in the weeks since the Tremorlord ate the sun and plunged the world into an eternal and moonless night. “Is Anne being a problem?”
“Yes! I mean, uh,” she tries to compose herself, “yes. Remove her, lest a worse fate befalls her! I will drop her in the ocean to freeze, see if I don’t.”
Thistle’s ears ache each time the finger taps the glass. It’s a horribly large thing, nearly as tall as he is and as thick around as his waist, and its cruel long nail is decorated with flaking red enamel that Thistle can’t help but imagine as drying blood. He hasn’t seen Lion or Yarrow since they were all caught, after all …
Flick. His wings twitch involuntarily, painfully, and he whimpers. They weren’t kind when they caught him; his right forewing is crumpled, useless. If he escapes he’ll never fly again.
“Mom?”
Sarah blinks herself awake. She fell asleep on the couch again, watching late-night comedy reruns after putting Abigail to bed, with only a half-empty bottle of wine and a tin of weed gummies for company. She blearily blinks at the young girl; god damn it, she promised not to let her see her like this again.
“Wha-,” she coughs, “what is it, dear?”
“Auntie wants to come in but I can’t open the door.”