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January 28 - January 30, 2019
To her, Forging was not some divine art bestowed by ancient objects, but a science not yet understood.
“What is taking that security guard so long?” Enrique grumbled. “He was supposed to be out by eight o’clock. It’s nearly nine.” “Maybe he doesn’t have a clock.” He stared at her. “Are you finally making a joke?” “I’m pointing out a gap in your observation.”
“Habitat.” It sounded like it was meant for animals. People were not animals. It didn’t seem right that they were there solely to be seen.
“Remember what Séverin said. The theft has to look like an accident.” “No explosives,” she said, bored. “No explosives.” Zofia did not mention that she brought her fire tape, incinerator, and matches. Just in case.
When it came to socializing, Zofia had difficulty knowing the right moves. But fighting was different. It was all patterns, anticipation of the movement of muscle. That she could do.
Enrique, feeling his academic tone creeping into his voice. He had a bizarre urge to sit in a leather chair and acquire a fluffy cat. And a pipe.
She rarely laughed and scowled more than she smiled. Watching her now, Enrique was beginning to think she wasn’t really scowling … maybe this was just the face she made when thinking … as if everything was an exercise in computation.
Envy took them in after Wrath accidentally drank tea steeped with wolfsbane. It was not a peaceful death. Séverin knew, for he had watched.
Last night, they’d been laying traps in the garden, trying to catch whatever creature had been killing off all the birds. “You’re sure it’s not Goliath?” Séverin had asked. “Goliath would never do that!” said Tristan, blushing.
Hypnos hadn’t been mad at all. Instead, he’d clapped excitedly. Ah! A prank! Is this what friends do? It was not.
“Are you serious?” “I’m Hypnos.” “Well, I’m not Chinese. I’m Filipino and Spanish.” Enrique took the card. “That’s terribly offensive.”
What’s the saying? Don’t put all the baskets on your head?” Enrique rolled his eyes. “It’s ‘don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’” “I hate eggs. I like my version better,”
Everything about him had been so carefully put together. But it didn’t matter how well one’s clothes fit if the skin didn’t.
He saw how each invitation flew in the face of each person’s self-image.
“When you are who they expect you to be, they never look too closely. If you’re furious, let it be fuel,”
“I can handle that,” he said. “With the help of my good friend, the ancient and honorable botanist, Mr. Ching.” Enrique groaned. “Ugh. It’s Chang. Wait, why am I even correcting this?”
Her mother used to make that sound all the time whenever she thought Zofia lacked modesty. “Lacking.” Another word that did not fit. It was not as if she had some secret stash of modesty and had used it all up. She had learned what was considered modest.
“Fashion, my love, just like the universe, owes you neither explanation nor rationale.”
Be like Laila, said a voice in her brain. Zofia sat up straight, held his gaze, then did what she’d seen Laila do many times when she looked at Séverin—lift one corner of her mouth ever so slightly, but tilt her head down at the same time … wait, now she couldn’t see anything, oh, and Laila would sometimes lift up one shoulder— “What on earth are you doing?” “I am imitating patterns of flirtation.” “Wait. You’re flirting. With … me?” Zofia frowned. Why would he think that? She just said she was imitating the general strategy of others. “Maybe I have the methodology wrong. I also saw women do
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Apparently, my identity as an aging botanist means I’m also nocturnal.” “So are skunks.” “Splendid.”
The walking stick on Zofia’s lap began to roll. She grabbed it quickly and thrust it at him. “Yours.” Enrique reached for it. “Is it a prop for my disguise?” “It’s a bomb.” Enrique nearly dropped it. “Don’t,” said Zofia. “A bomb?” he demanded. “Maybe lead with that?” “It’s a light bomb.” “That sounds oxymoronic.” “A light bomb in the sense that it releases a lot of light.” “Oh.”
“Aristocracy is just a fancy word for thievery, my dear wallets. I am simply embodying what I was innately born with, you see?”
He taught him how to eat and how to hunger for things out of reach and how to steal without ever looking like you lack for something.
“Half of winning, my dear wallet, is simply looking victorious.”
House Kore had turned its country estate into an opulent underworld. How fitting, he thought, for this place was his hell.
“We raised a glass of wine to each other across a dinner table and threw in a lingering look. Voilà. Easiest way to go somewhere unnoticed is to tell everyone where you’re going.
Knowledge would make her brave. And more than anything, Zofia wanted to be brave.
“What would friendship entail?” “Well, on Wednesdays, we sacrifice a cat to Satan.” Zofia nearly tripped. “I’m teasing, Zofia.” Her cheeks turned hot. “I don’t particularly like jokes.” Hypnos gave her a spin. “Well, in the future, I’ll be more aware of that. Friends?”
“Take what the world owes you by any means necessary,” Pride had said.
“The world has a shit memory. It will never pay its debts unless you force its hand.”
“Did you say fur ball?” asked Hypnos. “Like a puppy? How endearing.” “She said fireball.” “Oh. That is decidedly less endearing.”
“What’s going on here”—said Hypnos, his voice rising as a bizarre grin spread across his face, —“is that you care for me. We’re all friends. We’re friends going to save another friend! This is … this is amazing.” Laila wanted to hug him. “I never said that,” said Séverin, alarmed.
“People die for symbols. People have hope because of symbols. They’re not just lines. They’re histories, cultures, traditions, given shape.”
“Garments are an art,” said Laila, walking briskly. “I’ll never get out of it.” “As it so happens, some would consider disrobing an art too.”
“See?” said. “What did I tell you earlier?” Zofia gripped the edge of her seat. “That some people consider disrobing an art?”
“Also: Who wears a blade hat? What if it slips and then you end up slashing your face? Detestable.”
“What did you do?” he demanded. “I did what I wanted. It’s my clock.” “But you promised!” wailed Enrique. “True, but my fingers were crossed.” Hypnos faked a gasp. “Oh no! His fingers were crossed!”
Scars sculpted people into who they were. They were scuffs left by sorrow’s fists, and to him, at least, proof of being thoroughly human.
“Maybe I could stay behind,” said Hypnos. “I could be a point of contact on the street or—” “What happened to being excited about teamwork?” asked Séverin. “That was before I realized how little regard you hold for mortality.”
“Shhh … Shhh … Don’t do that. You shouldn’t hurt yourself. Let someone else do that. Otherwise, where’s the fun?”
Enrique had always imagined what it would feel like to be a hero. This was not how he imagined it.
He thought that, at least, he would have a flaming sword. Instead of a stick. That emitted light.
I think the greatest power is belief, for what is a god without it?
“You’re like a plague.” “What was that? I’m all the rage?” Hypnos cupped a hand to his ear, then grinned.
Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by gilded wolves. And for whatever reason, it made him feel perfectly at home. Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war.
When we revise the horror and sanitize the grotesque, we risk erasing the paths that led us here.
History is a myth shaped by the tongues of conquerors.
