Part I continued
"In the Eye of the Hurricane"
Chapter 9
An ember broke in the white-stoned hearth with a muffled crack. I watched the dying flames from the comfort of my bed, stretched out on my stomach with my chin propped up between my hands.
I couldn't sleep.
The room was quiet and still. Moonlight streamed through the open windows, illuminating my royal chambers in ghostly serenity. The heavy drapes lightly fluttered in the breeze like a sigh in the night. I'd opened the windows after Father let me alone, our training in the throne room concluded.
He'd told me to get some sleep, that fatigue was as deadly as any sword, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Outsider's seductive black gaze.
I felt lost in the dark, waiting for tomorrow, my heart caught in that in between, those silent hours when the world seemed to hold its breath.
I rolled unto my back, groaning with a mix of pleasure and pain. My body hurt, a languishing ache in the muscles––my sword arm especially––but I felt good, too. A boneless peace. My fingers dipped listlessly between my legs as I thought about Wyman's soft lips on my neck, his body on top of me, filling me.
Only last night we'd been in each other's arms, but now he was gone.
I felt so alone. Father had essentially sequestered me in the tower, sending everyone away, both my guard and my servants.
Locked up, after all, I thought bitterly. There's your answer, Outsider.
But I knew Corvo did it to protect me, not knowing who to trust. Even now, he slept on the floor outside my door. I didn't have to worry about his comfort. My father wasn't exactly suited to palace life. Goose feathered pillows. Silky bedsheets. He accepted these things because it was forced upon him, but I knew he could as easily sleep in the dust of the streets. He'd come up from that, and a part of him had never left. I could see it in his eyes, the way he'd sometimes frown when a visiting dignitary complained about the temperature of her tea or said something snide in front of a servant like they were invisible.
My father seemed to inhabit two worlds, the high society life of a Royal Protector, shielding royalty from the dangers of the outside world, and the shadowy life of a man who had peered too often into the darkest pits of society and knew his own hands could create as much violence, or more.
Normally, Corvo slept in his own bed. The Royal Protector had graciously appointed chambers in the main palace below the rooftop courtyard. From his bedroom balcony, he could view the entire Reception Hall below. It used to belong to then-Lord Regent Hiram Burrows who'd kept the room a pale, deathly white, but now it was like the rest of Dunwall Tower: warm wooden tones and royal blues and deep forest greens…
Ah, color. On sleepless nights, I would sometimes take to my easel, comforted by the sounds of brush against canvas. For the last few weeks I'd been secretly painting a portrait, the canvas hidden away in my safe room, but I'd not touched it for days, allowing the oils to dry.
Perhaps that's what I need. Something to do.
Sighing, I forced myself out of bed, as there was no sense in trying. I was wide awake. My feet were bare. I had wrapped myself in a satin robe after peeling away the sweaty layers of my mother's paint suit. The precious garment was draped over a chair for Coral to take for washing.
I wondered what the old chambermaid was doing and what she thought of my strange isolation. She acted so motherly towards me and I knew she'd be worried, having become accustomed to serving my every need. No doubt Erick had already explained away my abrupt departure to everyone at the party, falling back on his usual line this time of year: 'Yes, yes, a most difficult time for the family. The Empress mourns her mother, deeply.'
But, tonight, I mourned my future.
"My last night as Empress."
My voice sounded small and quiet, but I needed to say it out loud… to make it real.
"Empress…"
I didn't know how to be anyone else.
"Empress," I said again. I felt like a ghost, haunting my own chambers. "Empress of foolishness!" What good was any of this doing? I almost wished the Outsider hadn't warned me; all this waiting was bloody torture.
Cold wind swept into my chambers, hollowing eerily. I tucked my hands under my armpits and crossed to the window. Far below, Dunwall sparkled in the night, a thousand lights from the city crowding the river. "This is my city," I said, strength bursting inside my heart. "I am Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin. If I lose my throne, I will take it back."
I shut the window and turned away, ony to face what I'd been trying so hard not to look at.
The harp in the corner.
Rosemary, I thought with a wounded sigh. The harp had known no other touch but hers. How many times had she plucked those strings, comforting me in my darkest hours? Only three years ago, the Queen of Morley had sent her to me as a cultural gift, and since then her voice, her laughter, her music, her dancing, her everything had been flooding Dunwall Tower with light and joy.
She was more to me than a prized court musician––I always thought of her as my best friend. But what was she now? With just one word the Outsider had taken that all away from me…
Witch!
I ran my fingers over the harp strings, a flat joyless sound. I'd lied to Father about what the Outsider had said. It'd been a gut reaction, protecting Rosemary despite everything. I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.
I'd never lied to him before.
I wrapped around my bed, closing the window on the other side. The silence became overpowering, then. No more wind, nor the sound of passing ships along the river, their fog horns dull and droning against the night. No more birds, though at this late hour, they rarely made sound. They nested in the cracks and ledges of Dunwall Tower, pecking at bugs and fluttering their wings, their songs reserved for morning light.
I sat at the edge of my bed, my head bowed. In the moonlight, I saw a slip of white tucked beneath my pillow. Wyman's letter, I realized, my heart leaping. I snatched it up, remembering I'd left it half-read. I pictured Wyman scribbling the words, the look on his face as he poured his heart out with ink. He was a poet; words were his lifeblood.
I found where Rosemary had left off. 'It'll be four months before we can see each other again. I'll miss you.'
I paused. Those four months had taken on a new meaning for me. It wasn't just about Wyman being gone, about braving those four months alone, a desert of distance between us. Now it was pure terror and uncertainty. In four months, I could be dead. Or exiled, or imprisoned. I had no idea. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and read on.
'And yes, I'll bring you some white leaf tobacco for your hookah. (Lord Corvo, if you're reading this letter per your Royal Protector functions, know that I am joking and perfectly aware that white leaf tobacco is forbidden in Gristol.)
Take care, my daring Emily, don't go falling from a rooftop. I love you.
––Wyman.'
A single tear trickled down my cheek and fell free, blotting the paper in my hands. "Be safe, my love," I whispered, grateful for small mercies, for Wyman would be far from danger tomorrow.
I folded the letter and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. I would save it with the others in my safe room. Yes, I had to keep it safe. This letter was important. It could be my last… I pushed that terrifying thought away and crossed to the tall bookshelf beside the white-stoned hearth.
It was a secret door. I curled my hand into a fist, pressing the signet ring of my middle finger flat against the specialized key lock. It made a pleasant clicking sound as the entire bookshelf grumbled, opening a doorway.
Anton Sokolov had created the locking mechanism towards the end of my mother's reign. She'd worn the signet ring, but at her death it became mine. Only one other signet ring existed in the world and it belonged to the Royal Protector.
It was more than a safe room to me.
After the Rat Plague, I'd spent so many nights here, comforted by the windowless walls and the light shining down from above. When I was younger, I called it my secret fort. Corvo and I would build tents (blankets draped over chairs) and spend the night reading adventurous tales about sword fighting and whale hunting. Later, I'd converted it into a studio of sorts. My painting easel was here, along with my training gear: my crossbow and pistol, various healing elixirs and, of course, books. Endless books. Corvo was always making me read about sword fighting tactics and survival skills, which we'd try out later for ourselves down at the abandoned waterfront.
The safe room, of course, still maintained its original purpose. It had food rations, a bed, a toilet, electricity, and running water.
Best of all, the space didn't feel cramped. It had tall walls and a glass ceiling to allow natural sunlight during the day and moonlight by night. The chamber itself was rectangular, with two smaller rooms, side by side, along the right-side wall when you first entered from the bedroom; I called them cubbyholes.
There was a hidden door in the furthest cubbyhole leading down into what we called Jessamine's Inner Chamber, a secret only known to the royal family.
And there was the door that led out to an abandoned section of the palace. I took that route to reach the rooftops.
My escape.
I itched to leave the palace, but with Corvo nearby, I decided against it. I had already lied to him; sneaking out on this night of all nights would only incur his wrath, and so I left the secret door open behind me. I didn't want him to worry.
An electrical light above the doorway flickered to life as I entered, illuminating what I considered my painter's nook. The upper level of my saferoom was a little cramped right when you got through the door, crammed as it was with a large, free-standing easel, an old steamer trunk piled high with pigments, mixing palettes, paint brushes, and cleaning piles. And, of course, the couch, the perfect place to sit and contemplate my latest creation. In this case, her.
My mother's face stared back at me.
I'd been painting a formal portrait of her for weeks, preparing it for tomorrow's remembrance ceremony.
It was a secret project––only Wyman and Rosemary knew about it. They were the only two I had ever invited into my safe room; its very existence was meant to be a guarded secret. Father, of late, had avoided disturbing me when I sought privacy in my safe room, understanding my need to be alone with my friends, and so he'd never seen the painting.
The portrait was too formal.
Oh, I had tried to fix it. For days I had slaved over the canvas, trying to remedy the cold lines in my mother's face, the aloofness in her green eyes, but still she stood before me, regal and perfect. It was Empress Jessamine at the height of her power, standing with one hand on her hip, her gaze impersonal and distant.
I hated it.
Everytime I looked at it, I felt an overwhelming urge to destroy the painting, to take the blackest pigment I could find and smear it all over the canvas in wide, brutal strokes. This wasn't Mother. She liked to have her hair down. And her smile… I'd tried to paint it over and over, but it was as though my brush couldn't curve up her lips.
She frowned in perpetual sadness. Lost in the Void.
But I'd only just found out about the Heart… had a part of me always known?
"I should stick to landscapes. I'm better at those," I growled, turning raised platform led down a few steps to the center of the safe room. There were books strewn on the floor, pages flipped open. No, not discarded. Not mishandled. These were my musings, my way of thinking and creating. I didn't like sitting in one place when I read. I moved with the light as it streamed through the windows far above.
I tucked Wyman's letter into a little drawer along the back wall. We'd only been together for a year (and only sexually active since the Month of Seeds), but he'd written me dozens of love letters. The drawers were getting full.
With that done, I collapsed on the bed in the little cubbyhole with the toilet and faucet. Not the most romantic arrangement, but the other cubbyhole was crowded with treasure. Solid gold, mostly, and old sculptures and dusty books.
The bed wasn't even that comfortable: just a mattress on a wooden platform with too-thin sheets and too-flat pillows. But it felt safe. I was surrounded by my childhood. I had started drawing and painting at a young age, and during the Rat Plague, it had helped me express my feelings. Some were bright, others dark. The drawings meant a lot to me. I even had a toy-sized wooden skiff carved by Samuel Beechworth, and a little doll in a Morley dress that Callista had given me.
And I had an audiograph machine.
Some of the recordings were of Rosemary's music (Gristol harp or Serkonan guitar). I even had a silly recording of Wyman's laughter when he recited a bawdy rhyme he'd written about my 'voluptuous bosom' and 'secret pearl.' He'd gotten very good at finding my so-called 'secret pearl,' swirling it with his tongue until I begged him to take me hard and fast.
But the punch card now fitted into the audiograph was one I would only play once a year, and had every year since Mother's death.
I reached over and hit play, then fell back on the bed, closing my eyes.
It was my mother's voice.
'Emily, my daughter, I know that one day you'll be all grown up, and I wonder what you'll remember of these years. Will you recall your time as a child with fondness? Or were there too many caretakers, formal dinners and lessons about boring old history? Maybe the precious hours we spent together will shine brighter––time captured now and then with your mother and with Corvo, who was always close to my heart.
I hope the season of rats and plague will be nothing more than a passing shadow on your early memories. A crisis come and passed, weathered by your mother and her advisors.
You'll sit on the throne someday, and will do well I hope. It's a tricky life, full of responsibility and peril. It was not your choice to be the daughter of an Empress, but I believe you'll rise to the challenge.
Stay good-hearted, Emily. Keep drawing and telling stories. And only share your power with those you truly trust.'
I felt raw, like an open wound that had just scabbed over. Easily broken.
Somehow, sleep came for me…. and I dreamed.
I was in the broken tower outside the Hounds Pit Pub, wrapped up in Callista's arms. We were gazing out the open door, watching the waves break against the distant rocky shore where Dunwall Tower stood, dark and forbidding. I stared at those gray walls in the misty distance, wishing with all my heart that I could go home…
That Mother would still be there, waiting for me.
'You can't go back. Your mother's dead. Corvo's dead. They're all dead!' It was the nasty old Regent's voice. He was looking down his hawkish nose at me, sneering in disgust, but in the next instant, his head rolled off his shoulders in a spray of blood.
My father's masked face rose up behind him in the shadows. The Masked Felon. Death incarnate as blood dripped from his sword… 'Corvo!' my dream-self screamed into the darkness.
But I was standing alone on a beach with a glass bottle in my fist. Inside was a little note, rolled up tight. 'Corvo, I am very sad. They say that you're dead like Mother, but I'm going to put this note in a bottle and throw it into the river because I do not believe them. Living here is strange. I do not like it, so please come for me if you can.' I was back at the Golden Cat, then, where they kept me hostage.
I knew from the smell.
Stale sweat mixed with cigar smoke, and the lingering sourness of men's seed, spilled over red velvet. I saw the Pendleton Twins with a prostitute between them, using her roughly as they pulled back her head by the hair. The black makeup around her eyes was flooded by tears, smearing across her cheeks like raven's wings. Then, suddenly, as dreams are wont to do, it wasn't the Pendleton Twins anymore. It was Lord Cosimo, the Duke's younger brother, mounting her from behind, but his dark eyes were on me, roving over my body.
He leered at me and said, 'You're next, Empress.'
I startled awake, gasping, "No!"
"Your Highness?"
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding. It was Rosemary's voice, calling in whispered urgency from the doorway. I peeked out the cubbyhole, my eyes wide with shock. She stood there alone, looking frightened, but when her blue eyes saw mine, she lit up with hope. I pitched forward, moving towards the center of the room. "How did you get past my father?"
I stole a glance to my right, noting the pistol on the scratched wood of the workshop bench.
She paled, then. "Oh, Emily, it's been the most awful night. Please… hear me out."
She stayed where she was, sensing my distrust. She stood on the raised platform near my mother's portrait, her blonde hair turned pale in the moonlight. She wore a lacy red dress, the same from the party. She looked beautiful, as ever.
"Your father's all right," she said, her head turning towards the door. "He's sleeping. I…"
She hesitated, her blue eyes flickering.
"I Blinked from one side of the hallway to the other, so that I wouldn't get too close to him. I then used your study, the ledge outside… I… I came in through your bedroom window, Emily."
The words hung in the air.
I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. I felt sick to my stomach, caught between the urge to fight or flee.
Blinking was black magic, something my father could do. It was teleportation, shifting from one point to another without traversing the physical space between––all in the blink of an eye.
I asked in a tight voice, "Then you remember? You know you're a witch?"
She shook her head. "No. I mean, yes, I think I might be a witch, but I can't remember. Not with any clarity." She nervously twisted her fingers. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I keep jumbling this all up."
"Just start at the beginning."
She took a deep breath. "That strange man from the party, the Prince of Pandyssia, what he said about the curse… I… I couldn't believe it was real––it sounded so ridiculous! But when you left the party early with that look on your face, I realized you believed it, and then… then I started doubting myself."
I stared at her. It was Rosemary, the same beautiful face, the same trusting blue eyes, but there was confusion and fear lingering in the shadow of her eyes.
I believed her.
"Go on," I said.
"I don't know what it means to forget myself," she said with an obvious attempt to laugh, to capture the lightheartedness she seemed to always imbue, but it fell flat. "I have memories of home… of family. I remember living in Morley and being invited to play in the Queen's court in Wynnedown. But…"
"But what?"
It came out sharp. Impatient.
"But before that, my childhood… Emily, there are gaps––"
"Gaps?!"
"Yes, gaps. Holes in my memory."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Don't look at me that way. I'm sorry, Emily! I don't remember forgetting." She looked miserable, her eyes falling to the floor. "But I suppose that's on purpose."
I silently stewed, gnawing in indecision. Rosemary seemed to forget I was there. Her blue eyes went faraway. She mumbled, "I have dreams, sometimes… There's a broken mansion in a swamp, and mist everywhere. It's all so magical looking, like something from a fairytale. I played in the gardens. I can feel moss between my toes, and sometimes I'd climb the trees. We braided flowers in our hair."
"We?"
She looked at me. "My sisters."
Sisters of a witch coven, I realized with a shudder. "You lived in this mansion with your sisters?"
"I think so." She frowned. "Emily, you have to believe me. I never believed those dreams were anything but a strange fantasy. They terrified me! I just… let them go. I focused on my life with you, here in the palace, my music… I love it here, Your Highness. I'm happy with my life and who I am now. What does it matter who I once was? That girl is gone. Forgotten."
I shook my head, feeling sick. "Not so forgotten. You said you Blinked, Rosemary. That's black magic."
Her lower lip trembled, her blue eyes filling with tears. "I'm scared, Emily."
I forced myself to stay calm. Her tears could be a trick. "You Blinked. How? How did you know what to do?"
"I don't know."
"Think, Rosemary."
She grunted in frustration. "It just came to me!" She fisted her hair and looked beyond me. "It's like when I'm playing music on the harp or guitar. I just… I feel it, Emily! It comes so naturally to me. I play with my heart. I don't even have to think about it."
"Muscle memory?"
"I suppose," she said, but she was shaking her head. "It was like it knew me, like something had come alive in my heart and told me what to do. It burned away the fog. I could see again."
"It?"
"My magic. It's alive."
As she spoke, her eyes became emblazoned with flame, but only for a heartbeat. The next instant, I doubted if I had really seen anything, it was so fast, and yet I couldn't deny the alarm bells ringing in my head, telling me to be wary. The Outsider hadn't just called her a witch; he'd said a powerful witch. For the first time, I thought I'd caught a glimpse of her true power.
Rosemary waited for my reply.
I crossed my arms and gave her an even stare. "I've seen you naked many times. You're not Marked by the Outsider. How can you use sorcery?"
That made her blush. "I don't know. Perhaps I'm still… connected to the sisters that cursed me somehow."
"Perhaps."
All witches shared an arcane bond, according to Father. All it took was for one or two powerful witches in the center, Marked by the Outsider, and their power flowed down into the others in the coven. But I thought that only worked if the witches were all loyal. If Rosemary was cursed, didn't that signify an outcast witch?
"You're trying to make sense of it, I know," Rosemary said gently. "I am, too."
I didn't take my eyes off her.
I wished I could ask Corvo what to do––he'd encountered a powerful witch from his time as a fugitive during the Rat Plague. Granny Rags, they called her.
Corvo had killed her.
"What do you want?" I asked, stone cold.
"I came to pledge my fealty, Empress," she said solemnly. "If I am a witch, then I'm your witch."
She knelt and bowed her head, holding still.
It shocked me. She had made herself vulnerable. Was it true submission or a trap? My mother's words came back to me: 'Only share your power with those you truly trust.'
And Father's: 'Only those you trust can betray you.'
I made a choice.
I expected her to struggle, but she went limp in my arms, surrendering to the chokehold. As her breath came in little gasps, I whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry, Rosemary, but I can't trust you. Not until I know more."
I carried her to the bed, laying her down and sitting beside her to cradle her head in my lap. "I'm so sorry," I cried. I felt like I had lost my best friend.
My hands were shaking as I felt along her lacy dress, searching for weapons, for anything that might prove she'd meant me harm.
I felt something. In disbelief, I pulled out a small square-shaped token with my father's likeness imprinted on it. I'd last seen one earlier today––aboard the Jessamine. Corvo had given Mister Fletcher a token as a means of access to the Sunset Regalia since he had no formal invitation.
I exclaimed, laughter mixed with tears, "Devious, beautiful girl! Did you steal it from Mister Fletcher during the party? Is this how you got past all the guards?"
She had explained how she got past my father––sorcery––but not how she had made it past dozens of Elite Guards with orders not to let anyone up the elevators to the Throne Room, besides the Captain. Perhaps the Royal Protector's token had turned enough heads to allow her through.
She was, after all, my constant companion. My Guest of Honor, my clear confidant. Everyone in the palace knew who she was. Why wouldn't they let her through?
I hid the token in a drawer, if only to hide it from Father, and left the safe room, carefully carrying out my mother's portrait for tomorrow's ceremony. I propped it against the wall near my bed.
"I have to lock you away, Rosemary," I whispered as I sealed the secret door, the bookshelf returning to its original position with an audible click and groan. If she was a true threat, I had effectively neutralized it, at least for tomorrow.
I went to my bed and stuffed two pillows under my arms, then dragged off the top blanket, walking to the door with it trailing behind me. Corvo had already opened it, no doubt hearing the secret door rumble for a second time.
He blinked at me wearily. "Emily?"
"Don't get up." I threw the blanket on the ground outside the door, and the pillows. "I can't sleep."
He yawned and slouched against the wall, taking me into his arms as we dropped to the floor. I snuggled against his chest and closed my eyes, my fears dissolving into the sound of his beating heart. I was his little girl. Nothing bad was going to happen.
