Chapter TWs: Xenophobia, canon typical racism, mentions of death.

Her head pounds - the sensation making her skin crawl along her limbs and skull like an insect burrowing beneath the surface. The movement is rapid, so completely out of sync with everything else inside of her that it makes every part of her ache. Any tiny moment of relief is brought crashing down with each beat of her heart and each breath of air in her lungs. An itch caused by an unseen force, a presence she cannot explain. It makes her stomach float somewhere in her throat, while the shock in her limbs makes her feel like she has hit the earth after a sudden, excruciating drop. Adrenaline stains her tongue with copper and she finds herself wiping at her mouth to ensure that she has not bitten off her tongue in a nightmare induced panic.

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing away the sensations around her; going so far as to wish away the comforting weight of the blankets upon her if only to feel less trapped. Their weight presses against her chest, making the short breaths she takes painful, only adding to that unexplainable itch deep beneath the surface.

It is not as if she has not woken up to worse - been trapped in nightmares and been in pain less welcome than what she feels now, but whatever it is that has her trapped in her bed nags at her. It scrapes along her memories like that of a persistent scratch of nails along a spider's bite. She has forgotten - what exactly that is, she cannot be sure, but she cannot deny it: she has forgotten. Maybe she never even really remembered. It rests somewhere inside of her like a memory, but withers away like a dream until it makes a hole where it once sat. Something lives inside the hole though, it screams and writhes about while it waits for her to recall something she is not sure was ever really there.

From downstairs, a man's voice rings out. Her name echos up and into her quarters, impatient. Maybe even angry. Shortly after, footsteps begin to ascend towards her, their weight pressing further into her chest with such force that she finds it almost enough to make her scramble from bed. Before she can make the move, there is a pause and whispers before they turn back just as suddenly as they came.

She must have overslept. Unacceptable on even the most unassuming of days and even more-so today. Master Morris will be waiting for her and she is sure that her mistress will be in need of her to ready for the day. Her tardiness will not go unnoticed, even with the others preparing food and finishing their tasks. If she does not rise soon, what little forgiveness she might earn will be thrown aside for a harsher outcome.

Yet, she still finds the feelings assaulting her mind to be too much to continue. It is not so simple as ignoring them, for the way they smother her physically is enough to make simply rising a nearly impossible task.

What is it then that she cannot recall?

"Unfortunate."

"What is that, brother?"

Every muscle locks into place, even the twitching of her fingers stops. Her body plunges into a fear that leaves her feeling as though she is sinking into the biting cold of the ocean. The voices that fill the small room, unwelcome and unknown, are foreign to her and she has to take a moment to ensure that she has not fallen back into a deep sleep.

"It is all beginning to affect her."

"How so?"

"The doors between our worlds are not so tightly sealed, sister."

"Ah, I see what you mean."

She peeks an eye open, telling herself there is nothing to fear, like the skip in a record. All the while, stories of the Fair Folk play out in her mind - her mother's voice urging her to ignore their falsehoods, lest she be taken away from this world and trapped in their own. The smaller part of her begs to listen, while a part of her too curious to heed such warnings begs her to press forward.

"Perhaps it best to stop surprising her," the very much deceased Rosalind Lutece says, standing at the end of her bed. Her hands are folded in front of her, almost expectingly so. Her tone, though, is matter of fact and yet dripping with amusement directed at her own confusion. As though she finds her very being a show for her own amusement. It makes a great distaste for the dead woman smother over the fear she had felt before.

"What the hell are you doing in my room?" she says, voice still edging on shaking with unease. "You two're dead."

"She does not sound so certain."

"Then there may be hope for her yet."

The man, she recalls his name was (is?) Robert, steps forward and she instinctively moves back, pressing into the headboard behind her with enough force to make the wood emit a groan. He pauses and she thinks she might see the briefest glimpse of sympathy cross his gaze before he returns to that of a porcelain doll. Him, she decides, she likes much better than the woman.

Maybe they really are dead.

"You'll be needing this."

He offers her a key, holding it delicately between his thumb and pointer fingers. He seems unbothered by the weight the thick iron must possess, gracefully balancing it as though it is nothing more than a feather. To her though, it looks foreboding - almost as though she is sealing her fate by taking the item into her own grasp. Perhaps that is why she makes no move to accept his strange gift, and perhaps that is why he proceeds to spin it back and forth, as though that might change her mind.

She frowns when her eyes catch something - a bird, engraved into the metal, passes by with each turn of the key. A cage follows.

The images call to her, pulling her body forward until she is leaning forward onto her palms to watch them dance before her. Suddenly, they merge and she feels her lips pursing with childlike glee before cautiously reaching to take the object from him, "Why might I be needing this? And what purpose do two ghosts have offering it up to me?"

"We are in need of a change to our variables, or so my brother thinks. The smaller, the better. We might just be getting close.," Rosalind replies, turning to her brother, who nods in acknowledgement. "Now that you hold the cage, we shall see if it is enough. Are you jailer?"

"Or savior?"

"Enough? Enough for what?"

She looks back to the strange key, twirling it in her hands and watching the images merge together once more. When not reply comes, her fingers halt, bringing the spin to an abrupt stop and leaving her only the image of a bird to see. She glances back towards the twins, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and annoyance at their cryptic nature, only to find that they have vanished just as quickly as they came.

"Strange dreams and now I'm seeing ghosts," she muses, looking back towards the heavy key in her hand, "Next thing you know, they'll be locking me back up and throwing away an entirely different key, eh?"

After some time, too long really, she reaches out towards the unwanted table at her bedside and gathers up the silver chain that sits next to the smothered lantern that grants it a lone source of company. It feels cold in her palm, as though it has been left to fend for itself upon the streets in the dead of winter. It makes her recall the story of the little girl with her matches her eldest brother had read her once in her youth. With caution, even more than when she had taken the key from two dead strangers, she grasps the weight at the bottom, examining the locket as though its chill is a trick and it may burn the tips of her fingers with an unwelcome hatred.

She shakes the thought off and lets it falls, unclasping the ends and sliding the strange gift down to meet it. Strange as it is, she cannot help but feel it is important and that before the day ends, she will find some use of it yet.

With her task finished, she rises from the bed, not bothering with the tangled mess of sheets behind her. She is already late and while Master Morris had showed unexpected compassion moments ago, she knows that it will not last long. So, instead, she gathers the clothing laid out and provided for her the night before and strips, buttoning and tying the new ones like an unwanted skin that suffocates her own. A costume fitting a role that has consumed her like a snake consumes a rat.

As she heads to the door, she pauses as the mirror, twisting and fussing with her hair one last time before pulling open the barrier of mock safety and descending the stairs. The smell of warm food slowly rises as she meets the last thresholds of her world and their own, and her mouth begins to water at the thoughts of warm biscuits and meats that hide away nearby. She ignores the gnawing in her belly and continues on, descending the next flight of stairs with more uncertainty than the last.

"You're late," her mistress calls. Her back is to her, but she can still see the disapproving glare reflected back at her on the freshly cleaned glass of the window. "If today were not cause for celebration, I would not see it fit to be so forgiving. Though, if we find ourselves at all tardy because of your rude desire to oversleep, I may see fit to forgo this gift."

She says nothing in response, feeling the weight hidden under her blouse stinging at her mind and begging for attention. She had nearly forgotten the Fair today. She is lucky that her master and mistress are in such jolly moods - though she cannot help but wonder for how long.

"Maxine. Are you listening to me?"

Maxie, she wants to correct her. It's Maxie, you awful shrew.

Instead, she answers with an obedient, "Yes, ma'am. Your forgiveness is a blessing that I shall not waste. How may I assist you? Your corset seems loose - shall I retie it?"

Miss Morris scoffs, but she can see the faintest bit of pity in her eyes as she watches her through the reflection. No doubt the woman is questioning her intelligence, wondering if Fink had somehow conned her out of a proper maid. Maxie nearly screams at the very idea that she would be as respected with such status in this household.

"Your accent, Maxine. It is too thick this morning for my liking - do keep your lips tightly sealed today. We do not want any embarrassments."

Her jaw clenches tight and she bites at her tongue, willing away the hateful words and suddenly very conscious of her thick, Irish brogue. It burns her cheeks with an unwarranted shame and she resists the urge to slap the woman for her rude behavior. It would only land her in a cell, or maybe worse if her luck ran dry. So, she does the only defiant thing she can and voices her agreement, not bothering to hide her tongue for one last moment,

"Yes, ma'am. I apologize, ma'am."

"Yes, I suppose you do, Maxine. Come then, help me dress and wake Thomas. My husband is waiting for us and we shan't delay so rudely any longer."

With a deep exhale, Maxie nods and steps forward to begin the trials of the day. Her strange encounter vanishing like a dream and plunging her into the unwelcome realities of the world.

Ten years, Maxie muses, glancing at the balloons and confetti that fly through the wind around her. Ten years and the floating city continues to thrive like a parasite in the belly of the beautiful beast. She hates all the faces surrounding her, their masks and smiles taunting her with their undeserved joy. Her hand tightens slightly and she hears Thomas whimper with displeasure at her side.

"Maxie, you are hurting me."

She pauses in her thoughts and looks to the boy, frowning deeply and moving to kneel beside him, a sad smile tugging at the sides of her mouth as she speaks, "Forgive me, Master Thomas. I was lost in thought - did I harm you?"

"No, I think it's alright," he mutters, a tiny smile making his chubby cheeks look even larger than before. It fills her with a tiny speak of joy and she smooths back his hair one last time. "Maxie, can we go to the fair now?"

Maxie. She hums and shakes her head, "It is Maxine here, Master Thomas. You wouldn't want your mother to hear you speaking in such ways. Be a good boy and I'll be sure that you get your fill of sugar after the raffle, lad."

"Yes, Miss Maxine," he says, once again barely above a mutter of shyness. It makes her frown and worry for the boy, but it is all she can do to rise to her feet and pull him to her leg, hand pressed against his cheek in a mockery of a hug. The boy needs more comfort than his parents provide him, she muses sadly as he grips at the sides of her skirts (new and pressed, just for the occasion. A gift, Miss Morris had claimed, but a gift she would have tossed over the sides of the city had she any choice.). "Where is mother? She promised she would come."

"I'm sure she will meet us there," she lies, "After her shopping. Today is a special day, Master Thomas. So lucky are we to be welcome in this city, and so lucky am I to have you as my charge. Do not forget our blessings, lad, and thank the Prophet for his generosity, eh?"

The boy smiles, his grip on her leg tightening with affection. She reaches down and pinches his cheek before motioning ahead, "To the Fair then? Perhaps we can win you a new prize for the collection - what might you like? I have heard talk that the newest Songbird toy has been released. We could add it to the others."

Thomas slips his hand into her's as they walk and Maxie takes special care to watch her pace as the continue towards the colorful tents. She knows he has trouble matching her pace and wonders if it best to carry him instead. Nearby, she can hear the joyful singing of The "Bee" Sharps and finds the weight in her head dissipating as she looks back to her charge, "Well, Thomas?"

He frowns and keeps his gaze forward, though she notices the way his tiny fist moves to meet his mouth - she must break him of that nail-biting habit before his father notices, "I do not like The Songbird, Miss Maxine. He frightens me - the other boys say he throws bad children off the city to the sinners down below."

"The other boys only say that to frighten you. Do you know why?" She asks, waiting until he shakes his head to finish her reply, "They are scared of how brave you are, Thomas. So, keep showing them just how much courage you have, lad. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Maxine."

"That's my boy," she smiles and guides Thomas away from a man offering samples of one of Fink's latest Vigors. The colorful lights are enough to grab anyone's attention and she finds no small amount of disgust that they would be offering samples around such small children, "Now, why don't we try the ring toss? I think I see a sweet teddy that could use a home with us."

With new excitement, Thomas charges forward, jumping hurriedly next to the stall. The game master smiles widely as he offers the boy a small handful of rings and points to the bottles laid out before them as he explains the rules, but when his eyes meet Maxie's own, she cannot help but notice the falter in his voice. The disgust in his eyes as they wander from her feet to her hair - nothing she isn't used to, of course, but she cannot help but worry for her charge. Worry of what assumptions have crossed the man's mind.

"Master Thomas," she calls, taking great care not to move too close, but still close enough to direct the man's attention to her words, "only a few games. Your mother is waiting for us at the raffle!"

The man seems appeased - finding disgusting comfort in the fact that Thomas is not her own son. In turn, she feels a burning in her stomach that makes her vision red, though she is careful to only grip her skirts a bit harder in her anger. The touch of the fabric is grounding and cool, a relief from the heat that makes her eyes water. No need to cause a scene - so she breaths in and out. Counts them and hopes that the day will come to a peaceful end. She closes her eyes and imagines herself back in the warmth of her bed, blankets wrapped around her and keeping the rest of this awful city away for just a few hours.

A shame those hours were so fleeting.

Someone collides with her, hitting against her shoulder and causing her to stumble towards the ground in her surprise. Her thoughts shatter, crashing before her like glass. She gasps and readies herself for impact against the stone, squeezing her eyes shut tighter and moving her hands forward in a vain attempt to stop the impact. Someone grabs her before it comes, pulling her back to her feet and steadying her with a firm grip that reminders her of her father. It brings her comfort and makes her the churching hatred in her stomach begin anew.

"Are you alright, miss?"

She slowly opens her eyes and stares back at the man, mouth agape and at a loss of words. She had been ready to shout at the pain of the impact and now her brain scrambles to replace it with something else. So, she fumes instead, eyes narrowed and frustrations of the day piling on once more, "Quite alright, though had you not been so careless I might have been spared the trouble all together."

The man, much older and dressed in strange attire, seems just as surprised by her ire as she is. So surprised in fact, that her stomach drops and aches something fierce. He looks like a detective, she muses, from one of her Mistress's books: gruff and world weary, with eyes that pierce into any soul and make them confess dark truths. It is then that she notices the holster at his side and wonders if he is in the employee of The Founders - it does seem that more of their forces are out than usual today. Though she suspects it is due to the Prophet's visions and paranoias as of late. Perhaps he is meant to blend in amongst them?

"Forgive me, sir," she mutters, looking back down and hoping that her worries are unfounded. "I meant nothing by it."

"No harm done," he pauses and she takes the moment of his distraction to glance towards Thomas, who is thankfully lost in his game. She can't have him approaching strange men, no matter how idealistic the Prophet claims the city is. Finally, whatever distraction had caught the man's attention seems to fade and he looks back to her, moving his hands from her shoulders (she notices now how grim he looks. As if he has not smiled in years and his face has etched itself permanently into such a serious expression). "I'll be out of your hair then. Enjoy your…"

A pause, just long enough that she finds herself raising a brow in confusion at the man's odd behavior. He forces a smile, it looks unwelcoming and makes her nose crinkle with discomfort as he continues, "Holiday."

"Of course, sir. Thank you."

Just then, she feels the tugging on her skirts and looks down to find Thomas watching the man with distrust. She wonders if he has noticed the same strange air about the man that she had. Comfort, she thinks, is what the boy needs in such a situation. So, she kneels to him, smiling and offering her best expressions of joy at the new teddy in his arms, trying her best to ignore the man beside her. Thomas's eyes light then, the distraction from what she decides must have been her own discomfort tainting his mood vanishing. When she turns to wish the man good day though, the unease returns - he has all but vanished.

Rude, she thinks. So very strange and rude.

"A few more games then, Master Thomas," she states, finding herself hesitating with each word as a chill causes the hair upon her arms to rise, "Then we shall go and meet your mother at the raffle. Come then."

Maxie smiles at her charge and squeezes his hand softly, ignoring the pit in her stomach and the writhing that has returned from the morning. Something is very wrong. Perhaps, she admits, the Prophet is right in his paranoia.

A/N:

i) All I can say is: Elizabeth is a canon queer character, Ken Levine said so and I'm sick of seeing people think up non-excuse to ship incest because they're so desperate for heterosexual relationships. That being said, bless Jack/Elizabeth.

ii) I'm still not sure if this fic will end up having explicit sexual content, but we'll see. At the very least, I may write something in the future related to this.