NB: This work is part of an interconnected series/multichapter of one-shots. Context isn't required and these chapters can be read as standalone works but if you're curious, you can check out the end chapter which explains the premise and the A/Ns. If you're not interested, please enjoy the story freely and don't let me stop you!

Chapter Summary:

Pacifica Northwest is everything: an accomplished athlete, an attentive student, and a brilliant pianist. "All rewards lead to her"—a phrase usually following her. That's how it had to be.

Yet a fateful anniversary of an esteemed member of their family's birth feels... different. And Pacifica faces something she never has in any competition: doubt.

Disclaimer: Depending on your definition of the term, the story may contain instances of very slight child abuse that's been portrayed in the show itself. Read with discretion. Gravity Falls belongs to Alex Hirsch.

A/N:

EnneaQuote: "Type Three—now, let me describe that real succinctly: they both prefer the heart and yet they repress the heart. They want to be relational, loving, caring people—and they are. But they also want to do something with it. They're dynamic and the true meaning of a dynamo. They're dynamic people who want to move life towards action. I always say, 'they grease the wheels of life'."—Fr. Richard Rohr

Author Commentary: Threes centre around the prospect of achieving. The main aim of a type Three is to prove to themselves and the world that they can do whatever they set their sights towards. In their greatest hours, Threes can become the most impactful leaders of the Enneagram. Their vitality allows others to be inspired and to follow in their footsteps, awed by the sheer determination with which they pursue their goals. The simple fact is that Threes are incredible to watch as any other type.

In spite of that, Threes often suffer from insecurity regarding the value others/themselves think they have. They are frightened by the possibility of not being good enough rather than failure itself. But whereas similar conflicts in other types like One focus on amending innate human imperfection, Threes accentuate their focus on their well-defined achievements, making them an anchor point to their personal value. What they find as a worthy achievement goes to show they are, in fact, worthy of love. Many Threes, therefore, can become burnt out and almost lose their initial drive to better themselves and aid others, losing connection with their heart. At their worst, they can be driven out of self-deception regarding their true self.

Now, let us also touch upon another aspect of the Enneagram for a moment. It'll be brief, as this isn't the focus of the story, but some elements are quite integral to the Enneagram. In this case, I'm referring to wing types and the three triads.

Wing types are accompanying types to each of the Enneagram types, emphasised and denoted by a 'w' between two types (i.e. 2w3, 1w2, 9w1). They serve to specify two subsets of each type, each subset taking from the second type (the one after the 'w'). It's good to note that the wing types are formed by taking a type and looking at the ones next to them on the Enneagram symbol. You can have 4w5, for example, but you can't have 8w2.

The three triads are semantic formations which divide the Enneagram symbol into three distinct groupings of the nine types. They, in short, separate the types into which part of the human body is most often used in everyday decision-making: the heart (feelings—Twos, Threes, Fours); the head (thoughts—Fives, Sixes, Sevens); the gut (instincts—Eights, Nines, Ones).

Type Three

No. No. No.

Annoying. Alarm. Clock. Was. Annoying.

"Shut up..." Pacifica slurred out, slamming the persistent reminder which kept track of when it was time to masquerade through another day.

She also flung a treat towards the resident restless parrot in her room which served the same repugnant purpose as the clock. Fortunately, the bird itself had not woken up yet and the snack she'd grabbed from the box under her bed only bounced off its head. Why her parents had insisted on finding a slew of ways to assure she'd wake up was as inexplicable as the intense spitefulness it birthed in her.

Pacifica, dawdling in the comfort of the luxurious bed, turned around and faced the faraway ceiling which was emblazoned with a swathe of geometric patterns. Her eyes worked, compulsively connecting the lines and imagining how much effort such a creation had taken. Even in the nineteenth century, it appeared virtuosic architects possessed ability beyond quantifiable measure and caressed their work with heaps of determination—something she could very well admire.

She bit her lip, aware she had stalled far too long and was already falling behind the morning routine's schedule

She glanced at the calendar out of habit. Of course, Pacifica had already known the date and how special it was. More importantly, it reaffirmed how much faster she had to be in order to still arrive on time.

Taking matters into the proper hands, she arose from the comfort of complacency, quickly striding near the tall, spotless window overlooking the entry to Northwest Manor and past the huge, overbearing glass display case for trophies and medals. The novelty of each new prize she claimed for excellence in swimming and various musical ventures (singing, piano playing, the like) had worn off faster than the one before. Even more grating was how her lack of participation in any competitions as of recent had still found a way to irk Pacifica, given their importance when it came to one's status amongst the Northwests.

Fortunately for her, that was bound to be fixed.

Lost in the fogginess of her musings, it was natural that the door to the room ferociously flinging open would have startled Pacifica. She jumped away more than she would have had the commotion not happened at the precise second she lurched to turn the knob.

"I knew you'd be here, Pacifica Northwest!" the intruder, their eccentric head butler who had a blue linen cloth draped over his shoulder for unbeknownst reasons, announced with the underwhelming force of a haphazard scolding. "Even if I had hoped we would keep your morning track record clean!"

Pacifica waved away the momentary impact of bright chandelier light coming from the corridor, shouting, "Scalburry! I was about to open the door! You nearly hit me!"

"That would be Sir Scalburry to you, my dear. My, how unbefitting of a Northwest!" The over-the-top Australian accent added more to his aura of repulsion. Scalburry's manner of speech was most likely grounded in falsehoods from what Pacifica had sometimes deduced between serious conversations she had overheard him having with her father. Unfortunately, that knowledge didn't help diminish her resentment of his posturing. "It's my prerogative to deliver you to your mother in an orderly fashion. Now, allow me to speed this up lest you kill any more precious time!"

Surely with the intent not to trouble himself with further acts of disobedience, Scalburry grabbed Pacifica by the wrist with striking gusto and began taking her somewhere only a deluded mind could set its sights on.

"Hey, wait!" Pacifica protested, her feet bumping over the clumped silk carpet. "I'm not that behind! I can catch up on my own and without your help!"

She tried to free herself, but it was of no use. Doing a bulk of the manual labour around a giant manor was bound to give one a modicum of upper-body strength, perhaps meant to effortlessly 'assume guidance' over a person of Pacifica's stature, no doubt.

"Nonsense," Scalburry said, not sparing a single giant step in his walk. "If you could manage yourself, I'd have at least one less job out of the seventy-eight I perform in Northwest Manor."

Pacifica had a hunch for as long as she could remember that Scalburry took up an inhuman amount of work in the house. Only now did she ever hear him mention a metric for individual tasks he'd been assigned. Nevertheless, pertaining to his butler duties, the two reached the sixth bathroom—the one next to her parents' bedroom which was, to no resident's surprise, the largest and the one decorated in the most exquisite fashion—in half the time it'd have taken to cross the vast halls with a normal pace.

Although vigilant in her attempts to resist control, Pacifica faltered as Scalburry continued to control her movements well after they got to their location. The invasive butler wouldn't allow her to gaze upon her own reflection out of how much his right hand worked in keeping the small touches of makeup on her face symmetric. Courtesy of Scalburry's other free hand, voicing any dissatisfaction was also impossible, as he combined everything else with the jagged brushing of Pacifica's teeth.

After being done with the laborious venture, Scalburry eyed Pacifica for a lapse, stroking his tapered goatee with a lithe hand. Pacifica waited for the remains of the shampoo which caused the sting in her eyes to wear out and bore witness to a head of blonde hair that was styled much more to her liking than last she had visited a hairdresser.

No longer was it a flowing streak of yellow—rather, the individual clumps were transformed into a more delicate string of braids. It was surprising, given Scalburry had never helped her with anything of the sort before. She had an inkling this feeling was rooted in how her hair had always been done per her mother's liking, causing the sudden change to appear weird—in a good way, that was.

"Brilliant!" Scalburry clapped, wasting no further time to snag her off the sink. "Now, come!"

"No, no!" Pacifica shouted as they were exiting the room, trying to follow Scalburry through his apparent lack of concern regarding possibly slipping over the wet floor. She had little clue how the insane servant wasn't fearful of damaging his pure wool tuxedo which cost more than a used car.

"Crowalski!" Scalburry yelled, the call echoing in the expansive corridor and sounding far more demanding that it might have otherwise. "Clothes!"

Before Pacifica could put her hands up and brace herself for what was to come, she felt a flurry of different fabric hit her in the face and body. Peeking out with one eye after lifting the underside of a shirt which had been draped over her head led her to the obvious conclusion that she was covered (but not dressed) in her everyday clothes.

"You know that's not how people put clothes on, right?" she asked Scalburry's short, oval-faced, weirdly named assistant Crowalski matter-of-factly.

Scalburry facepalmed and shot a glare towards his protégé. Crowalski hung his head and frowned.

"Right..." Scalburry continued, letting out a nervous cough. "I'll give you some privacy, then!"

Pacifica sighed, collecting the articles of clothing and entering the bathroom again. She soon exited, handing her sleepwear to Crowalski. Scalburry tapped his helper's shoulder, presumably indicating to him in some 'butler language' to leave the vicinity and attend to other matters.

"Blimey! Well, that was quite the timing, Pacifica—given the circumstances, that is!" Scalburry fiddled with his golden wristwatch a moment before forming a gullible grin. "I'm impressed!"

"Whatever," Pacifica muttered, inwardly somewhat thankful for Scalburry's help. "I'll be going down now." She raised an eyebrow. "Uh, do you know you're missing a boot?"

"Huh." He veered his sights to his feet. "Well, I'm thankful you brought that to my attention!"

Pacifica nodded and decided she had returned the butler's favour.

"Oh, and one more thing," Scalburry said, approaching Pacifica and kneeling to her. He revealed what appeared to be a miniature snowglobe of Northwest manor in his hand. "I've been meaning to give you this. Master Northwest passed it to me after he said you didn't deserve this for that one birthday when you missed taking gifts from a couple of the guests while laughing in their faces. He saw you sleeping in today, so my hands were tied, but I hope this can make up for it. Don't mention it, though, if you're Northwestderstaning me!"

He dropped it in her grasp, winking and strutting away (most likely with the idea to relocate his missing boot before her father found out). Pacifica remained frozen in disbelief. That butler had his ways of making her utterly confused while also being immensely hateable, erratic, and tolerable. She didn't need to accept that 'gift' or make Scalburry feel better, but part of her felt she was spared a gruelling wrath by virtue of his intervention.

Maybe it was for the better, indeed.

She brushed those thoughts off. Clad in her favourite attire and small token of apology stashed in a close spot, Pacifica went downstairs.

Little expense had always been spared in the main hall of her family's abode: decorative animal skins hanging around to an extent that would have made most devotees of taxidermy blush, invaluable collector's art pieces on each side of the walls lamenting the intricate scene of profligacy, and more architectural stylisation—the likes of bizarrely chiselled pillars or a tiled floor divided in rhomboid patterns—infusing a grand aesthetic Pacifica had become fond of.

Truly, it was something which had become part of an assumed, innate identity.

"And here I thought you would remember something for once," a feminine voice dripping with venom said, causing Pacifica to stop in her tracks next to the fireplace on the stairwell.

"I know, mom," Pacifica answered with all the determination she could muster.

Of course, in the one day Pacifica's role in the family was bound to be pivotal, Priscilla would have wanted to indulge in flaunting the family's wealth in the humble stores at Gravity Malls for (only) the eighth time that week. And the singular reason why that affected Pacifica was due to today being their scheduled 'mother-daughter interaction' time of the week.

"Before you go on, I'll say it's not of your status to lie, Pacifica," her mother reprimanded. "At age eleven, I was already by my father's side in forty-six seconds whenever we went out. Either you're falling behind, dear, or you've become more distracted than usual."

Pacifica bit her tongue both literally and figuratively. Back-talking was difficult—impossible, in fact. Allegiance to the Northwest cause and the path towards excellence was what they craved; that was what Pacifica sought to always deliver, no matter the cost. Back-talking didn't fit into that mantra.

It was exactly why there was little issue whenever an outing just included someone like Scalburry to supervise her. But with her mother filling that role more and more often, Pacifica being left to her own devices became something of a distant notion. She couldn't be the boss but rather had to know what and when to say at all times to evade punishment—akin to predator hunted by predator.

"I won't even comment on why your hair looks that way," Priscilla mentioned, raising an eyebrow. She continued down the steps of the central stairs, brushing past Pacifica. "You're lucky I still think it's suitable."

Pacifica followed suit, gulping down the remarks. An idea manifested in her head regarding how she could remedy her mother's sense of passive-aggressive disappointment.

"I heard something about the next mini-golf tournament this season. I'm, uh, gonna make Scalburry sign me up."

Priscilla scoffed. "Please. You'd have already signed up if, again, you weren't so distracted."

"What? No, that's not true!" she objected, not resisting the temptation to stand her ground and prove herself. "I found about it yesterday a-and—"

"That's enough already." Priscilla waved. "Take it from me and your father: do better. You found out yesterday—you should've signed up yesterday."

Only a solemn nod of acquiescence came as Pacifica's response, yet she could read the overt smirk on that aging face from her purview.

"Come along now, Pacifica," Priscilla uttered in an offhand manner, parting the double doors of the main floor open and revealing the pristine front lawn of the manor. "The town's waiting for their Northwests."

Gravity Malls was never a designated hotspot for most of the upper class. In fact, it fulfilled its purpose of being a mall well by housing small fragments of the culture heralded by the average townsfolk in each commercial facility. Pacifica believed that idea slipped by Priscilla, as her mother only ever deigned to visit the stores where there were no discounts being advertised for the products and no coupons of any kind were accepted. Pacifica herself also found it inexplicable how Gravity Malls had maintained a regular, devoted set of clients given she deemed it a inconspicuous, small, and uninviting place—then again, she suspected it was in those qualities where the appeal hid for most.

"I believe it's time to move on to the next store, don't you think?" Priscilla suggested as Pacifica caught up with her on the front entry of The Falls Jewel. The selective curation which culminated into a grand dilemma between buying earrings emblazoned with emerald or ruby took an hour. Pacifica could only feel time slow to a crawl, considering she wasn't the one making any calls or offering feedback—just the patient assistant to Priscilla.

"Father said we needed to pick out backup outfits," Pacifica said, keen on not missing any directive which had been imposed by Preston.

"Oh yes, good call, dear." Priscilla pursed her lips. "Indeed, we'll head for that."

The show of agreement served in gathering the fragments of Pacifica's courage—ample reason for her to ask about something which made her wonder ever since it'd been casually brought to light yesterday.

"Isn't it strange how we are getting so ready for the evening when our guests won't be doing the same? I just don't understand what father's thinking by inviting all those fake family members to the anniversary."

"Oh, I agree." The emotions laden in Priscilla's intonation surfed between the entire spectrum. "But it seems he's decided to be lenient and courteous in the name of the family just this once." She huffed. "Two hundred years since the birth of your great-great-grandfather means considering anyone even remotely related to us a potential guest, no matter how annoying that will surely turn out to be."

Pacifica scoffed. "And it only took him ten years to build our manor and be the founder of this place..."

"A man ahead of his time." She nodded, stashing away the shopping bags in the arms of their trusted bodyguard-turned-porter named Roberto. "Oh, if he could see how far these peasants are willing to make a mockery of his work."

"They'll learn," Pacifica asserted with a tinge of spite. "We'll make sure of that, right?"

Priscilla's decision not to grace Pacifica with an answer was as annoying as it was frequent. They turned a quick right along the narrow walkway of the second floor and came upon the only store which didn't sell second-hand clothing (and actually appeared somewhat out of place in Gravity Malls).

Entering the shop, Pacifica snuck away to what she'd deemed her favourite place in the mall while her mother browsed the aptly named 'rich people' section. The small aisle Pacifica found herself in had been, like months prior, filled to the brim with a plethora of garments revolving around the colour pink.

Pacifica couldn't help but crack a smile—there was always something about that colour which drove her. Was it the unnatural intensity when compared to the bleak snapshots of the town she beheld from the grand window in her exquisite room even on the sunniest of summers?

She wasn't sure. It was a fact of life that it proved alluring, and she was content with it. For a good while, she felt independent and in control while trying out various items—that was until she turned around at the loud tapping of high heels.

"Oh, no," Priscilla uttered, possibly having keyed in on Pacifica's finicky nature. "That's not how you do things here, Pacifica. It's not enough to just look like a Northwest on the outside when you're in a hick town like this! You must embody the lifestyle and benefits you've been given—act with power! Be sure you're seen anywhere even when, God forbid, you're doing something mundane!"

"But I am! I do all that!" Pacifica gulped, clutching a blouse she'd brought out. "I-I always have!"

Priscilla shook her head. "Today's proven the opposite, it seems."

She wanted to bite back in a way which would have earnt her the harshest of punishments; a begrudging nod still came out of habit.

"Now, go and pick out something for the evening, like your father said—something that fits the theme. Not these… things you like to drape on yourself."

Pacifica did as ordered, joining Priscilla where the formal wear was laid out.

One could tell it was a quiet day in the mall. Meandering aimlessly throughout the clothing racks were only the old town kook, a stout, middle-aged manchild who Pacifica had noticed held up a disturbingly fanatical love for pizza, and a teenager dressed in mostly grey and black.

Witnessing such a large congregation of mediocrity made her realise her mother had a point: it had been a while since Pacifica showed the underlings of Gravity Falls where their place was set in the social hierarchy. And it wasn't like her to go soft, especially on such a momentous day—she had appearances to keep up.

"Step aside, hillbilly trash," Pacifica demanded. She pointed to the turquoise dress the hunched lunatic was holding. "I want that."

"Ho!" the hillbilly exclaimed, facing Pacifica with a ludicrous grin decorated by missing and chipped teeth. "You mean this lil' thing I'm gettin' for my darling raccoon wife? Aw, what'cha say, little lady—can't a man just buy a nice gift for his dearest?"

"Are you deaf? I said give me that dress. Pretty sure you can't even afford any of this. Why are you even here?"

The hillbilly pressed a finger to his chin, gawking at her with a blank, dumb expression. Pacifica ignored the show of ignorance and took the dress from his hands. She gave it to Roberto, not willing to stain herself with anything touched by someone so poor.

"Hey, emo," she continued, strutting next to the boy. She didn't even bother trying to see what it he had chosen for himself exactly, rather deciding to just directly snatch the apparel from his weak grip. "Thanks, emo."

"Hey!" he shouted, his scratchy voice definitely instilling fear in the hearts of all the flies buzzing around the establishment. "That's a hoodie of my favorite band! Give it back!"

Pacifica snapped her fingers, and the cracking of Roberto's huge knuckles convinced the teenager step back. Way back. She ambled next to the pizza aficionado, who handed his selection without resistance.

"Wow!" Pacifica said, caught in a momentary state of actual disbelief; the tagline in the centre of the oversized T-shirt read, 'If you're reading this, I a-pizza-reciate it!'. "I'm not even gonna fit in this but I still want it!"

Having gathered the diverse range of clothes, she calmly relinquished them to the cashier nearby in order to make sure they'd legally become hers. That was the least important part; looking back and facing Priscilla again was what mattered most.

Her distinct sly smile sent away any and all fears Pacifica harboured at that moment.

In a routine amidst which the privilege of contentment went with so much effort, Pacifica had an inkling she'd done well.

Preston's Pride—the family's second, smaller limousine—circled around the back of the mansion in the early afternoon. Unloading the trunk wasn't difficult when six people were hired for explicitly that purpose. Those were the perks of being born into wealth, not being in the shadow of one's parents.

"I'll leave you to your things, as you do have quite the show to prepare for tonight," Priscilla began while she and Pacifica entered the first floor of Northwest Manor. "Remember: the exact time your father clinks his glass three times, you're center stage on the main podium." A chuckle escaped her. "Don't worry, I'll send Scalburry to go and check on your progress with the ballad."

"O-Okay, mom," Pacifica said, the pressure bubbling up inside her.

Priscilla pouted. "Don't disappoint."

It wouldn't be her without some joyous parting words, Pacifica thought as her mother made her exit to other parts of the residence.

"The Northwest Ballad..." she whispered to herself. "Everything's been leading up to tonight."

She brushed a hand over her hair in exasperation, straying her glance away from the servants who were hard at work preparing the grand lobby for the event. Playing the age-old composition was difficult on its own, but doing so in front of an audience larger than anything Pacifica could imagine was another matter entirely. Even if she had prepared with prodigal vigour and the performance had been her way to showcase how talented and fervorous she was, it was not without risk—an opportunity to experience but a semblance of what it felt to be whole which had endless potential to go wrong.

Her mind stalled upon those worries until she found solace in the confines of the ornate music room—a chamber rarely visited by anyone other than her.

She went over to the grand piano in the centre, beginning in the same way—same concentrated breathing, same inflection on the first key, same biting of the lip—as the past months had taught her. Tough, imperfect, full of the little things the untrained ear couldn't have caught on as easily: that was the first iteration.

Pacifica didn't lose sight, for doing that would've been a greater failure than the annoying amateurism which would've been remedied after a few renditions. The pace hastened, each passing version becoming ever more harmonious with the ideal.

A close, desperate call to alter the structure persisted. Pacifica wished to give in to her vision, to improve upon the past so that the new would become even greater than imagined and her parents would see the brilliance found in her ideas.

The coveted alteration never came. She remained steadfast in her adherence to what was desired—to being the poster child—however impossible it felt to contain the want for betterment passing over each movement. Another flick, another deliberate pause, and another blissful moment of masterful trance enveloped the resonance until the light from across the window began to weaken the same way her back did from keeping the cleanest posture.

She finished the final attempt, letting out a sigh at how effortlessly the expected had flown in her grasp. Two hours and forty-seven minutes, resulting in twenty attempts. It was satisfactory for a long piece such as The Northwest Ballad.

"Well!" the familiar articulation of Scalburry boomed alongside the sound of hands clapping together. "I do think you're quite up to par and ready!"

Pacifica furrowed her brows as she bobbed her head towards Scalburry. She had no idea how long he had watched her for.

"Yeah, good for you, maybe. I have no idea if father will think it's worthy. He doesn't want to hear me play it!"

The butler circled near the piano, brushing a palm over its smooth onyx cover.

"I've listened to the piece being played on a previous anniversary, one celebrated before you were born. I can tell you I am relatively acquainted with it."

He put a gloved hand over Pacifica's shoulder.

"What was it like?"

"Exactly the way it sounded now." Liar. If he'd listened to her first tries, he would've known. "And I think you've got what it takes to up the ante, dear. Just keep to the way it's written and you'll have no issues."

Pacifica felt her heart wanting to call out Scalburry's bluff, but the discord which came with her willingness for change loosened with a trepid rub of her forearm. She didn't know whether she possessed the strength to persevere against the crowd if she couldn't even face Scalburry.

"I'll go." Pacifica stood up, the wobbliness in her gait hard to suppress. "There's just a couple of hours left."

"And so you must," Scalburry said, his accent nearly nonexistent. "May good luck be with you, Pacifica."

Swallowing away those mixed emotions in regards to the butler's behaviour, she left him to attend to his assignments. Pacifica trudged back to the main hall, yet whatever bad mien she paraded on the way vanished the moment she witnessed what lavish adornments were set up for the intended location of the party.

It was clear the resources spent on personnel which kept the manor in shape hadn't been in vain. Chocolate statues of Nathaniel Northwest, a massive mural recounting notable moments from Nathaniel's life alongside a recitation of his memoirs, food imprinted with the Northwest family sigil. And, most notably, there was various nineteenth century paraphernalia strewn about to reinforce an aesthetic the one being celebrated would have appreciated.

An opulent stage inside the dining room, complete with enveloping drapes which concealed a distinctly shaped instrument—that didn't escape Pacifica's sights either.

She tried to distract herself by looking at the single new addition to the room which stood out in a sore manner: an inflatable emblem of the Northwest Fest which, whenever the time of year had called for it, was usually placed next to the entrance of the manor. Pacifica garnered the impression its placement here was by virtue of some gross mismanagement, given how far Northwest Fest was from today. An easy issue to alleviate, she surmised, walking over to her father who was occupied with logistics at one of the humongous buffet tables.

"Father?"

"Yes?" he muttered, the disinterest in his gaze as he checked the guest list not silencing Pacifica's scruples. "What is it, Pacifica?"

"I think we should get rid of, uh, that," she said, pointing to the cause of concern. "Some idiot must've accidentally put it up there."

"And why would we do that when this arrangement"—he gestured to his surroundings—"is perfectly suitable? In fact, that was the intended decoration to place there, now that I recall. It signifies a great part of our family's traditions your great-great-grandfather contributed to."

"But… are you sure it's appropriate, father? What about one of those big wooden carvings of the Northwest initials? That'll show these slobs we're the true Northwests in more than tradition!" Pacifica experienced a pang of excitement inside her at the prospect of how that'd have boded with the other decorations. "I can even help with getting the spare ones we have!"

"Enough, Pacifica." Preston's demanding tone caused a small shriek from her. "The decorations are staying as they are. All you need to do is play your part in this event, nothing else. That's it." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you need a reminder for your responsibilities?"

The slight ringing of the bell which had emerged from the confines of a suit pocket dispelled Pacifica's woes.

She didn't prolong the exchange, simply abiding by that which she was meant for: being a patient puppet with misplaced strings who waited for the guests to arrive and the hour of greatest importance to strike.

In terms of raw attendees and scale, it was the safest of bets to say that the anniversary was what Pacifica had seen each Northwest Fest multiplied by a number too specific for her to determine. It was substantially high, yet not too high. She grew comfortable with the concept of seeing it as the size of two Northwest Fests in one, however inaccurate that metric might have proven.

In almost all accessible sections of the mansion, close and distant relatives lined up alongside more suspicious party-goers who might have only posed as having familial relations. Every butler was kept busy (except Crowalski, whose mission was to keep himself from not ruining anything) and, of course, Pacifica's parents were mingling effortlessly with patrons of higher class. Those were the happenings as afternoon bled into evening.

Everyone had their role to play—their intended purpose—in making the event the most spectacular the Northwests had known.

That, of course, included Pacifica. The stage, after so long, was hers. Those countless days Preston had repeated how important it was she'd done well, how she had to use her passion to the fullest—now, the evening went on from the sidelines in the eyes of Pacifica; her performance was the only missing link, and what happened next was bound to determine the reputation of the Northwest family in the coming months. She fidgeted with her hands, gaze locked on the dress she'd chosen earlier in the mall and now wore.

Never had she enjoyed the preliminary moments, when the pressure reached its peak and time as if refused to keep on moving. Such a flurry of emotions would've proven debilitating for those new to challenging the status quo, but not to Pacifica—she bore a distaste for the sensation, not a phobia.

"Attention, everyone!" Preston called.

Pacifica peeked from the small stairs leading to the backstage. Three taps on her father's wine glass sufficed in diverting the diners' attention over to him.

"It's time for our exquisite ceremony!" he continued. "A long-running tradition on each grand event like this is a special performance of The Northwest Ballad from the most talented musicians in our family! It is quite joyous for me to reveal that my own daughter will be playing the composition by herself!" He put down his drink and clapped once. "Now, please welcome Pacifica Northwest!"

It was time. Pacifica quickly ran back inside, emerging on the rostrum shortly thereafter, standing close to the middle. The façade vanished. Heels clanking over the waxed floor, she positioned herself on the stool, directly in front of the crowd.

Part of her couldn't believe how, in a turnabout of events only this evening could string along, she had both the best and worst luck in the world.

Pacifica touched upon the keyboard. Stage lights hurt her eyes, but that didn't matter; mere annoyances with no purpose. She took charge, the music beginning to swerve through muscle memory, the calm yet expressive motions bending in tandem for the ballad known by heart. Just as she had trained, everything was aligned and steady—not a beat missed or an action miscalculated. What had been but a fragmented mess months prior became another beautiful clone because of her efforts; it felt good to hear it and, at the same time, rub it in.

The barrage of tones broke through the dining room, possibly the lobby, and, perhaps she liked to believe, the entire residence itself. Through it, the squeals for deterrence sang in the back of her mind. Every slither of her willpower was spent trying to hold on and Pacifica soon opted to leave all else on autopilot. She was close to suppressing those risky urges—so very close to abandoning the avenue for real success.

Gazing over to the brightly lit head of the table where she met her parents' demanding eyes—oh, it let her heart swell with desperate yearnings she couldn't run away from.

The doubts ceased in a millisecond. Quite, this whole tribute was the wings which allowed her to fly and become lost in the wind, to forever chase improvement while lighting the spark of great change that'd be visible throughout the night sky—a demonstration to everyone that she wasn't only the tool but could be the architect as well.

Whether those additions would have gone without notice, she cared no longer.

So Pacifica kept playing; playing until her form was without fault; playing until her refinements surged in at the wondrous crescendo and snuck inside the descent towards the placid finale; playing until she could close the piano with the knowledge that she had done the seemingly unachievable—the above and beyond.

She took a solemn bow. An anticipated silence befell the area before a torrent of applause erupted. Rigid and disciplined, Pacifica made her way down from the podium with the ecstasy of newfound triumph washing over her.

A reserved nod from two prominents seats was the answer she received from her mother and Villerio, the second-in-command butler. But her father, in all his self-attributed glory, remained stoic. Other figures of particular eminence glared at her, one also whispering in Preston's ear.

Pacifica tensed up.

She gulped when she noticed her father had vanished from where she'd last spotted him. The steady footsteps behind her sent a chill unlike any other down her spine, Preston as if having faded into the backstage.

"Pacifica." His drab mannerisms cut at her.

"Yes, I know! I know it wasn't perfect, but… people loved it! I gave it my all, father! Please, I—"

"Pacifica."

She was shaking but trying her best to hide it. "Y-Yes…?"

"I've been in your position before and I know how this piece is structured very, very well." He forced out a deep breath. "It was a fine rendition; of course, up until that one point. I simply want to know why you changed the structure and actively disobeyed me."

"Changed? But it was the same!" Her hopes resided in feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Pacifica," he said with a preface again, "I know. I know you've been practising your little 'version'. I see now this was a test to determine if you would stick by what you were told. It appears, hmph, you could not."

"I… I thought you would like the things I changed," Pacifica mumbled, unable to internalise that her father had toyed with her to such an extent. Blind optimism didn't want her believing that. "They were good, weren't they?"

"That, daughter of mine, does not matter." He crossed his arms. "And this show of disobedience is where I'll be drawing the line long into the future. You will soon learn this is not how you answer to an obligation as important as this one. There is no 'creativity' with Laurel Northwest's composition. This is not Pacifica's Ballad."

"Father, please—"

He shook the bell which had stayed clutched in his hand without hesitation.

Pacifica didn't dare resist.

"Go. I do not wish to make our other guests aware of your failure and shame this family further. The festivities are over for you."

Pacifica couldn't allow the weakness in her eyes to show, sulking away before she discredited herself more than what was already conceivable. She idled to the hallway leading towards her room, the tumult of rigmarole and the clang of silverware from nearby reverberating in her head and the floor. The lack of guests in the tacitly restricted sector of the mansion provided Pacifica with a miniscule measure of a comfortable solitude.

She brought her knees close to her face, aware of the large framed painting of her father looming above her and that which lay next to her—this blank spot meant to immortalise her one day in a flowing canvas of prominent Northwest individuals.

If she earnt that honour, of course. Had the tremendous failure been beneficial in any regard, it was in showing that her efforts were doomed to ruin—that she was never enough.

She was never beautiful enough, Pacifica saw from her mother.

She was never disciplined enough, Pacifica heard from her father.

She was never herself enough, Pacifica knew from the bottom of her heart.

"Hello."

Pacifica shot her head up. A year of learning Greek allowed her to discern the source of the exotic accent and directed her to the revelation that it was no member of the manor's personnel who had hailed her.

Rather, it was a boy she did not recognise. He was slightly older than her, with a short set of blond hair similar in hue to her own, relatively scrawny, and, to Pacifica's undeniable interest, donning a peculiar necklace with equally perplexing markings.

"Who… who are you?" Pacifica asked, incredulity stuffing her usual assertiveness. "What do you want?"

"Matthew Brindleberry-Northwest." Pacifica lurched to scorn him for not being a real Northwest, yet was stopped once the boy lifted up a finger in protest and continued, "I know about you and how everyone here thinks of extended family. I, uh, don't go for that." He grabbed something from inside the pocket of his yellow dress shirt. "Only wanted to say how beautiful your performance was."

Pacifica kept silent, coherent thoughts abandoning her.

"Here." He revealed a small cloth draped over in his palm. A handkerchief.

She took it only because of how much the sting in her eyes had begun to hurt. And ruin her makeup.

"I… I know it wasn't what everyone expected from you." He chuckled, promptly plopping next to her with legs outstretched. Rude, Pacifica thought. "I've played the piece myself and I could tell you weren't following through at one point. And… I think it sounded really amazing with everything you did change."

"Doesn't matter. I let myself go. I… I failed because I thought I was better than I am."

"Whatever was going to happen when you decided to do that, your courage was gonna make a difference." Matthew was rubbing the back of his head. "Well, it inspired someone like me. Honestly, you made me hopeful that we won't have to do the same thing over and over until we die even if we're rich. And... that we don't need to be so afraid all the time."

"Yeah, and like you know how that feels? My dad would go nuts if he knew you were performing the ballad without his approval. He'd probably find a way to blame me." Pacifica sneered. "Heck, I don't even know you. And you can't know what it's like to be me."

"Maybe." They exchanged glances. "But I do know what it's like to disappoint. You… you're not completely alone. You should know that."

He touched upon her hand lightly with his own in a show of weakness. It was then that Pacifica realised what she'd let loose—what dark spiral she furthered by giving a fighting chance to someone who wasn't even a true Northwest.

"Get away from me," Pacifica murmured.

Matthew rose up. "Wha—"

"Just leave me alone! I don't need some lowlife like you teaching me how to be myself!" She threw the handkerchief on the ground. "Go! Get out or I'm telling my father!"

He looked frozen in disbelief, mouth agape. A tired frown cascaded his face.

"I… well, I'm sorry I bothered you," he said, turning his back with an uncertainty born out of a repressed impulse for elaboration. "I hope you find what you need, Pacifica Northwest. I feel I have, thanks to you."

Good riddance, Pacifica thought as he walked back; the last thing she needed was another lecture. The boy had to be glad that Pacifica felt more afraid of Preston than angry at the sudden intrusion. Yet in the vain, interconnected web of socialites, punishment for such transgressions would've been but a meaningless gesture—just as it was meaningless to wallow in pity and waste time revisiting errors.

She plodded in the direction of her room, exhaustion combing over her. Not that those temporary inconveniences held any sway—the day would have begun anew with or without her. The cycle would have gone on. The mask would have to be worn. The dance would have to be executed.

Having wandered into her bedroom and sitting on the wide bed, Pacifica eyed the display case, thankful the parrot nearby was sound asleep and not causing a racket. She rummaged inside her clothes, bringing out the snowglobe of the manor which Scalburry had given her back when everything was still so… fine.

She turned the display's handle and placed it alongside the other trinkets, letting the frigid nature of Northwest Manor remain intact with the fading signs of love she had left in the world.

As for her 'ballad'—this byproduct of meagre distraction and gross naïveté?

In her mind, it was to play forevermore.

A/N (13/08/2022): Another story down and another EnneaCipher! Dropping in to say that this one is long and that also, if you're interested, you can find a version of The Northwest Ballad composed by a fellow fanfic writer on AO3 (I'd post it here but I can't with the links on this site). So check that out and his works if you wish, please!

Feedback appreciated.

EnneaCipher

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